Girls on Bikes

The other day I was reminded of a few simple things that can take an ordinarily beautiful woman and propel her into the accolades of stunning. I am driving home after another mindless across town nothingness; my mind wandering as the vuvuzela humming drones on the radio. Everything about this moment is ordinary. My mind and body content in the moment. Only something magnificent could shake me from the mechanized commitment to my drive home.  And then it happens as I approach the next incessant red light. A motorcycle now occupies the space in front of me. My eyes drift and I find myself staring at this person lit perfectly atop her motorcycle. At least I hope it is a her, but how can I know? The purely utilitarian nature of her wardrobe offers no hints to her gender. I mean chances are probably greater that I am now staring at some man on his bike admiring his ass. This possibility worries me and I find increased desire for this to be a most attractive woman. A girl on a bike is hot. Green light. Off she accelerates, weaving between cars letting the power of the engine propel her at will. I struggle to keep up....who am I kidding. The four cylinders of my 88' Camry putt down the pavement, broken-in shocks whining with each bump, a bent antennae proudly proclaiming my fiscal constraint. Watching her go not only makes her more elusive and thus hotter; but watching her delicate and comfortable control of the machine makes her stunning. Like the tortoise in some childhood fairy tale I plod on. Approaching the next stop light, I come to rest next to her just before the light turns green. She lift her visor and our eyes meet. They are raven black and flicker with an unbridled quest for living. And they are a woman's eyes. Her arrow turns green, slamming her visor down she banks left and away. Leaving me to discover one final secret about her. As she banks the sunlight cracks upon her neck revealing a small tattoo. Who was this most epic woman on a bike with a tat?