<?xml version='1.0' encoding='UTF-8'?><?xml-stylesheet href="http://www.blogger.com/styles/atom.css" type="text/css"?><feed xmlns='http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom' xmlns:openSearch='http://a9.com/-/spec/opensearchrss/1.0/' xmlns:georss='http://www.georss.org/georss' xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5557655166182561290</id><updated>2012-02-16T18:06:57.824-08:00</updated><title type='text'>the Bitch on the Back</title><subtitle type='html'></subtitle><link rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://bitchontheback.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5557655166182561290/posts/default?max-results=100'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://bitchontheback.blogspot.com/'/><link rel='hub' href='http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/'/><author><name>Dicey-Slycey</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08413622814376080998</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_XtVWi69xMDM/StUi7lfriwI/AAAAAAAAAAw/SM9KH9JmSno/S220/m_2dfdf45a99091fff6e1f8cdf99c522a2.jpg'/></author><generator version='7.00' uri='http://www.blogger.com'>Blogger</generator><openSearch:totalResults>12</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>100</openSearch:itemsPerPage><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5557655166182561290.post-100274285715487494</id><published>2011-07-30T08:15:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-07-30T08:44:16.366-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Fear sucks, screw it, let's ride!</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0C4yhWQBm1k/TjQiYU-gItI/AAAAAAAAAE8/86hS7jlC0co/s1600/tank.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0C4yhWQBm1k/TjQiYU-gItI/AAAAAAAAAE8/86hS7jlC0co/s320/tank.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5635166835090399954" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-awW3MYuBa9g/TjQiTddeEiI/AAAAAAAAAE0/mFo2Y0bPi9g/s1600/bikes.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-awW3MYuBa9g/TjQiTddeEiI/AAAAAAAAAE0/mFo2Y0bPi9g/s320/bikes.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5635166751468425762" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So, I've been riding solo for about 2 months now.  I bought a magnet that I keep on the bars to remind me that fear sucks. &amp;amp; Of course my bike had to have a butterfly. Saving my pennies for a custom paint job &amp;amp; louder pipes.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Not too long after I got the bike was an annual ride to the kids burn camp up in Prescott. In years past either I rode on the back with Papa Bear or chased in my truck. Dammit, I am riding my own bike this year.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The ride was the back way through Yarnel &amp;amp; up into the mountains into Prescott. Not sure of my skills, Papa Bear &amp;amp; a couple good friends agreed to ride that route with me a few days before.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;At first, I was shaky &amp;amp; taking the steep mountain grades &amp;amp; curves too slow, Before I knew it, I was leaning into the turns without backing off the throttle. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Going back home down the mountain was a blast, I was leaning, down shifting like a pro. The best consumer reports on the 883 Superlow was the light &amp;amp; more balanced weight, how well it responds to curving &amp;amp; quick speeds. It was also mentioned that the design makes you feel like you are sitting in the bike, instead of on it. The reports are right. I wonder if there couldn't be a more perfect bike made for me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The burn camp ride was a blast, I was riding with a very experienced group made up of mostly  fire fighters. It was an absolute blast riding up the mountain with them, I gained quite a bit of more skills &amp;amp; really mentally connected with the bike.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Putting on the miles, several times to work now, more when the temp drops just a tad, a couple out of town rides &amp;amp; scootin' all over town.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Let's ride!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5557655166182561290-100274285715487494?l=bitchontheback.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://bitchontheback.blogspot.com/feeds/100274285715487494/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://bitchontheback.blogspot.com/2011/07/fear-sucks-screw-it-lets-ride.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5557655166182561290/posts/default/100274285715487494'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5557655166182561290/posts/default/100274285715487494'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://bitchontheback.blogspot.com/2011/07/fear-sucks-screw-it-lets-ride.html' title='Fear sucks, screw it, let&apos;s ride!'/><author><name>Dicey-Slycey</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08413622814376080998</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_XtVWi69xMDM/StUi7lfriwI/AAAAAAAAAAw/SM9KH9JmSno/S220/m_2dfdf45a99091fff6e1f8cdf99c522a2.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0C4yhWQBm1k/TjQiYU-gItI/AAAAAAAAAE8/86hS7jlC0co/s72-c/tank.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5557655166182561290.post-6384699225581791192</id><published>2011-05-28T22:13:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2011-05-28T22:41:02.864-07:00</updated><title type='text'>The bitch just passed you</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qZoGWMtxk1o/TeHcJEi5zsI/AAAAAAAAAEQ/RJo7GYF4u9o/s1600/az%2Bbike%2Bweek.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 312px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qZoGWMtxk1o/TeHcJEi5zsI/AAAAAAAAAEQ/RJo7GYF4u9o/s320/az%2Bbike%2Bweek.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5612008659077418690" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-H69g5b-IX38/TeHbfi-tRxI/AAAAAAAAAEA/kaOBP1528WI/s1600/028.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-H69g5b-IX38/TeHbfi-tRxI/AAAAAAAAAEA/kaOBP1528WI/s320/028.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5612007945692595986" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When I was about 5, my dad brought home this little dirt bike. It had a two stroke Tecumseh engine &amp;amp; no gears to shift. Not sure if someone took a lawn mower engine &amp;amp; stuck it in a bike frame, or if it was actually manufactured. Didn't matter, I had a blast riding that. Grew up in the desert, so my riding range was limitless.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I graduated to a Honda 80 when I was maybe 8. &amp;amp; then was finally big enough to ride my dad's Honda 125. Then came boys with street bikes.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The first time I met hubby, he was on a bike. &amp;amp; I've been the bitch on the back ever since.