Lace, Grace and Gears 2017

A year ago last summer, I saw a post in the LadyBiker Facebook group for the first annual Lace, Grace and Gears women's motorcycle rally. I shared the post and asked if anyone wanted to go with me. Rogue said yes, so I taught her to ride and we took our first long bike trip together from western Massachusetts to Beaumont, Texas.

Fast forward a year and we've ridden all over hell's half acre, spent months living on our bikes, moved to Houston, and are coming up on the second annual Lace, Grace and Gears. This year's event was moved to Bandera, where there are better riding roads.

We left Houston early on Friday afternoon and spent several hours buzzing peacefully west on I10 toward San Antonio. Forty miles out of Bandera we found rain. I wouldn't have minded except that I left my rain suit and jacket liner in Houston, thinking I wouldn't need them. Those last forty miles were a bit chilly, but we made it to the rally grounds at the Twin Elm Guest Ranch. I was excited to see a large field full of tents alongside a park full of RVs - last year our tent had been one of only two. There were also more adventure bikes, including a Tiger that belonged to the guy camped next to us.

Apparently Bandera had seen three solid days of rain. The entire place was a mud pit, and everyone's bikes and boots were caked in slimy, sucking goo that became tough as nails and impossible to remove when dry. Oh well, I have an adventure bike for a reason. I bounced off the asphalt and dove gamely into the tenting field, skidding through the mud and eventually parking under a tree near the middle. Rogue followed, a bit more hesitantly after her last experience riding in rain, but she made it. Spirit, the Tiger rider, warned us that he had initially camped in the spot where we had set up, but found his tent full of ants and had to move. We kept an eye out, and by the end of the weekend we had a few visitors, but since it stopped raining they weren't as numerous as we feared.

Through the RV park was a row of vendors, and a short walk beyond those tents was a sound stage, a beer tent, and a row of food trucks. We got some tacos for dinner and then found Layne and crew at the bar. She was clearly stressed about the rain; it seemed some people had let the mud ruin their party and seen fit to complain loudly about it. The forecast for the rest of the weekend was clear, though.

Sleep was scarce for us both that night. Someone nearby thought that 2am was a great time to use an impact driver for nearly an hour, and I got cold because I'd brought my summer sleeping bag, which is literally just a fleece blanket with a zipper. I didn't realize how much temperature difference there would be between Houston and Bandera.

Saturday morning we got breakfast at the OST diner in downtown, then wandered over to the parade lineup. By chance we were right next to Sherry, Rogue's doppelganger that we had met at LGG 2016. After a couple of hours chatting with everyone around us, a quick walk to the nearby river, and a lot of sun and sweat, the parade rolled out. A pair of horses and riders led us through downtown and back to Twin Elm. The streets were lined with locals waving and taking pictures. We totaled 732 lady bikers, not enough to break the record, but almost as many as last year. Considering the recent toll from Harvey and the three days of rain, it was hardly a disappointment.

732 lady bikers get ready to roll

We returned from the parade to find that our tent had collapsed. One of the poles, already held together in one location by wire ties, had split in two more places. I used a knife and some pliers to remove the broken bits, cobbed it back together as best I could, and accepted that it would probably end up on my face in the middle of the night and shit happens. Rogue ordered a new tent for her upcoming journey to New England.

The rest of the afternoon was pretty quiet. There were supposed to be bike games (slow races, keg rolls, a weenie bite, etc.) but they were cancelled. Whether that was because of the state of the ground or because there had been some complaints about the sexist nature of the weenie bite game was unclear. With no plans to ride anywhere after that, I went to open my bottle of wine - and realized I didn't have a corkscrew. I tried the "hammer it with a shoe" trick but my boot didn't do the job. One tent stake and one screwdriver later, I managed to push the cork into the bottle and the problem was solved.

We were walking through the vendor tents when a woman with a pamphlet gestured at me. I paused to see what it was, expecting a sales pitch for something I didn't want. When I saw that she was advertising the Hoka Hey, a cross-country distance riding challenge rumored to only have one female finisher in its history, I stopped and gave her my full attention. It turned out that Junie, standing in front of me, was that woman, and not only had she completed it once, she'd completed it all six times. My heroine.

