Friends Don't Let Friends

Gramma,

Five-hundred miles and ten t-shirts don't make you a biker.  You can always tell a new biker by their leathers--all shiny and black with no scuff marks, creases, or scars.  They are proud of this and stand apart like a new kid on the first day of school, full of anticipation and desperately wanting to fit in.  They want to be recognized as a biker, but are uninitiated.  This process can't be expedited in a special fast lane or by greasing palms.  You have to do the time. 

Surprisingly, doctors and lawyers, who have endured years of training to reach their goal think they can get a biker degree off a matchbox cover.  But, you can become a HOG member if that makes you feel more legitimate.  This is a group set up for new Harley riders who want to get to know the road and other newbies like themselves. 

My own chaps have acquired a burnished, brown, sunbaked patina from the knees up.  My jacket is covered with patches and pins collected from all the places I've been.  They are scuffed from hitting the pavement.  The lining is torn and frayed.  Upgrading my leathers would be like trading in my loyal dog.  I have seen vests so worn, they are held together by years of road grime and strategic placement of collected patches with the sentiments they believe in. 

Friends don't let friends ride into Sturgis wearing new leathers.  So it was an act of kindness when Bubba Dick was forced at beer point to hand his over for modification.  Bubba had just purchased a new ride and approximately $600.00 worth of leathers.  Bungee cords and rope materialized.  Bubba's leathers soon looked like a couple of Cheech and Chong hybrid cigars. They were attached to a dope rope to bounce along the pavement behind the bike. 

Fifty miles later, scuffed and scarred, Bubba Dick's leathers were seasoned to perfection.  His friends could now take him anywhere with little embarrassment.  Unfortunately, he was wearing a white t-shirt printed with "My Mother Says I'm Special."  Bikers commune in black.