NOTE: Originally written in September 2015, but never published. I was having dinner with my brother Sarge last night and this conversation came up. I gave it another look this morning and it reads better than I remember, if a slight bit petulant. But the fact remains that I, and all my brothers and sisters, are doing what a lot of people only wish they could do: we bought the bike and we put on the miles.

This past summer, on my way to somewhere else, I stopped in Oskaloosa for a bite to eat. I had finished my slice of pizza and was getting ready to leave when a minivan pulled up in the spot next to me. The driver, an older guy, walked around the back of his vehicle and stood in front of my bike. I ignored him and hooked my phone up to the bike. He came around to see what I was doing.

“Do you mind if I drool on your bike?” he asks.

“Just don’t get it on the paint,” I said, now using the touch screen to navigate to a playlist.

He pointed at the screen. “Can you get porn on that?”

“You can probably hack it to do so.”

I don’t mind this type of conversation for the most part. Bikes tend to attract attention, the vest just adds to it. That’s fine. What can get irksome is that the majority of people who come over to talk seem to believe they need to know where I’m going, why I’m going there, and where I’m coming from. He asked:

– Where you going? (Delta, IA)

– Why? What’s going on there? (Delta Days)

– Where you from? (Des Moines)

First, since I’m wearing my vest, I’m always polite, even though my answers are usually short. On the rare occasions I’m not in a hurry, I use the opportunity to spread the BACA word. But seriously, do you go up to people in cars and ask them where they are going and why they are going there? I doubt it, so don’t fucking ask me either. If I wanted you to know, I would have told you.

Second, when I’m in Iowa, people always seem disappointed when I say I’m from Des Moines. They always seem to have this fiction in their head that I (or anyone with a bike and a vest) are from one of the coasts, on some kind of cross-country motorcycle trip that they only wish they could take.

Third, do not take the time to tell me how you always wanted a bike, but your wife wouldn’t let you. I do not want to hear about how your wife keeps your balls in her purse. No one does, so when you feel the urge to tell anyone how much of a bitch you are, stifle that impulse. Get back in your minivan, crank up your Kid Rock, pretend you’re a badass, and move on with your life.