I’d Rather Ride a Hog than Scratch My Crotch Rocket.

In the world of two wheeled street demons there are only hogs and crotch rockets. I prefer the hog, a Harley Davidson hog to be exact because the imported versions are just foreign knock offs. Hogs are real bikes and anything else in this category is just a toy, for those who like to play make believe biker.

As much as I enjoy speeds in excess of 150 mph, I cannot forego the image that the hog portrays to bystanders. When a crotch rocket drives by people don't mind, but when a hog comes blaring down the street, people go inside and lock the doors. Sometimes they will leave finely cooked meals as an offering to appease the passing biker.

Hog riders generally wear denim or black leather all year round. They don't give a crap if it is 90 degrees outside because their image is more important than any worldly comfort. This also serves as protective attire because the bikers are prone to bar fights. In fact, bar fighting is the official pastime in the biker community. They will fight even if they are taking time off for a holiday. Crotch rocket riders opt for a leather coat, usually made of a variety of colors for fear of being hit by a car, which is another characteristic bikers lack; fear. I have also seen on occasion crotch rocket riders who will pop the collar of their polo shirts. These riders generally suffer from spontaneous nose bleeds and a lack of social acceptance. When you compare the two, who wouldn't want to be a hog rider?

What I like best about hogs is that people automatically think that you have done some time in prison or are affiliated with a Midwest biker gang. No matter how frail or pasty skinned you are, nobody wants to mess with you. I saw the pastor of a church riding his Harley one day, and I could have been convinced that he burns his eyelids with cigarette butts when he has a hard time waking up.

The hog riders of society are a symbol of the nomadic travelers that use to roam this country from town to town. They are their own entity, separated from culture and restrictions. If you cross a hog rider, you can probably assume that they are harmless, but do you really want to risk getting your face rearranged? Hog riders, I salute you.