There was a gathering of motorcycles at the air museum the day I was there. Everyone was touring the planes. Then, they left. Just left. Quietly. It was a very civilized group with very nice shiny bikes. Which reminds me… I once operated upon a guy. Just before the operation he asked me if I rode. And I waxed over my spiffy Specialized cross trainer with two sets of brake levers on the handlebar. He listened patiently and then said, “I ride, a Harley, 1500 cc.” Ooops! That’s a bike! Not my kind, but a real bike. And… Eric rode. No license. On the day he went for and took the motorcycle test, he was riding home and a woman backing out of her driveway without looking struck him. He flew over her hood. He saw (but could not hear) her scream as he flew across. No serious injury except… as he flew over the handlebars his groin struck the instruments. You can imagine how that hurt. It was more painful then pride. Finally, one day in the ER… the cops brought in the mangled motorcycle helmet of a patient I was attending. There was a portion of guard rail through and through the helmet. They were so impressed. I was impressed that the guy’s head wasn’t still in the helmet. That would have been truly gory.