Defined by their transportation....

I dropped by the convenience store in the town I work in for soft drink before they closed.

They boy from the previous post was inside, his brand-new truck still sporting paper dealer's tags out front. "Got a truck box ordered yet?" I asked.

"No-- I'm not getting one," he said decisively.

"Where are you going to put your rope, and come-along?" I asked.

"Tow rope behind the seat, and no come-along," he responded. "That truck's never going off-road, ever!" he declared.

"Sometimes the best-laid plans can change," I said wryly.

"Nothing goes in that bed, and that truck never leaves pavement," he restated. "I've got big plans for that truck. I'm gonna lower it, put low-profile tires on it, special rims..."

"Good Gawd. You've going to make a sports truck." I said.

"Yep!" He said gleefully. "Then paint, decals..."

"But nothing goes in the bed, ever. So you get all the drawbacks of a two-seater coupe, without the handling and the milage. What in the hell is the point?" I'm afraid I had trouble concealing my disgust.

I stepped outside with my beverage as he argued his case. I wasn't listening any further. I'm a practical-minded guy. I drive a '97 Civic 4-door, because it's paid for, it drives well, it holds me and the family, and it gets 34+ mpg. The dent in the front left fender really doesn't bother me. It's just a way to get from here to there. I often regret not having my old truck, but only for the things it hauled. I sure don't miss the 12.5 mpg fuel economy that I used to get.

Out front was a guy on a new Honda 600 crotch rocket, of a type that I had some passing familiarity with. (Somewhere I've got a VHS tape with some beautiful video of a motorcycle rider on a bike just like this one, sliding into view in front of my patrol car. The rider had just successfully evaded a colleague of mine when my buddy suffered brake fade and crashed into a pipe-and-rail fence, injuring himself and turning a new Impala into just so much scrap metal. The rider didn't know the area, and I found that he couldn't ride too well with 1.5 million candlepower focused into his facemask as he entered a curve. Sadly, he managed to bond out before the 1st degree felony warrant for parole violation came in. Christopher Stout, I'd love to meet you again....) It too had dealer's plates. He bemoaned the high cost of comprehensive insurance each year, and I was impressed that the yearly amount ran to more than my car would bring. I recalled that when I was going to police academy, I bought a 1978 Honda CB 400 for a coupla hundred dollars cash, and paid liability only for about $20/month. "Yeah, but this could get stolen real easy," he complained.

"Or laid down," I said, thinking wistfully back to my own encounters between hot steel and dirt and gravel and pavement.

"Oh, no!" he responded. "I've never laid it down. I've never put a bike down, ever."

I raised an eyebrow. "That just puts you in the second category of riders*," I said, doubtfully.

"No, I ride responsibly," he said. "I'm 24, married, and a daddy, now. I've got two girls."

"You're going to look me in the eye, and tell me that you've never taken this crotch-rocket into triple digits?" I demanded.

"I have never driven this motorcycle over 70 mph," he lied, while looking me square in the eye.

"Most responsible thing you could do for those girls of yours is to sell this thing back to the dealer, and get yourself into a cage," I said.

"Never! I saved up for a long time to get this bike," he said. I noticed that he didn't have a helmet.

"Good luck with that," I said, and got back into my patrol cage-- er-- car. Hope he's got AD&D insurance.
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* "There are two kinds of motorcycle riders: Those who have laid their bikes down, and those who will."