With suit, school tie with matching handkerchief, shoes a-gleaming, you board the family Volvo and take to the open road, crawling to work in the rush hour traffic coming and going.

And dream rebel dreams of the weekend.

The long weekend - no suit, no tie. Jeans, cutoff denim jacket, or one of leather (black, definitely not rich, Corinthian). Boots - maybe shined, probably not - to protect your feet.

And not the Volvo. Definitely, not the Volvo.

You sit astride a machine designed by no mere car maker, but by people touched
by the gods of power. A hefty piece of American know-how called Harley.
You sit, savoring the moment, and anticipating the storm to come. At your command, the bike rumbles to awareness, as though a great beast summoned from sleep and held in check by your will alone.

Shades on, you scope the way with a quick left and right, to choose your way for the coming day.

Damn. Snow.