Good Lord, wear the gear!

I recently became a member of the Chippewa Valley Sportbike Club. I joined this year after hanging out with most of the gentlemen last year and found I made a few good acquaintances, and, even though they are CONSTANTLY waiting for me at intersections, they are a good bunch to ride with. I have no doubt that there would be many volunteers to perform CPR on me should the need arise, particularly since I appear to be the only female. Yeah, I realize I'm not a motorcycle-riding supermodel, but I have boobs. I'm willing to risk this generalization: that all men are fascinated with boobs.

The club is an interesting bunch...sort of a contradiction. They all insist on wearing as much protective gear as possible (which, honestly, is really not a bad idea), but are known to wheelie down a county road given the right conditions. They are all fast when they want to be (except me), and that tells me I can only get better.

The CVSC admins post up pictures on the home page from time to time, mostly of classic roadracing pictures. This newest one gave me pause, however.


My brain -> Dear GOD! If I don't wear protective gear, my boobs will drop into my crotch and bulge out my tighty-whiteys! What?!? Tighty-whiteys??

An aside: Two things man should never have invented. Tighty-whiteys. The Speedo. Uh, three things. Black socks.

...Sometimes I wonder if there isn't a long-forgotten Micro-Machine or Crayon stuck way up in my nose that has been pressing on my brain...especially that part of the brain that makes you drool unexpectedly and crave odd things like corned beef hash. If I had to guess, the Micro-Machine would be a white muscle car with red and blue stripes. The Crayon? Burnt Siena.