Vvvvvrooooom. I don't belong.

This is Pop. He's the father of my brother-in-law, Dave. He's also the father of John, but he doesn't have a long ZZ Top beard like his sons. But he does ride a motorcycle and, if my memory serves me correctly, he belongs to a community of riders in Pompei and they have sweatshirts and t-shirts to prove it.

Now, it is doubtful that I will belong to the motorcycling culture ever in this lifetime (although I see myself in my head with tattoos covering my body and on one of these machines). I have read Pirsig's The Art of Motorcycle Maintenance when I was an undergraduate and I also think I used to like The Mouse and His Motorcycle, about the rodent who made his bike move by making motorcycle sounds, pppppfff, vrooooomm.

I have a birthday coming up and I would love one of 'dem sweatshirts (XL) or long-sleeve shirts (XL) so at least I can look like I'm cool enough to ride a bike (although I'm not). Every time I express my fantasy of getting a chopper or something, people laugh at me like I'm that kid in A Christmas Story - "You'll shoot your eye out" - except they say "You'll smash your brains in."

Oh. Flashback. Nope. I wont' get a bike. I remember when Charlie brought down a mini-motorcycle for me to play on and I lost control of it, landed in a neighbor's porch, and looked like a Freddy Krueger victim for a month. I forgot about that.

Still, I'd like to think I was part of this community (at least by the way I dress).