I was on the verge of putting the dates in my calendar for next year, determined to be the next female finisher, when she told me that only oil-cooled bikes are allowed to participate. That means a Harley, an Indian, or a Victory. My water-cooled adventure Honda would not be permitted at the starting line. Disappointed, I walked away. I'm not in the market for a new bike.

Half an hour later, Junie flagged me down again.

"I talked to the Indian rep," she told me, "About getting you sponsored. You should talk to the dealership. We want more young people involved in this."

Now that sounded like a plan. Excited about the renewed potential to face the legendary challenge, I bounced away to check out the band. We ended up following Toni to the other end of the ranch, where there was a brief demo of barrel racing and rodeo. Unfortunately few people showed up, but it was fun to see an American rodeo - I'd only seen bull riding live in Ecuador, despite having arrived in Houston during the famous annual rodeo festival.

With everything up in the air, no one knew exactly when we were supposed to be doing our fire performance. Once dark fell, we spent a few minutes rehearsing, then gathered our props and fuel and showed up at the sound stage. Our timing was perfect. The bands were between sets and we were able to hook up our music to the main sound system. Rogue spun poi to a remix of the Halo theme, and I did an eating and contact staff set to Halestorm's song I Am the Fire. We finished the set with a partner breath off each end of my staff. I'd been concerned that we weren't rehearsed enough, but it came off without a hitch, and everyone said it was a great show.

Getting ready to burn it down

With Toni in the beer tent

On Sunday morning, we ate at OST again, then wandered into San Antonio to see the River Walk. At Ripley's Believe It or Not, we got pulled in by a pair of circus performers. When Red realized that we're also performers, he invited us to join his show. Rogue was scheduled to return to Massachusetts starting the next day, but I said I might be interested, and we traded phone numbers. So maybe I've got some sideshow fun in San Antonio now. I just wish it wasn't five hours away.

At the San Antonio River Walk

Rogue and Zee Are Broken

It was Tuesday afternoon and I was rolling my underwear into packable shapes when my phone rang. Rogue had gone out to get a shirt for the trip, and was probably calling to see if I'd remembered what I wanted from the store while she was in it. We were set to leave at 6am.

"Hello?"

"I crashed," came Rogue's shaky voice over the phone. "I think I broke my collarbone."

I dropped the underwear on the floor. "Where are you?" She gave me directions, and I shoved my boots on and ran outside. It was raining, but not too hard to ride. I took off for Westheimer and promptly got lost. Rogue knows that section of town a lot better than I do.

After some side-of-freeway texting, interrogation of my GPS, and lane-splitting down the 610 feeder, I found Rogue in the back of a police car in the parking lot of a hotel. Zee had been pulled from the street by some good Samaritans, and the cop was willing to drive her to urgent care.

The story as I understand it is that someone stopped suddenly in front of her, because that's what Houston drivers are good at. When she tried to stop, the bike lost traction in the rain, started to slide, regained traction too late, and threw her off. Her knee, elbow, helmet, and bike all show the marks.

Fortunately, the helmet did its job and her head was uninjured. Her collarbone didn't fare so well, though. An x-ray confirmed her fear of a fractured clavicle, and she walked out of urgent care with her arm in a sling.

Zee ran and rolled but I didn't trust her in Houston traffic, so we left her at the hotel for the night. What was supposed to be a going-away party at the house became a get-well-soon party. Rogue insisted that I should continue on the trip without her, and I didn't protest too much - she'll have more peace and space to heal without me there, and I know there are plenty of people in the house who will help her out if she needs anything.

Rains and Chains

Honey Hill was a cute little camping loop adjacent to route 45 in Francis Marion National Forest. There was one bathroom with no running water, and an ancient sign with a map that smelled like mildew.

"No water," I announced, reluctantly preparing to gear up again. The map said there was a hardware store at the corner of 45 and 17. The clunking noise from Bee had gotten louder, and I would've preferred to stay put, but we couldn't exactly camp without water. I was reaching for my helmet when I saw a spigot in the center of the loop.

"Water!" I said excitedly. I dug out the purification kit and headed for the spout. But it wasn't what I wanted to find. The handle had been removed, leaving it dry. I went for a walk, hoping to find another spout, but there was nothing. Then I inspected the woods, but the only water was swampy and stagnant.

"Want to bring my water bottle?" Rogue asked as I prepared once again to ride out.

"I have a - wait. Water bottle. With water in it." It wasn't as much as I would've liked, but it was better than nothing. We settled in for the night with a pot of soup and a campfire.