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The first of this year, we went on a 300+ mile charity ride. On the way home, going about 80 down the freeway, I got a cramp in my leg. Hubby is yelling "Sit still" I'm yelling back, "I got a cramp" He yells, "We ain't stopping" &amp;amp; I then thought fuck this, I'm paying off my truck loan &amp;amp; getting my own goddam bike.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I did pay off my truck &amp;amp; took a beginner rider's course.  Glad I did, the kids were just babies the last time I rode solo. As soon as I got on the bike at the course, I remembered everything. I passed &amp;amp; received a certificate to take to the MVD to get my motorcycle license without having to take the MVD riding test.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Last weekend, we drove over to the dealership &amp;amp; got fitted for a Sportster 883 Superlow. Beautiful powder baby blue paint job &amp;amp; am saving up for custom pin striping. I love that Harley realized that women ride too, &amp;amp; have come out with smaller &amp;amp; lighter bikes (&amp;amp; more expensive clothes).&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;if you can read this, the bitch just passed you&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5557655166182561290-6384699225581791192?l=bitchontheback.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://bitchontheback.blogspot.com/feeds/6384699225581791192/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://bitchontheback.blogspot.com/2011/05/bitch-just-passed-you.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5557655166182561290/posts/default/6384699225581791192'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5557655166182561290/posts/default/6384699225581791192'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://bitchontheback.blogspot.com/2011/05/bitch-just-passed-you.html' title='The bitch just passed you'/><author><name>Dicey-Slycey</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08413622814376080998</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_XtVWi69xMDM/StUi7lfriwI/AAAAAAAAAAw/SM9KH9JmSno/S220/m_2dfdf45a99091fff6e1f8cdf99c522a2.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qZoGWMtxk1o/TeHcJEi5zsI/AAAAAAAAAEQ/RJo7GYF4u9o/s72-c/az%2Bbike%2Bweek.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5557655166182561290.post-5112574508672326028</id><published>2011-03-10T19:13:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2011-03-10T19:15:22.447-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Back to playing basketball</title><content type='html'>Our Son is back to playing basketball, something not too long ago, we thought he would never play again.&lt;p&gt;A couple weeks ago, we got some not great news. The leukemia is in his stem cell, the odds of his having two types are so rare, there is another name for it. Biphenotypic acute leukemia. It will come back, when we don't know, but bone marrow donor match has began. (those with his caringbridge link can get the details)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;But that isn't what this post is about. &lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;It is about Son playing basketball again &amp;amp; is in a league. Last week he scored 42 points, his oncologist came &amp;amp; sat there with tears in his eyes almost through out the entire game.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Son is back to playing basketball, in the pickup games, leagues &amp;amp; street ball here, he has made a name for himself &amp;amp; has quite a reputation that the other teams always make sure to put their best player on him. So many people he has played against through out the years have come to watch him, support him &amp;amp; maybe finally try to figure out how to stop him on the court.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;It is like poetry to watch him play, his passion for the game, his constant coaching &amp;amp; helping of not just his team mates, but those he plays against. &lt;/p&gt;Our Son is back to playing basketball.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span class="fr_topic_dateline"&gt;02/10/2011&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5557655166182561290-5112574508672326028?l=bitchontheback.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://bitchontheback.blogspot.com/feeds/5112574508672326028/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://bitchontheback.blogspot.com/2011/03/back-to-playing-basketball.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5557655166182561290/posts/default/5112574508672326028'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5557655166182561290/posts/default/5112574508672326028'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://bitchontheback.blogspot.com/2011/03/back-to-playing-basketball.html' title='Back to playing basketball'/><author><name>Dicey-Slycey</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08413622814376080998</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_XtVWi69xMDM/StUi7lfriwI/AAAAAAAAAAw/SM9KH9JmSno/S220/m_2dfdf45a99091fff6e1f8cdf99c522a2.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5557655166182561290.post-7444981665717161051</id><published>2011-03-10T18:08:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2011-03-10T19:11:48.589-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Gearing up</title><content type='html'>AZ bike week is one of my favorite local biker events. It lasts a week. Dealer parties, bar parties, numerous charity poker rides.  A straight week of no work, no worries, except "do we need gas?". Just a few more weeks.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Last year, a few weeks before, our son was diagnosed with Leukemia &amp;amp; lost some bikers in a very tragic accident. (fucking meth head driving a dump truck). We spent quite a bit of bike week hanging around the hospital, seemed that sometimes, we lived there. We did a couple rides &amp;amp; a couple parties. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;God (of your choice) has played a very cruel joke on us. Our son's leukemia will come back, it is in his stem cell. Our daughter, his only sibling &amp;amp; most likely match for a bone marrow transplant, has been diagnosed with an auto-immune disease, whacked out thyroid &amp;amp; re-accuring shingles. She won't ever be considered for a donor.  I encourage every one to be a bone marrow donor, all they need is your blood. (red, not blue)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Wednesday's Riding for Kids, go at your own pace, usually over 200 miles. Raising money for kids that have survived burns, this ride helps pay for a  summer camp, so the kids can attend free. Some have small burn scars, some are disfigured &amp;amp; some crippled from burns. But to see the courage &amp;amp; life goes on attitude from these kids is absolutely amazing.  I had made a bunch of crazy, flannel material, teddy bears for the kids. Now I'm using the scraps from the bears to make quilts for sick babies in neonatal care.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Pay it forward.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Special Olympics Torch Ride. Wow. 3,000 + bikes all riding in a very, long line.  Police escorted. Breakfast served by members of the Special Olympics, seeing their smiles.  