Now, my bike is a great bike, but it doesn’t look especially tough. It’s not feminine exactly, but not especially macho either. It’s billed as a city bike, and you expect that city people will be riding it.

So, I’m not sure what I was expecting this morning when I looked up while stopped at a stop light and saw a trucker checking her out. He looked like a trucker, more exactly, a trucker who rides a Harley with a skull cap to better allow his stomach-length unkept beard to fly behind him. He would wear chaps and a vest with tassels, and tinted sunglasses.

But my stereotypes started to fly away with his first comment: “Nice bike!” “Thanks,” I replied. “I was thinking of getting one,” he continued. I don’t think I gasped audibly at the pain of my pre-conceptions ripping away, but I was glad that the helmet didn’t allow full view of my facial expressions. “How are they to ride?” he asked. I gathered my wits from the edges of my skull where they’d fled and replied, “They’re a lot of fun.” “I’ve heard they’re pretty torquey,” he finished. “Yes,” I replied, “I’d show you but I’m breaking in new tires.”

Then the light changed and I rode away. I have to admit to being a little disappointed I couldn’t show him just how torquey she is.