Our plan for the next day was to ride into Charleston and find a bike shop. We stopped for gas 20 miles from Honey Hill, and a friendly guy in a truck told us to be careful, because there were storms coming in. I knew it was going to rain, but I hadn't realized it was going to be a big deal.

"This one has had some tornadoes," he warned us. I stopped, removed my earplugs, and gave him my full attention.

"Any idea how big the storm cell is?" I asked. "We're headed south. Maybe we could outrun it."

"It's coming up from Florida," he answered. "It's big."

There went that idea. I looked at Rogue. "We could hotel it tonight," I said. "I don't really want to play with tornadoes."

"I'm cool with that," she said. "My friend in Mississippi actually just had a tornado."

I borrowed her phone. When I stuck mine in my jacket pocket the previous day to keep it out of the rain, the storm had somehow found its way into my pocket, and my own phone had drowned.

I made a hotel reservation in Charleston while Rogue chatted with the gas station's cashier, who was from Connecticut. His retirement dream was to do what we're doing now - just get on a motorcycle and go.

"You two are living the American dream," he said with a smile.

From there we returned to the campsite and packed up. It was sprinkling as we pulled out, and by the time we were back in the vicinity of the gas station, we were soaked. I drove straight to the hotel. It was too early to check in, but the lady at the desk let me drop my dry bag and tent, and I went to the bike shop relatively unencumbered.

"My bike is clunking," I told the guys in the service department. They came out to have a look.

"Can you tell where?" they asked.

"Just get on and ride about ten feet," I answered. "You'll hear it."

The taller one saddled up and rolled down the road.

"That's the chain," said the brunette man without any hesitation.

"Really?" I asked. Bee had passed inspection four days earlier.

The other man pulled a nice U-turn in the middle of the road and came back.

"That's the chain," he announced as he dismounted. I couldn't argue with that level of mutual certainty.

It was Friday, and a new chain and sprockets could be in on Tuesday. The man in Parts gave me the number of another shop to call, but they didn't have the parts in stock, either. I shrugged.

"Not like we're on a deadline," I said. "Might as well hang out here."

"I really wouldn't drive to Florida on that," the guy from Service added as he walked by.

"I'm okay with that," Rogue said. "I actually really like it here."

About that time, I heard a roaring noise and looked out the window to see that the mist had suddenly become an epic downpour. The palm fronds bowed and twitched in the onslaught and a thousand drummers pounded on the roof. I admired it for an awed moment, and then remembered something.

"My GPS!" I said, and ran outside to retrieve it. Fortunately it's well-designed in that there aren't any openings that face upward. It was very wet but still working. I stuffed it in my helmet and left my helmet in the parts shop while we wandered the showroom and drooled all over the shiny 2016 V-Strom.

After remarkably few minutes the squall passed, and we headed back out. Rogue recommended the Mellow Mushroom for lunch, and we split one of the best pizzas I've ever had before walking back to the hotel. At long last we stripped out of our soaked clothing, took showers, and threw our drippy things into the coin laundry.

A short walk to Walmart got Rogue a box of the biggest zip-lock bags I've ever seen, big enough to hold her computer and then some. I bought a pepper and some apples, and when we returned to the room, Rogue did laundry and I made lentil stew. We spent the evening smugly dry indoors, eating real food and watching WestWorld.

On the Road, -ish

As of Saturday January 7th, both of us are officially homeless, car-less, and unemployed. Ninety-nine percent of our things are locked in storage (basically everything but my snow boots, jacket, and laptop, which I'll keep on hand until we head out of New England).

Two friends' worldly possessions

I wish I could say we're all packed and ready to go, but Rogue has the exclusive rights to that one. My new Zega Mundo aluminum panniers from Touratech still aren't on the bike, because the exhaust is in the way. Bee's new battery is in a box in the living room of the house we just vacated, and my extra motorcycle is in that garage. My new tank bag arrived this week but can't go on the bike until I get access to my power drill, which I locked into storage on Tuesday, not realizing it would be needed for any purpose; even the pannier racks go on with hand tools. Bee is still short one back tire and one inspection sticker. In other words, I'm laughably unprepared, and we're leaving on Saturday.