A ton of money is raised every year, over 50k last year.  Rolling thunder.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Haven't heard anything about the Chior Boys ride. They are a bunch of characters &amp;amp; just plain fun.  If I don't hear anything soon, I'll register for Logan's Run.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Just a few more weeks.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Bike shows, live bands, vendors, food, same place where all rides end.  I bought a raffle ticket for a '11 Sportster today. It's powder blue &amp;amp; I've always been told I look good in blue. I've had my eye on the factory paint pink &amp;amp; blue Sportster Low model, but the powder blue model will bling up just fine.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This past Saturday, we went on a 310 mile ride. at one point, I got a cramp while we were going about 90 down the highway. Papa Bear is yelling to sit still &amp;amp; we ain't stopping. Sunday morning, my thighs &amp;amp; back were stiff &amp;amp; sore. It's time to stop being the bitch on the back &amp;amp; start being the bitch that just passed you.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Just a few more weeks &amp;amp; we will be gearing up.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5557655166182561290-7444981665717161051?l=bitchontheback.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://bitchontheback.blogspot.com/feeds/7444981665717161051/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://bitchontheback.blogspot.com/2011/03/gearing-up.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5557655166182561290/posts/default/7444981665717161051'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5557655166182561290/posts/default/7444981665717161051'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://bitchontheback.blogspot.com/2011/03/gearing-up.html' title='Gearing up'/><author><name>Dicey-Slycey</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08413622814376080998</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_XtVWi69xMDM/StUi7lfriwI/AAAAAAAAAAw/SM9KH9JmSno/S220/m_2dfdf45a99091fff6e1f8cdf99c522a2.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5557655166182561290.post-5264204234809221708</id><published>2010-08-26T17:59:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2010-08-26T19:10:12.051-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Eff Sturgis, we want Irish nachos.</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XtVWi69xMDM/THced7snh4I/AAAAAAAAADY/9zxzmBWcyJQ/s1600/082.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XtVWi69xMDM/THced7snh4I/AAAAAAAAADY/9zxzmBWcyJQ/s320/082.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509906168700962690" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XtVWi69xMDM/THcedsEOGgI/AAAAAAAAADQ/CIbMGVHp4M0/s1600/023.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XtVWi69xMDM/THcedsEOGgI/AAAAAAAAADQ/CIbMGVHp4M0/s320/023.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509906164504992258" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Every year, just out of Flagstaff, there is a Too Broke for Sturgis Rally, 3 days of bikes, nekid chicks &amp;amp; major drinking. Due to family life, we decided to go up just for the day, instead of the entire weekend.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I made it clear  to PapaBear before we left, that I will not be participating in "Show Your Tits", wet t-shirt contests or mud wrestling. getting too old for that shit. I'll leave that to the younger, more perkier girls.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We met up with a couple good friends to ride with &amp;amp; ended up getting stuck in a traffic jam just out of town. We knew a little road that we could use as a detour to avoid that mess. But we ended up getting out on the highway later then planned.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The weather at home had been really hot, almost to hot to ride.  but the morning we left, it was somewhat cool &amp;amp; overcast. The further up north we got, the cooler it got. Had to throw on a long sleeve shirt.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The ride &amp;amp; the weather was perfect &amp;amp; we were with good company, we cruised, raced each other &amp;amp; terrorized little old men driving too slow.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We arrived at the rally too late to join the poker run that was going on. We wondered around, looking at the vendors crap &amp;amp; beautiful bikes. After a few hours, we were starving &amp;amp; seeing how everything won't start till much later, we decided to go into town for lunch.  Our good friends told us about Irish nachos. What the hell is that? We've never heard of them before.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We found the Irish pub right across from the train station on Route 66.  Irish nachos is just like regular nachos with all the fixings, except instead of using tortilla chips, they used fresh sliced &amp;amp; fried potatoes. Holy crap, they were so good.  We hung out there for a while, ate a second round of Irish nachos &amp;amp; then decided, fuck it, not go back to the rally, but take a nice ride through Oak Creek Canyon &amp;amp; Sedona &amp;amp; then head home.  plus all day it looked like it would rain. If we were at the rally when it started raining, there would be no shelter &amp;amp; all mud. Don't think we ever saw the sun that day.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;If you have never been to Oak Creek Canyon or Sedona,  you are missing out on amazing scenery.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;As we are cruising down the canyon, I'm taking tons of pictures, enjoying the scenery &amp;amp; loving the cool air. Then, wham! Traffic jam just outside Sedona. Son of a bitch.  Sat in traffic for about 30 minutes, barely moving, gotta' pee &amp;amp; breathing exhaust fumes.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We finally made it into Sedona &amp;amp; took a while to find any parking.  By this time, I was ready to piss on the side of the road.  Yay! Not only some parking space, but a public bathroom.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;As the girls were waiting in line to get drinks for everyone, I noticed PapaBear posing for a picture with a teeny, tiny Japanese lady.  haha, he is 6 ft 5 &amp;amp; she was even smaller then me, maybe 5 ft 2??  After we got our drinks, I asked him what that was about.  He said this lady walked up to him, talking a mile a minute in Japanese &amp;amp; somebody finally interpreted for her. She just saw her first American biker &amp;amp; wanted a picture to show her friends back home.  He said she was so excited, so he posed with her &amp;amp; then had a boost of ego, he is going to be famous in Japan.  I was able to get a picture of them getting their picture taken.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We hung out in Sedona for a while, but it was too crowded &amp;amp; looked like it would start raining any minute. So decided it was time to head home. All the way home, we could see a huge rain storm to the west of us, but never got a drop on us.