Riding the highway, there is a whole host of motorcycle hierarchy. There are the Harley riders that tolerate my Honda (occasionally they throw a few friendly barbs my way). There are the riders who wear helmets, and riders that don’t. Then there are the hardcore bikers.
Wearing black leather vests with white club patches the long line of motorcycles riders passed our bikes. Not one member looked our way as we acknowledged their group with the two finger down salute. Perhaps if we had used the old school raised fist they would have turned our way, but I rather doubt it. I am sure in their book we were posers.