Five days? Five measly blocks of 24 hours? Plenty. The only reason all this crap is still undone is that I was working too many hours to accomplish it, but now that my schedule is open, it's time to kill the to-do list. The only problem is that is snowed AGAIN yesterday and the back roads are like skating rinks. The one year I try to go car-less until the end of December is of course the first white Christmas we've had in fifteen years.

Becoming a Winter Biker

I haven't owned a car since February of 2015, when I sold my Audi A4 and started sharing my boyfriend's Saturn wagon. That arrangement worked well until we broke up in June of 2016, and I took my odd stable of motorcycles and went on my way.

My intention was to buy a cheap shitbox of a car when the weather got too cold to ride. Then Rogue and I decided to leave town, and the purchase of a car became an unnecessary burden, especially once I moved in with Rogue and started sharing her car. That was short-lived, ending the night the car left me in the middle of no-cell-ville New Hampshire and I hitch-hiked to my office and borrowed a work truck to get home. Gypsy, the itsy-bitsy blue convertible, came back to life just long enough for the mechanic to tell us she worked (and was clearly possessed), then promptly stranded Rogue in downtown Northampton. Thus we became a no-car household in November in Massachusetts, hearing predictions for a particularly cold and snowy winter.

The business of being a winter biker has been a one-day-at-a-time lifestyle, culling unnecessary commitments from our schedules and accepting that our plans will change with the weather. All of my plans now have a snow clause: if it snows, the plans are cancelled.

I hate the cold, which is a large part of the reason I'm heading south for the winter, but I've surprised myself with my ability to withstand it so far. I have a heated vest, a TourMaster Synergy 2.0 that I purchased used on eBay, with a matching set of heated glove liners that work when they feel like it. (I heard a rumor I'm getting heat grips for Christmas...stay tuned.)

My layering system has stratified by temperature.
70° and up Cotton leggings, tank top, Scorpion armored suit, boots, light gloves, helmet
60°-70° Add the wind liners to the armored suit, replace the leggings with jeans
50°-60° Add a light-weight wool sweater or zip-up hoodie under the jacket
40°-50° Add fleece-lined leggings under the jeans, a vest over the sweater, and get out the heavy gloves
30°-40° Add the heated vest, wool ski socks, and a scarf, face fleece, or balaclava
15°-30° Add the rain suit on top of the above, and the heated glove liners if I'm going more than 20 miles
15° and down Find a cage or cancel plans.

What's the coldest weather you're willing to ride in? Have you ever gotten caught in something too cool for school? What are your favorite tricks for staying warm?

I81 Is Even Better in the Rain

Rogue took a ride around the campground to test Hades' rear tire, and said she seemed okay. Once she was parked again, however, the root of the problem became clear as a slick of oil emerged from underneath the bike and decorated the pavement with rainbows.

"You're oiling your own tire," I said. "That explains a lot."

Rogue checked the drain plug and found it to be satisfactorily tight. The level of hazard the bike now presented was something we didn't want to play with on the twisty, hilly parkway. We decided to jump the mountains again, get back on I81, and run for it.

I backed Bee carefully around the puddles of engine barf, Rogue guiding me, and we took off. Routes 221 and 194 allowed us to admire some quaint mountain towns such as Minneapolis, and by the time 19E landed us back on 81, the air was dry again. I folded up my rain suit and we headed for a Bo Jangles.

I'm not usually a fan of fast food. The big M and other such places don't have anything I consider "food," although I've been known to wolf down an occasional carton of fries. Bo Jangles, however, won my tastebuds over with their crispy, juicy fried chicken. The closest Bo to home is nearly 450 miles, so I wanted a fix while it was practical.

By the time we were finished eating, the rain had found us again. Riding 81 north toward Strasburg, Virginia, we encountered a traffic jam and hopped in the breakdown lane. Eleven miles later it cleared up at the spot where a car carrier had gone off the road. Rain or no rain, I was glad to be on a bike; the cars parked on the highway would probably be there for hours yet.

At a small gas station I pulled out a package of crackers to snack on and promptly spilled them all over the ground. Hungry and unwilling to waste food, I picked them up off the pavement and stuffed them in my face.

"You must be cold," I said to Rogue, who wasn't wearing rain gear. I'd given her my old suit but it didn't fit her well, and she had opted to ride without it.

"A bit," she acknowledged.

"You sure you still want to camp tonight?" I asked.