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5557655166182561290-5264204234809221708?l=bitchontheback.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://bitchontheback.blogspot.com/feeds/5264204234809221708/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://bitchontheback.blogspot.com/2010/08/eff-sturgis-we-want-irish-nachos.html#comment-form' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5557655166182561290/posts/default/5264204234809221708'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5557655166182561290/posts/default/5264204234809221708'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://bitchontheback.blogspot.com/2010/08/eff-sturgis-we-want-irish-nachos.html' title='Eff Sturgis, we want Irish nachos.'/><author><name>Dicey-Slycey</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08413622814376080998</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_XtVWi69xMDM/StUi7lfriwI/AAAAAAAAAAw/SM9KH9JmSno/S220/m_2dfdf45a99091fff6e1f8cdf99c522a2.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XtVWi69xMDM/THced7snh4I/AAAAAAAAADY/9zxzmBWcyJQ/s72-c/082.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5557655166182561290.post-359797754999070381</id><published>2010-08-25T18:06:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2010-08-25T19:29:09.820-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Split second</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XtVWi69xMDM/THW-myFh9ZI/AAAAAAAAAC4/vFECyaYhPR0/s1600/018.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XtVWi69xMDM/THW-myFh9ZI/AAAAAAAAAC4/vFECyaYhPR0/s320/018.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509519292646946194" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_XtVWi69xMDM/THW-mNflR-I/AAAAAAAAACw/irtEQ5safy8/s1600/26369_1328292722577_1088721413_30900803_6373044_n.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_XtVWi69xMDM/THW-mNflR-I/AAAAAAAAACw/irtEQ5safy8/s320/26369_1328292722577_1088721413_30900803_6373044_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509519282824103906" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Ever have one of those days when your life as you know it changes in a split second? In one week, two phones calls changed our lives forever.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;March 23rd, we get a phone call from our daughter-in-law. The doctors in the ER think our son has some form of blood cancer. But they needed to do a bone marrow biopsy to confirm. Just like that. The kid that was never sick, the kid that always ate right, stayed active &amp;amp; was in tip top physical shape. Holy shit. How? Why? What did he ever do to deserve this?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;2 days later, the bone marrow biopsy came back, 91% blasts (cancer cells), two types of leukemia. that's our boy, so competitive that he has to get not one, but two types.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Family &amp;amp; friends quickly rallied. Bringing meals to the hospital every day, a logo was made, t-shirts printed &amp;amp; sold to help our son with bills. Long lost relatives suddenly calling, sending cards, money &amp;amp; best wishes.  Tattoos were done. Millions of tears fell.  Grudges forgotten. Prayers said. Held on to hope that he didn't have cancer, just sever anemia or some nasty bug. The leukemia ribbon is orange, so our son's best friend designed his ribbon with the Bengal tiger stripes. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;From day one, our son amazed the doctors, when he was admitted, his blood levels were the lowest they have ever seen from someone walking into the emergency room. Most people with that low of blood levels have their heart give out. When son said he played basketball just a couple days ago, the doctors jaws dropped to the floor.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He instantly become the favorite patient. Nurses fell in love with him &amp;amp; started fighting over who got to be his nurse, doctors stopped by to see the boy wonder.  Rumors of his case being written in medical journals.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Our son responded very well to the aggressive chemo treatments. Very few side effects, but he did lose his hair.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He is now in remission, finishing up his chemo &amp;amp; anxiously wanting to get his life back.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;March 25th. The second life changing phone call happened during our sons first bone marrow biopsy.  A group of 10 bikers sitting at a red light were plowed into from behind by a guy driving a dump truck.  Bikes exploded, on fire, bodies were run over or thrown across the road.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;3 were killed instantly, another lost her life later at the hospital. Other were injured, some pretty bad, a couple were lucky with just a few scrapes &amp;amp; broken bones. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Bikers through out the whole state were calling their buddies to see if it was them or if they knew who was involved. The first reports didn't say if it was just a group of friends, a club or an organized public ride.  Everyone was calling everyone they knew. "Are you ok?" "Do you know who it was?"  "How could this happen?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;After this made national news, I even got a text from a biker buddy in Strathmore England.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;How could I deal with this, while our son was just diagnosed with two types of leukemia?  How would I handle this if I knew the people involved?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Finally got word on what group it was &amp;amp; who the victims were. I recognized a couple names &amp;amp; the club, but didn't know anyone personally.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The community, bikers &amp;amp; non-bikers became angry. Fund raisers were organized &amp;amp; the love &amp;amp; support from the non-biker world was amazing. A young boy that witnessed the accident used his allowance to buy a bandanna for the make shift memorial where the accident happened.  A young boy, maybe 8 or 9, he should have never ever seen anything like this, but was so concerned about the bikers. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We need to ride back out to the accident site. it seems that we have avoided that area, where we use to ride by quite often.  I've heard that a welder made a permanent memorial. &amp;amp; A lady took all the bandannas to make a quilt to sell to help the surviving victims.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The dump truck driver tested positive for meth. &amp;amp; Is being charged with manslaughter.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5557655166182561290-359797754999070381?l=bitchontheback.