Rednecks

My scooter turned 500 miles earlier this week, and I was giving it a pat on the seat for being such a good boy when a motorcycle pulled up next to me at the stoplight. It was a big bike with a big bald guy and his skinny blonde girlfriend on the back, and I looked over with surprise. This guy broke one of the rules of etiquette of riding; unless we were riding "together," he should have stayed well back from me, giving me as much space as he'd give a car. Coming up in my lane next to me is something I reserve for my husband's bike. The nerve.

Nervy guy says with a grin, "Wanna race?"

Haha, buddy. We all know what your bike is compensating for. I smile gently and say "no," though secretly I know that for the first few seconds, at least, my Scoot would smoke him. I don't have to lay off the gas to shift, and Scoot is peppy. I'd be halfway down the block before Nervy and Blondie got their weight out from under them. I grin at the thought.

Nervy sees my grin and thinks we're friends. He leans in to tell me, "You know you don't have to wear a helmet in Texas, right?" He says this with the air of someone telling me an amazing secret that I'll be glad to hear, like "You know they're giving away free margaritas at Boudro's, right?"

I just look at him. Yeah, neither of them are wearing helmets, which isn't unusual in Texas, but are they really assuming I don't know I could use my head as a watermelon if I chose? That I'll stop wearing one since I don't have to wear it? Nervy keeps talking, "We've asked a bunch of people, it's true!" He's excited as a kid.

The light turns green and I wave my gloved and padded hand towards the road. "Go ahead." And as they pull in front of me I see the license tags. West Virginia.

Some stereotypes have followed me.