She shrugged. "Getting a hotel feels like cheating."

"It's not cheating," I said, "It's smart. You weren't prepared for this weather and I don't want you to freeze." My own rain suit, purchased recently after the spectacular failure of my last one in Nebraska, was keeping me snug and cozy, but I was all too familiar with the bone-chilling cold that comes from a long ride in the rain. Had it been me without the suit, I would've said screw camping.

"Okay," Rogue relented, and I started Googling lodging.

We rode well past dark and ended up at a Scottish Inns in Front Royal. Fifty dollars got us a hell of a lot more in Louisiana than it did in Virginia. Our door unlocked with a physical key, and it opened onto a poorly-lit room straight out of 1970. The walls had been patched with metal plating, where they had been patched at all, and the bathroom countertop listed to one side like a frat boy on Friday night.

There was no laundry, so we hung our clothes on the air conditioner, the TV, and the doorknob. Rogue unpacked the soaking-wet tent and hung it in the shower, where it dropped a forest's worth of leaves and dirt.

While she warmed up in bed, I walked across the street to Osteria 510, a beautifully appointed Italian restaurant and bar. I was the only customer, so I ordered a glass of wine and chatted with the owner while I waited for my takeout. Once upon a time he had owned a restaurant in Washington, but the late nights got to be too much, so he moved his business to Front Royal. He explained that most residents of Front Royal are Washington commuters, so they eat dinner early and then go home, allowing him to close at 10.

Owner of Osteria; photo credit unknown.

I'd told Rogue I was going to the gas station to find food, which was my plan until I saw the restaurant. When I returned to the room with a plastic bag smelling of fresh tomato sauce, she sat up straight.

"What'd you get?" she asked excitedly.

The butternut ravioli and tiramisu were a hit with both of us, the perfect finish to a nasty, wet day. I'd happily pause my next trip to go back to Osteria.

Austin to Tyler

On my way out of Austin on Monday morning, I took a large chunk of something to the chest. A fleeting glimpse of blue and white and the fact that it left a big powdery white mark on my shirt tell me it may have been a bird, but when I looked down, I found a rock in my lap. Maybe it was a bird carrying a rock? A bird that was stuck by a rock and then fell into me? I'll never know, but I know it hurt.

I took the interstate to Dallas, more interested in making time to see my friend Randy than in seeing every tree between the two cities. On the outskirts of the city, the bike started to jerk and slow, and I took an exit. The ramp was uphill and the engine died halfway up, but I had enough momentum to coast into the parking lot of a towing company. I didn't make it into a parking space, but at least I was off the freeway.

With the seat and a side cover off, I was able to see that there was fuel in the inline filter, and a fold in the hose above it. After unfolding the hose, Hades started again. I set off toward Randy's house, and made it another couple of miles before Hades stopped again, this time in the parking lot of an auto parts store. (At least she has excellent timing.) I bought a couple of feet of fuel hose and set off once more, this time leaving the side cover in my luggage to give the hose as much room as possible to do what it wanted. The fuel light came on, and I was perplexed for a moment before deciding that the pressure buildup between the pump and the kink must have caused a leak. She died a third time, and I put her on reserve and rolled up to a gas station.

It was then that I thought back on my last stop for gas. I remembered pulling up to the pump, resetting the trip meter, chatting with a woman selling vehicle cleaning products, going inside, getting a bottle of water and a banana, eating the banana...and leaving. I hadn't put gas in the tank.

I filled up the tank, replaced the side cover, tucked the spare hose away in my bag, and made a mental note never to reset the trip meter before getting gas.

Randy introduced me to his cat menagerie and then took me to lunch at a Mexican-Asian fusion restaurant. We talked a lot about comics and cats and a little about a lot of other things.

When his wife got home, I realized how late it was and gave her a nice-to-meet-you-I've-gotta-go-now hug, and got back on the road.

I passed another lady biker on the highway and waved. She had a Barbie-pink crotch rocket, with a matching helmet that had a raccoon tail hanging off of each side. She fell in behind me and tailed me for about thirty miles, until I got off in Tyler. I turned north, trying to track down a campground on my map. I'd gone a couple of miles when I realized I must have taken the wrong exit. I stopped on the side of the road and waved at the traffic behind me to go around, but a white pickup truck pulled in behind me.

"I'm sorry," I said to the driver as he got out, "Were you trying to turn here?" I gestured at the parking lot beside me.