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://bitchontheback.blogspot.com/feeds/359797754999070381/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://bitchontheback.blogspot.com/2010/08/split-second.html#comment-form' title='5 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5557655166182561290/posts/default/359797754999070381'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5557655166182561290/posts/default/359797754999070381'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://bitchontheback.blogspot.com/2010/08/split-second.html' title='Split second'/><author><name>Dicey-Slycey</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08413622814376080998</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_XtVWi69xMDM/StUi7lfriwI/AAAAAAAAAAw/SM9KH9JmSno/S220/m_2dfdf45a99091fff6e1f8cdf99c522a2.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XtVWi69xMDM/THW-myFh9ZI/AAAAAAAAAC4/vFECyaYhPR0/s72-c/018.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>5</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5557655166182561290.post-7605823800380430135</id><published>2010-08-22T09:39:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2010-08-22T10:38:10.316-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Shit H.O.T.</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XtVWi69xMDM/THFVtZPvAdI/AAAAAAAAACo/EhTBOLJ0uoU/s1600/DSCN4269.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 248px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XtVWi69xMDM/THFVtZPvAdI/AAAAAAAAACo/EhTBOLJ0uoU/s320/DSCN4269.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508278057610183122" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;It's been a while. But, ya' know life happens &amp;amp; it has finally calmed down a little to give me a chance to jot down some thoughts.   &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm the secretary of a local chapter of a world wide club.  A few months back, I had the opportunity to attend the annual officers training for the western region. They offer 4 training sites a year in the US &amp;amp; try to break it up by region.  There is also the same training in many countries.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Being my first time attending, I was blown away. Here was a huge hotel full of people all wearing the same colors as me, only difference was the location rockers.  Motorcycles filled the parking lot, there were several parked inside in the lobby &amp;amp; even up on the stage where the main events took place.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I counted over 700 people, belonging to 100 different chapters, USA, Canada &amp;amp; even Germany was  represented.  Brothers &amp;amp; sisters, all with a common interest, common bond &amp;amp; common goal.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Right off the bat, this started full throttle &amp;amp; didn't let up until we all staggered out 3 days later. The new Sportster '48 was introduced, the youngest known Harley owner was there &amp;amp; possibly one of the oldest.  Said goodbye to someone from the regional team that was retiring.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I was amused to see the number of security &amp;amp; local police on hand, it must have been boring for them, even when they opened the free bar. No one was there to fight or raise hell, we were all there to meet new friends, see old ones, learn the legal side of things, swap ideas &amp;amp; come home with a "fuck yeah, let's ride" attitude.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5557655166182561290-7605823800380430135?l=bitchontheback.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://bitchontheback.blogspot.com/feeds/7605823800380430135/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://bitchontheback.blogspot.com/2010/08/shit-hot.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5557655166182561290/posts/default/7605823800380430135'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5557655166182561290/posts/default/7605823800380430135'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://bitchontheback.blogspot.com/2010/08/shit-hot.html' title='Shit H.O.T.'/><author><name>Dicey-Slycey</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08413622814376080998</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_XtVWi69xMDM/StUi7lfriwI/AAAAAAAAAAw/SM9KH9JmSno/S220/m_2dfdf45a99091fff6e1f8cdf99c522a2.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XtVWi69xMDM/THFVtZPvAdI/AAAAAAAAACo/EhTBOLJ0uoU/s72-c/DSCN4269.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5557655166182561290.post-1200036459250393031</id><published>2009-12-07T18:53:00.001-08:00</published><updated>2009-12-07T19:29:58.477-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Group rides, big &amp; small</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XtVWi69xMDM/Sx3AoUBHq2I/AAAAAAAAACY/M1oj35Uyvxk/s1600-h/018.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 250px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XtVWi69xMDM/Sx3AoUBHq2I/AAAAAAAAACY/M1oj35Uyvxk/s400/018.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412694125969910626" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XtVWi69xMDM/Sx3APuZU7CI/AAAAAAAAACQ/N4F5D9aInwc/s1600-h/017.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 234px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XtVWi69xMDM/Sx3APuZU7CI/AAAAAAAAACQ/N4F5D9aInwc/s400/017.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412693703554034722" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Aw, group rides. What a blast.&lt;br /&gt;It's hard to decide if I like small group rides or large group rides better. Both have their advantages &amp;amp; disadvantages. But both can be equally fun. &amp;amp; Riding with just Papa Bear is nothing but good times.  Seems every ride I go on, I think that one was the best &amp;amp; then I'll go on another &amp;amp; think that one was the best &amp;amp; on it goes.  The next ride will always be the best.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Small group rides can be just a few friends having a great ride heading for breakfast or just an adventure. Our normal small group rides are a handful of riders that are all familiar with each others riding style. We know who should ride sweep, who should lead, who doesn't like to ride in gravel &amp;amp; who has been drinking or not. We trust each other. We have all ridden with each other numerous times &amp;amp; we all know each others hand signals. Small group rides, we have to be more careful about &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;cagers&lt;/span&gt;, then riders&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Most rides, big or small, usually have a brief safety meeting, go over hand signals, talk about the route we will take, any known road construction, etc.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Large rides are very powerful, as 1,000's bikes go by, all the car alarms go off. Nothing gets traffics attention better then the rolling thunder going down the road.  If we are lucky, a large group ride will have a police escort, but with budget cutbacks, we see that less &amp;amp; less. Have to give a hats off to organizers of group rides. They really have their shit together.  The logistics &amp;amp; planning is very impressive. A problem with large group rides is you don't know how the rider next to you is.  