Sunday morning, I was at a biker gathering with friends.
Our plan was to grab some breakfast, gear up, and spend the better part of the day on the road. We took off in Tacoma and headed towards Mount Rainier.
We were waiting for our friend Tim, who was a relatively new biker who wanted to experience a long ride with a seasoned crew. Tim had recently moved to the U.S. from the U.K., and this was the perfect opportunity to get him onboard with the U.S. biker culture.
We didn’t have to wait long - Tim showed up just in time to eat. He introduced himself to the group with that distinctive Brit accent, reassuring everyone he wasn’t really a Bond villain, leastways not on weekends.
Once we finished breakfast, we started equipping ourselves for the ride. While in the middle of zipping and buttoning up, I saw Tim already on his bike. He was wearing a heavy leather jacket, helmet, and a well-worn pair of old jeans.
Now I didn’t like the idea of taking an inexperienced biker on the road without proper protection. Images of road rash in all its glory and pain flashed through my mind, and I yelled:
“Tim, man, where are your chaps?”
He looked at me confused at first, but his face brightened up.
“Dunno what you mean,” said Tim, smiling widely. “I’ve got no chaps – I’ve got mates, and they’re all here with me.”