"No no," he said. "We've been following you. We're looking for food. You ride better than most guys I know!"

I laughed, thanked him, and went through the process of replacing my sun goggles with my clear goggles while he talked. He introduced himself as Gypsy and offered to buy me dinner. Since I try to avoid cooking in the dark, and it looked like I'd be setting up camp after sunset again, I agreed and followed him back to the highway.

The only game in town was a McD's, so I had a salad. Gypsy and his friend had picked up the brand-new truck in Texas and were on their way back home to New Orleans. We exchanged phone numbers so we can go riding if I ever get down that way.

Significantly after dark I finally found myself in Tyler State Park, choosing a campsite. There was a place to park, a picnic table, a fire pit, and a pole I couldn't explain with two creepy-looking meat hooks on it. I tried not to look at it and pitched my tent as fast as possible, skipping the annoyance of removing the sleeping bad from my luggage and inflating it. I debated about the rain fly and finally decided to put it on but leave the front open.

And thank god for that. I slept horribly, and it wasn't quite dawn when I was awakened by a great boom of thunder.

"Oh, here we go," I said to myself, and leaped out of the tent to finish staking out the fly and make sure everything on the bike was covered. I debated packing up quickly and running for it, but Tami had warned me that the usual lack of rain in Texas makes the roads shockingly hazardous when they do get wet, so I decided I'd be better off hunkering down and waiting it out.

A ranger came by a few minutes later to give me a campground pass, and warned me there were bad storms coming. I felt like saying I had noticed, but he was kind, so I stowed the sarcasm. I counted the storm in, enumerating the seconds between lightning and thunder, until the sky opened up.

The tent area was a sand pit, which had fortunately made staking quite an easy task, but it turned into a riverbed when the water came down. It poured and rumbled and flashed, and I alternately read a book and mopped out the corners of the tent with a bandanna. A couple of hours later, the monsoon had passed and I'd stayed remarkably dry. The tent gets two thumbs up.

Nederlands and Rocky Mountain National Park

I waited until Monday to do Rocky Mountain National Park, having been warned that the crowds on weekends can make the experience a frustrating one. Steve recommended I take the Peak to Peak Highway to the park instead of fighting commuter traffic through Denver and Boulder, so I headed west and then north into the mountains.

The first town I came to was Central City, a cheesy casino town with an overly-perfect downtown area that begged for touristy photos.

I put on my rain jacket for warmth, having failed to realize before I left the house that the mountains are much colder than the valleys. On the way out of town, I stopped again to see this train.

The ride up 119 provided plenty of these signs, and even better ones that look like a sideways S and say 25mph or even 15mph. Those, however, tend to be in places that are too dangerous to stop for photos.

Three miles out of Nederlands the altitude started to get to me, so I stopped in town and took a stroll to clear my head.

The mining museum was closed but had lots of equipment on display outside. Rogue, ask me for the full set of these photos later - I took them with you in mind.

I spotted this adorable little guy in a gift shop, and if he hadn't been so large and potentially breakable, he would've come home with me

As I got farther north, the views got more and more interesting...

Somewhere along the way I took a spontaneous turn toward the river, just to see what was down there.

Back on 119, now looking for lunch, I spotted some beautiful architecture.

After lunch and gas in Estes Park, I found the National Park. The initial view from the bottom is no better than those from the highway.

But as you go up Trail Ridge Road, it gets better...

...and better.

It also gets snowy, which is startling when it's August and your home is at sea level. The fat flakes splashing and melting on my visor made me take another look at the road, but I could tell that it wasn't really that cold. The water on the road stayed liquid.

As I came up into the area where the mountain drops away and the shoulder falls off to apparent infinity on either side of the road, the wind whipped up and started shoving me around. I cheated into the center of my lane so that a sudden gust wouldn't blow me into oncoming traffic. The wind seared right up my sinuses and into the back of my brain until I had an ice cream headache.

Eventually I made it to the Alpine Visitors' Center. The road's highest point is over 12,000 feet, and as I pulled into the Center parking lot, Hades stalled out. Some extra throttle got her to start again, and for the rest of the way around the parking lot and back down the mountain, I acted like one of those obnoxious Shiny riders who rev their engines at stoplights to point out that they're riding a motorcycle. You know, for the blind drivers in the area.