Never Judge a Biker by his Tatoos

I'll admit it, I have a certain amount of long-standing prejudice about Harley riders. I can't help it. They've always been portrayed and have even welcomed the mantle of two-wheeled outlaws, answering to nobody on four wheels, at least not willingly. Even their leathers scare me. As a matter of fact that entire persona of bad-dudeness has always given me something to think about when one pulls up by me at the red light.

Now I'm not talking of today's new breed of Harley riders which probably make Dennis Hopper and Peter Fonda cringe, doctors, lawyers, Indian Chiefs, dentists and accountants who ride on the weekends and leave the beemer in the garage. No, I'm talking about the real ones that look like they could strike a match on their jawbone, could donate hair twice over to Locks of Love and still have a decent pony tail left and those little bitty helmets that barely cover their heads. I've always been afraid one would look over at me and kill me with his death-ray eyes as he passed me on the interstate singing "Born to be Wild" at the top of his lungs.

But the other day I was headed home from work and dead ahead in the center lane looking tough as nails and with a waist length pony tail switching and twitching in the wind like a rattlesnake on a jackhammer was one fierce Harley Davidson biker. I almost didn't want to pass him, yet, I felt like it would be ok because this bad looking dude was actually obeying the speed limit. I pulled on up closer and was determined to stare at him just to take in the entire picture, tattoos and all. For once in my life I was going to take a chance and stare death in the eye (taking my eyes off the road in front of me was pretty much achieving that all though I'd made sure that everything up ahead was clear) and see a sure-fire real Harley biker up close. After all, I don't guess I'd ever been up close to one before since somehow I just don't see them frequenting Walmart or those white-bread establishments that I find myself in most often. So I did it, I looked over at him and sure enough he turned those deadly eyes toward me and I gave him a big smile, looking like a big ole doofus. He had the roughest, road ravaged face and clothes that I've seen in a long time but no death ray eyes anywhere to be seen. They were the prettiest shade of blue. And then he actually gave me a full nod of his head like "yo mama, back atcha" and off I drove feeling as giggly as a high school senior after graduation.

You know, Harley riders aren't so bad...I'll bet if I'd had a chance to look a little closer that one of those tattoos probably said "mother".