I spent last Saturday driving my roadster much too fast on twisty mountain roads, with my wife in the passenger seat. Well, mostly in the passenger seat. I let her drive some, too.
My wife is an adrenalin junkie, so when we got back to our hotel room that night I was handsomely rewarded for scaring the crap out of her. It didn’t even matter that we were both dog tired, sunburned, and the walls were so thin we could hear the fat lesbians giggling in the next room. It was awesome.
But this post is not about getting your wife hot by riding her around in a sports car. It’s about motorcycles, and the women who love the bad boys who ride them.
One of the roads that we drove on that day is a particularly infamous stretch of US Highway 129, known as the Tail of the Dragon. At one end of this stretch of road, there’s a motel that caters to motorcyclists. And next to the motel there’s a pub and grill which serves the best burgers in the area. We ate lunch there, and since it was a Saturday in the summer time, the place was packed. We enjoyed some great people-watching along with our burgers.
There was a wide variety of people to watch. There were young dudes in leather jumpsuits driving crotch-rocket bikes, and grizzled old-timers on chopped Harleys. There were retired couples on Gold Wings, and of course, there were the sports-car guys in Polo shirts and Bermuda shorts.
The first thing that I noticed was the biker women. They ranged from the young and hot to the elderly and morbidly obese, but they all had one thing in common: No matter where they might fall on the hotness scale, every one of them was far hotter than the man she was with
Once I noticed this, I started searching in vain for the exception: surely that fat gray-haired lady… nope, her husband is wrinkled and missing half his teeth. This one looks kind of butch. Oh, that’s because her “boyfriend” is a girl. The 30-something with the bad haircut and lazy eye? Not a biker, she’s married to one of the sports car guys. In every case, if a biker dude had a woman with him, she was two to three points above him on the hotness scale.
The conclusion is inescapable: buy a motorcycle to increase your sex rank.
N.B. – I will not be taking my own advice. I owned a motorcycle years ago, for about six weeks. In that short span I had two accidents. The first was entirely my own fault, and resulted merely in a bruised ego and some scratched paint. The second could easily have killed me, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could have done to prevent it. I’ll stick to hot two-seat convertibles, thank you very much.