This is the current love of my life. She is a 2005 Kawasaki Drifter, 1500 cubic inches, as modified by me. She is a powerful but generous mistress and she takes my lead as though we were on the dance floor. I have been riding for over thirty years now and the story that follows is absolutely true. It is for all the bikers who would rather ride than eat. For those who ride in the rain. For those who feel sympathy for cagers who will never know the perfect joy of riding the open road on two wheels. Riders will get the joke. I am possessed of a most excellent stepmother. She truly has a heart of gold and is the most giving person I know. She is a retired nurse and physical therapist and hates motorcycles. I mean hate with a capital H. Whenever I visit she will ask why I have to ride the motorcycle and why I can't take my car to visit her. During one of our conversations she asked why I had to be a motorcycle rider. I replied that I was not a motorcycle rider I was a biker. She asked what the difference was.

April 1989 and I was once again in Florida on business. Three co-workers and I decided to drive up to Daytona and find out what Spring Break was all about. We had heard that during the week the city allowed motor vehicles on the beach. Bright and early one beautiful Saturday we climbed into my rental car and made our way up Highway 95 to Daytona. Our first stop was the beach. I parked the car and we got out to take in the scene. True to the advertising there was what seemed like an endless line of cars parading down the beach. Off to the side you could see handsome young men in their Camaros flirting with pretty young women in their Volkswagen Cabriolets. My three companions were Andrea, mid-twenties, blond and slender; Bob, mid-thirties, mid-sized and Marybelle. Marybelle was quite a character. She was a widow in her early sixties, wore no makeup and was given to wearing shapeless housedresses. She gave the impression that in all her years on earth she had never had a good time. I pulled out my camera and began snapping pictures. Andrea and Marybelle soon began teasing me about taking pictures of the pretty young women. "How about a picture for us?" Marybelle asked. I pointed down the beach to a handsome lad and asked, "How about that guy?" Marybelle followed my finger and replied simply, "He's nice." Then, as she continued to stare, her eyes got a faraway look in them and her voice softened. "Oh...yes...he's VERY nice!" So I took a picture for Marybelle. As the parade of vehicles continued to pass before us Bob and I noticed a motorcycle some distance down the beach from us. As it drew closer I saw that it was a black Harley-Davidson Soft Tail V-Twin. Behind the handlebars was the rider dressed completely in black, black pants, black-fringed leather jacket, black t-shirt. He was wearing black sunglasses and his black hair was pulled back in a ponytail. He wore a five-day growth of beard. And behind him in the jump seat was one of the most perfect examples of the female gender I had ever seen. Slender, perfect honey golden tan, toned body and, if I can put this delicately, a very healthy upper torso. Her blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she was wearing a shocking pink thong bikini. The motorcycle eventually came up to where Bob and I were standing and stopped. We took in the scene and I turned to Bob and said, "Nice bike!" And that was the day I knew I was a biker.