It's not easy being this bad.  Style and attention to detail are of critical importance.  I now sport a great many of the accoutrements that make bad bad motorcycle fellows so menacing: facial hair, leather fashions, an overabundance of black textiles.  Simply put, overall, I am a frighteningly dark character, darker than the double mocha fudge at Baskin-Robbins.  I even got a little chill myself the other day when catching my reflection in the door of the ice cream cake freezer.  Luckily, it was slightly ajar and frosted over before I became faint.  

I've been practicing my grimaces right after I floss, but I suppose I should be doing it before in order to get the full effect.  I am fortunate that a slouch is my default position, and this, coupled with a little twitch I sometimes get in the corner of my left eye... well, how deaf do you have to be to not hear my demeanor scream "Danger Lurks Hereabouts!"  I'm being rhetorical, amigos.  You needn't answer.

To fully affect a threatening posture, it is essential to present a show of force, and the easiest way to achieve this is, of course, to rumble along with a buddy.  This status was afforded me yesterday as young Charles, you may know him as Chuck, motored over chez moi so that we could hit the pavement en masse.

We thundered, very blackly, to my local municipal airport, where a small air show was taking place.  The aerodrome boasts a quaint little cafe where the two of us took our midday repast.  Charles, who has dared nature far beyond my own will to do so, threw fate to the wind by ambling about the tarmac without any protection whatsoever for his brilliant glossy head.  I must say, that sort of challenge in the face of the sun itself is what makes me confident he would be true support should we tangle with ne'er-do-wells as we burn up the roads around these parts, our glistening exhausts aglow like flaming torches lighting the way to freedom.  You can trust me when I say that it feels like safety in its purest form to ride alongside him.  Actually, it's slightly ahead and to the right, but I'm sure your mind's eye is pulsating with clarity at this point.

After the fascinating show of brightly colored fancy planes doing loop-de-loos and such, we took off for Neptune's Net, one of the major local hangouts for toughies like us.  My oh my, you've never heard such a din.  I suspect a lot of my fellow enthusiasts have tinkered mightily, and perhaps beyond the line of the law, to make their hefty machines rumble so loudly.  It certainly brought my blood up.

One of the benefits of membership in this exclusive clique is the freedom to mingle about the motorcycles (some of us call them our "rigs") at such a venue without having to give thought to the girth of one's abdomen.  Many of the gentlemen, and indeed some of the ladies present, were clearly devoid of the often spirit-breaking over-attention to holding one's tummy in.

After soothing our parched throats with the deeply satisfying unguent of diet soft drinks (well, okay, I admit it, I indulged in a fully-sugared Vanilla Coke), we re-mounted and headed for home.  I led us on a route through varied pastoral vistas complete with husbanded fauna kept behind shimmering white fences.  I could almost hear young Charles's soft sigh a quarter-mile or so behind me, "ah, agriculture."

At one point, I couldn't help myself.  While passing a tiny herd of Black Anguses (again, the darkness theme emerges) I slowed my iron steed slightly, turned toward them, and saluted their majesty with a manly heartfelt "Mooo."

________________________