Is the guy next to you experienced? Has he been drinking? Does he take tight turns?&lt;br /&gt;If there isn't hand signals, it can be a disaster.  Large group rides, we have to be more careful about riders then &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;cagers&lt;/span&gt;.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Which brings up another topic.&lt;br /&gt;Hand signals. &lt;a href="http://www.ridemyown.com/articles/safety/handsignals.shtml"&gt;http://www.ridemyown.com/articles/safety/handsignals.shtml&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I've linked some of the most common, although there are several more used but not listed.&lt;br /&gt;There is the universal hand signals that is used through out the country. &amp;amp; Some groups &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"&gt;have&lt;/span&gt; their own unique signals.  It's how we talk to each other, let those behind use know what those in front are doing.  Maybe even let the &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"&gt;cagers&lt;/span&gt; know what is going on.  I'm a firm believer in hand signals, they do good.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Large, small or solo, just be careful out there, keep the shiny side up &amp;amp; just remember, it isn't the destination, but the journey.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5557655166182561290-1200036459250393031?l=bitchontheback.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://bitchontheback.blogspot.com/feeds/1200036459250393031/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://bitchontheback.blogspot.com/2009/12/group-rides-big-small.html#comment-form' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5557655166182561290/posts/default/1200036459250393031'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5557655166182561290/posts/default/1200036459250393031'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://bitchontheback.blogspot.com/2009/12/group-rides-big-small.html' title='Group rides, big &amp; small'/><author><name>Dicey-Slycey</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08413622814376080998</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_XtVWi69xMDM/StUi7lfriwI/AAAAAAAAAAw/SM9KH9JmSno/S220/m_2dfdf45a99091fff6e1f8cdf99c522a2.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XtVWi69xMDM/Sx3AoUBHq2I/AAAAAAAAACY/M1oj35Uyvxk/s72-c/018.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5557655166182561290.post-3420627729449496291</id><published>2009-10-23T21:47:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-10-23T22:10:56.209-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Grandson's first ride</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XtVWi69xMDM/SuKMTr3TzLI/AAAAAAAAABY/rR8_efDpD70/s1600-h/l_acdcdf8106a9463cbd32e604236c604e.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XtVWi69xMDM/SuKMTr3TzLI/AAAAAAAAABY/rR8_efDpD70/s400/l_acdcdf8106a9463cbd32e604236c604e.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396029573363387570" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Our grandson, LT had been begging PapaBear for a ride on the bike ever since he was just a toddler. When he turned 6, we decided he was old enough for a ride around the block a few times.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;They were visiting one day &amp;amp; LT came running inside.  "Gramma, Gramma! Papa is taking me for a ride!!!" I turn around, &amp;amp; there is grandson with one of my riding jackets, a helmet that is too big &amp;amp; my goggles kinda' hanging off his ears &amp;amp; perched on his nose.  He had geared himself up. I helped him tighten the helmet strap, re-adjusted the goggles for a better fit &amp;amp; zipped up the jacket.  This boy was so incredibly excited &amp;amp; very anxious to get on the rode, I actually feel the same way if I haven't been on the bike for a few days, kinda' start jonesing for it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We met Papa out in the driveway.  After strict instructions to stay away from the pipes, hold on tight &amp;amp; don't wiggle around, I helped LT up to sit in front of Papa.  He grabbed a hold of the gas tank lid &amp;amp; turned to smile at me with the biggest smile I have ever seen on his face. &amp;amp; Off they went. I took a picture &amp;amp; sent it into a bike magazine we really like &amp;amp; they actually published it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Granddaughter &amp;amp; I sat to wait for them on the park bench I have in my front garden.  We could hear that Harley as it went through the neighborhood, they rode every street in the area. Then I realized, I couldn't hear them anymore.  WTF? They were just suppose to stay close by, just the side streets.  20 minutes later, they pull up, grandson was grinning ear to ear. "Did you see me? Did you see me, Gramma?"  I asked PapBear where did they go?  "Oh, ya' know, gas &amp;amp; smokes"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Grandson now has his own proper sized helmet.  He asked me to make a vest for him just like Papas. He picked out the patches himself at the local leather shop.  &amp;amp; Wears it with pride.  We found him fingerless gloves, just his size &amp;amp; he still wears my goggles.&lt;br /&gt;I can't wait for the day that he can ride his own bike.  It is in his blood, both his Papas &amp;amp; a few uncles all ride.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5557655166182561290-3420627729449496291?l=bitchontheback.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://bitchontheback.blogspot.com/feeds/3420627729449496291/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://bitchontheback.blogspot.com/2009/10/grandsons-first-ride.html#comment-form' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5557655166182561290/posts/default/3420627729449496291'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5557655166182561290/posts/default/3420627729449496291'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://bitchontheback.blogspot.com/2009/10/grandsons-first-ride.html' title='Grandson&apos;s first ride'/><author><name>Dicey-Slycey</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08413622814376080998</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_XtVWi69xMDM/StUi7lfriwI/AAAAAAAAAAw/SM9KH9JmSno/S220/m_2dfdf45a99091fff6e1f8cdf99c522a2.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XtVWi69xMDM/SuKMTr3TzLI/AAAAAAAAABY/rR8_efDpD70/s72-c/l_acdcdf8106a9463cbd32e604236c604e.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5557655166182561290.post-3358653078144720275</id><published>2009-10-15T07:47:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-10-24T08:56:29.744-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Low Life Bikers</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XtVWi69xMDM/SuMjmkNYMUI/AAAAAAAAABo/VSiSONJQTOE/s1600-h/l_70c2b24e3e914a17b2d7469f856fa42f.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 239px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XtVWi69xMDM/SuMjmkNYMUI/AAAAAAAAABo/VSiSONJQTOE/s320/l_70c2b24e3e914a17b2d7469f856fa42f.