I pulled dramatically into the office parking lot, turned off the ignition and coasted to a stop, the powerful engine reluctantly emitting its final throaty rumble. A co-worker walked over and asked, "Mid-life crisis?"
"Not any more," I replied, pulling off the black full-face racing helmet and tossing my hair from side to side in cinematic slow-motion, forgetting, for the moment, that I have no hair to toss—only glasses, which went flying off my face and ended up under the dumpster.
Okay, so the drama of the moment was lost. Plus, without my glasses I had to ask my co-worker to help my foot locate the kickstand. For lesser men, such events might have muted the power of their entrance, but I was undeterred. As I stepped off the bike, my leather jacket creaking seductively, I knew it was time to strut into the office with the swagger and pride reserved for that most unique of American icons: The Motorcycle Man.
But first I had to find my glasses.
Despite accusing me of having somebody else’s shoulders, my colleagues were generally impressed at my new persona. As I walked by (dramatically), with helmet in hand, I was pleased to hear their snickering whispers of deep respect.