I drop myself into the saddle with attitude enough to cause John Wayne envy, sinking into the seat; the cushiony leather caresses through my blue jeans like a pair of silk undies (imagine!). Ignition key turned, I knock the kickstand and heave the motorcycle upright. My right hand toys the throttle as my thumb fires the start button, revving the motor to life with the purr of a big kitty awakened from its nap in the sun. I tap into first gear and gently ease the clutch out again--kitty stretching its claws with a yawn--then in a flash, the everyday world is left behind as my bike and I head down the road of oblivion.

Yes, Motorcycle Mama am I...or so I'd like to think, although any self-respecting lady biker should probably take offense - but so what if I've never crammed into a pair of studded black leather jeans. Does that a biker-babe make? Recently my wardrobe grew to include a pair of black leather cut-off finger gloves, and lemme tell ya, the potency residing within these gloves borders tremblingly on the immoral; slide those street-hardened babies on and Vroomhilda I become. Daddy's worst nightmare. I'm thinkin' I'll spew some dust into the gaping mouths of those left in the smoke of my tracks and race off to find a tattoo parlor. Inside the sweaty basement depths I'll hold up for the day, hang with tattooed regulars of ill-repute while roses and unicorns and skulls with crossbones are etched across my body. Yes, do me up somethin' good with that needle of yours.

Afterward I plan to drag on a cigarette, squinting one eye shut from the smoke as it drifts over my road-wearied face. Little girls are mixed with fear and awe as they pass by.

I wake up in a cold sweat--oh it was all so real. Some of the details are real, the gloves for instance, and, well, the gloves. And the motorcycle, but really, mine is a Yamaha Virago, hardly your run-of-the-mill Harley Hog. But it tries. The engine is so quiet, though - ladylike. A Harley Davidson listens to my bike and snickers to itself, then sticks out its tongue and lets rip an earth-shattering rumble. My little bike covers her ears in shame.

Still, when coasting over the tar upon my bike, I sure give off the air of someone who knows. Knows something--the something only biker people know. Yeah, that's it.

Face it: Pretension rules upon a motorcycle. The simple act of parking brings hushed looks as I pull off my helmet to reveal the "feminine surprise." Obviously this is no longer the exclusive terrain of men, but you'd sure think it was. It's me departing the football field after tackling and rolling in the mud, growling football growls and patting my teammates on the fanny. I yank off my helmet on the sidelines: Oh, it's a girl...gosh.

Not surprisingly, motorcycling creates an immediate rapport with other bikers on the road, it's as if we've all been invited to the same theme party. (CONTINUE...)