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396195923981775170" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XtVWi69xMDM/SuMipD7-0CI/AAAAAAAAABg/K1ugIKPDSvw/s1600-h/041.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 202px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XtVWi69xMDM/SuMipD7-0CI/AAAAAAAAABg/K1ugIKPDSvw/s320/041.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396194867346853922" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I recently had a conversation with a clueless person.  Here is her quote: "Bikers, by and large are pretty low down characters,&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;imho&lt;/span&gt;." I told her she didn't know what the fuck she was talking about.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sure there are 1%&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;er's&lt;/span&gt;, but they represent a small percentage of the biker world. but even then, they have open wallets for any cause or need.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The majority of bikers I know are law abiding citizens, they are cops, firemen, business men, preachers, ministers, priests, doctors, lawyers, the list goes on &amp;amp; on. Politicians, sports figures, all walks of life, all levels of &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"&gt;employment&lt;/span&gt;.  I remember seeing years ago, about half of the &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"&gt;Greenbay&lt;/span&gt; Packers ride to a home game on their bikes.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;There are clubs made up entirely of Christians, military &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"&gt;personnel&lt;/span&gt;, cops, firemen. Some clubs are made up of AA members.  Church groups, bowling teams, co-workers.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;On any given weekend there is at least one charity ride or fund raiser.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We raise money for breast cancer, a fallen &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"&gt;police officer&lt;/span&gt;, a fallen soldier or a fallen brother or sister. We raise money to help out kids with no dental insurance, people that need a life saving surgery &amp;amp; have no insurance or very little to pay for it. Name a disease &amp;amp; I can name a charity ride to raise money for that disease or get one going.  Tell me the name of a family that had their house burned down &amp;amp; I can get a couple hundred bikers to either ride to raise money, help rebuild the house or find them a place to live.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I've been on a ride that raised money for musical &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6"&gt;instruments&lt;/span&gt; for a local school.&lt;br /&gt;How about the group that is now on TV?  They have devoted their life to rescue abused &amp;amp; &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7"&gt;neglected&lt;/span&gt; animals.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Toys rides, food &amp;amp; clothing for the homeless rides,  every seen 1,500 bikers go by with frozen turkeys strapped to the back? or 1,000 bikes go by with stuffed animals tied to the bars?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Last year, our local bikers raised over $56,000 for Special Olympics.&lt;br /&gt;A few weeks ago, local groups collected a truck load of food for the local &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8"&gt;food bank&lt;/span&gt;.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&amp;amp; How about our Patriot Guard? They escort fallen soldiers funerals &amp;amp; provide security for the &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9"&gt;family's&lt;/span&gt;, shield the mourning family and their friends from &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10"&gt;protesters&lt;/span&gt;.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Anytime, anywhere there are bikers that will do what they can to help out someone, they have open wallets &amp;amp; open hearts.  &amp;amp; If it involves kids, there wallets open even wider.&lt;br /&gt;We are an extremely diverse group.  All are welcome, there is no discrimination of skin color, sexual preference or even bike type.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;If you think bikers are low down characters, think again. You just might be related a biker, work with a biker or your dentist or OB &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11"&gt;GYN&lt;/span&gt; could be a biker.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Not all bikers ride &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12"&gt;Harleys&lt;/span&gt;, you ride a bike with two wheels, you are a member of the biker family.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The next time you turn up your nose when a biker goes by, ask yourself. Who has given back to the community more, who has been more generous to a charity, you or that low life biker?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5557655166182561290-3358653078144720275?l=bitchontheback.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://bitchontheback.blogspot.com/feeds/3358653078144720275/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://bitchontheback.blogspot.com/2009/10/low-life-bikers.html#comment-form' title='8 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5557655166182561290/posts/default/3358653078144720275'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5557655166182561290/posts/default/3358653078144720275'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://bitchontheback.blogspot.com/2009/10/low-life-bikers.html' title='Low Life Bikers'/><author><name>Dicey-Slycey</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08413622814376080998</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_XtVWi69xMDM/StUi7lfriwI/AAAAAAAAAAw/SM9KH9JmSno/S220/m_2dfdf45a99091fff6e1f8cdf99c522a2.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XtVWi69xMDM/SuMjmkNYMUI/AAAAAAAAABo/VSiSONJQTOE/s72-c/l_70c2b24e3e914a17b2d7469f856fa42f.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>8</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5557655166182561290.post-399116344163302743</id><published>2009-10-13T18:14:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-10-24T08:59:36.696-07:00</updated><title type='text'>The Bitch on the Back</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_XtVWi69xMDM/SuMkYl4xL8I/AAAAAAAAAB4/c54h-tnTpN4/s1600-h/m_fa206e7dcf60c302dab2bea4ca7c9323.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 170px; height: 127px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_XtVWi69xMDM/SuMkYl4xL8I/AAAAAAAAAB4/c54h-tnTpN4/s400/m_fa206e7dcf60c302dab2bea4ca7c9323.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396196783425662914" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Not sure if you have ever seen the t-shirt "If you can read this, the bitch fell off".  I can assure you, I will never be that bitch.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Someday, I will ride my own bike again, but for now, I am content to ride on the back.  