Bikers are not subtle flirts. I noticed this at Bike Week before we even got out of the car.

We had finally arrived in town Friday afternoon. It was sunny, our windows were down, our music playing loud. We were listening to “Nickleback,” a band I had never investigated before. I thought it was “Nickle Creek,” a happy little bluegrassy band. This music was totally different: alpha male type headbanger music. I’m sure this would never be on the recommended music list in Ms. Magazine. But it seemed appropriate for the setting and so we listened – loud.

So I was learning the words to “Next Contestant” with my feet out the window when I heard a shout from the biker in the lane at the red light beside me.
“Where in Maryland are you from?” He had on a leather doo-rag and goggle style sunglasses. He was on a yellow motorcycle and sorry, but this suburban mom did not notice if it was a Harley, a Chopper, or something else. If I had to bet I’d say a Harley, but that’s just playing the odds. I was surprised by his question and leaned out the window and he repeated,
“Where are you from in Maryland?”
Oh. So I told him.
“I’m from Rockville!” he shouted, pointing at himself. The light was green now so we were separating. Well, I thought, that’s good to know. I waved good-bye.

But there were a lot of stop lights, so we met again.
“Hey Maryland!”
I leaned out with a smile, expecting more pleasantries.
“Why aren’t you on my bike?”
Oh! He kinda cut to the chase there, huh? I just knew my mother would worry if she knew – or worse, my daughter. I had planned on spending the weekend with Peggy. Besides, he didn’t have a sissy bar. I’m not riding without a sissy bar.

“I don’t think that’s a safe idea!” I hollered over the growling engines. I didn’t want to piss him off, so I was still trying to smile in a friendly way.
“Why not?” He seemed hurt, like he really thought I might jump on.
Obviously this guy doesn’t have a daughter.
“I don’t even know your name!”
He stuck his hand toward my window. Since the light was still red, I grabbed it and shook.
“I’m Juan.”
I told him my name. I hope I didn’t say "pleased to make your acquaintance."
“So what’s your excuse now? Hop on?”
Darn it if the light wasn’t green again and we had to get going.

“Where are you going?” he shouted over all the rumbling.
I told him with a pang of instant regret, even though he was a cutie – no beer belly, muscular arms. I love muscular arms.

We pulled into the restaurant parking lot to meet with Peggy’s biker gang. I felt anxious in case Juan Rockville showed. It was a big parking lot, but I never saw him again all weekend. I was 75% relieved and 25% disappointed. It’s that 25% of me that keeps me worried about myself.