I've gotten very good at taking pictures over PapaBears shoulders.  I can relax &amp;amp; enjoy the scenery &amp;amp; be an extra lookout for cagers not watching out for us.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Riding on the back frees me up to pass the hand signals along, low 5 other bikers &amp;amp; maybe give PapaBear a hand job.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Riding on the back means I have placed total trust with PapaBear, but that trust has never been in question, I've trusted that man for 30 years &amp;amp; I plan on trusting him for at least 30 more.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Someday, I plan on getting a bike with a side car, so the grandkids can ride with me, maybe teach the dog to ride, he gets so excited when ever he hears a bike start up, I wonder if he was a biker in a previous life.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;but for now, I'm proud to be the bitch on the back.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5557655166182561290-399116344163302743?l=bitchontheback.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://bitchontheback.blogspot.com/feeds/399116344163302743/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://bitchontheback.blogspot.com/2009/10/bitch-on-back.html#comment-form' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5557655166182561290/posts/default/399116344163302743'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5557655166182561290/posts/default/399116344163302743'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://bitchontheback.blogspot.com/2009/10/bitch-on-back.html' title='The Bitch on the Back'/><author><name>Dicey-Slycey</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08413622814376080998</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_XtVWi69xMDM/StUi7lfriwI/AAAAAAAAAAw/SM9KH9JmSno/S220/m_2dfdf45a99091fff6e1f8cdf99c522a2.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_XtVWi69xMDM/SuMkYl4xL8I/AAAAAAAAAB4/c54h-tnTpN4/s72-c/m_fa206e7dcf60c302dab2bea4ca7c9323.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5557655166182561290.post-9181977765369971165</id><published>2009-10-13T11:54:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-10-30T05:28:28.441-07:00</updated><title type='text'>But you didn't see me.</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XtVWi69xMDM/Surb35Dy5nI/AAAAAAAAACI/qJiSl5ebGKw/s1600-h/005.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 341px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XtVWi69xMDM/Surb35Dy5nI/AAAAAAAAACI/qJiSl5ebGKw/s400/005.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5398368856612988530" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My first blog.&lt;br /&gt;This poem was sent to me a couple years ago. Anyone that has ever ridden a bike, wore colors or even just a Harley t-shirt can really relate.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="color: rgb(204, 255, 255);"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Anonymous Writer&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;But, You Didn't See Me&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="color: rgb(204, 255, 255);"&gt;I saw you,hug your purse closer to you in the grocery store line.&lt;br /&gt;But, you didn't see me,put an extra $10.00 in the collection plate last Sunday.&lt;br /&gt;I saw you,pull your child closer when we passed each other on the sidewalk.&lt;br /&gt;But, you didn't see me,playing Santa at the local mall.&lt;br /&gt;I saw you,change your mind about going into the restaurant.&lt;br /&gt;But, you didn't see me,attending a meeting to raise more money for the hurricane relief.&lt;br /&gt;I saw you,roll up your window and shake your head when I drove by.&lt;br /&gt;But, you didn't see me,driving behind you when you flicked your cigarette butt out the car window.&lt;br /&gt;I saw you,frown at me when I smiled at your children.&lt;br /&gt;But, you didn't see me,when I took time off from work to run toys to the homeless.&lt;br /&gt;I saw you,stare at my long hair.&lt;br /&gt;But, you didn't see me,and my friends cut ten inches off for Locks of Love.&lt;br /&gt;I saw you,roll your eyes at our leather coats and gloves.&lt;br /&gt;But, you didn't see me,and my brothers donate our old coats and gloves to those that had none.&lt;br /&gt;I saw you,look in fright at my tattoos.&lt;br /&gt;But, you didn't see me,cry as my children where born and have their name written over and in my heart.&lt;br /&gt;I saw you,change lanes while rushing off to go somewhere.&lt;br /&gt;But, you didn't see me,going home to be with my family.&lt;br /&gt;I saw you,complain about how loud and noisy our bikes can be.&lt;br /&gt;But, you didn't see me,when you were changing the CD and drifted into my lane.&lt;br /&gt;I saw you,yelling at your kids in the car.&lt;br /&gt;But, you didn't see me,pat my child's hands, knowing he was safe behind me.&lt;br /&gt;I saw you,reading the newspaper or map as you drove down the road.&lt;br /&gt;But, you didn't see me,squeeze my wife's leg when she told me to take the next turn.&lt;br /&gt;I saw you,race down the road in the rain.&lt;br /&gt;But, you didn't see me,get soaked to the skin so my son could have the car to go on his date.&lt;br /&gt;I saw you,run the yellow light just to save a few minutes of time.&lt;br /&gt;But, you didn't see me,trying to turn right.&lt;br /&gt;I saw you,cut me off because you needed to be in the lane I was in.&lt;br /&gt;But, you didn't see me,leave the road.&lt;br /&gt;I saw you,waiting impatiently for my friends to pass.&lt;br /&gt;But, you didn't see me.I wasn't there.&lt;br /&gt;I saw you,go home to your family.&lt;br /&gt;But, you didn't see me.Because, I died that day you cut me off.&lt;br /&gt;I was just a biker,.....&lt;br /&gt;A person with friends and a family.&lt;br /&gt;BUT, YOU DIDN'T SEE ME&lt;br /&gt;Please remember our fallen brothers and sisters as riding season starts.&lt;br /&gt;And watch out for all those jerks in cars that don't give a shit.&lt;br /&gt;Ride safe!&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5557655166182561290-9181977765369971165?l=bitchontheback.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://bitchontheback.blogspot.com/feeds/9181977765369971165/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://bitchontheback.blogspot.com/2009/10/ok-here-we-go.html#comment-form' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5557655166182561290/posts/default/9181977765369971165'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5557655166182561290/posts/default/9181977765369971165'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://bitchontheback.blogspot.com/2009/10/ok-here-we-go.html' title='But you didn&apos;t see me.'/><author><name>Dicey-Slycey</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08413622814376080998</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_XtVWi69xMDM/StUi7lfriwI/AAAAAAAAAAw/SM9KH9JmSno/S220/m_2dfdf45a99091fff6e1f8cdf99c522a2.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XtVWi69xMDM/Surb35Dy5nI/AAAAAAAAACI/qJiSl5ebGKw/s72-c/005.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry></feed>
