Riding is one of those things that I find naturally, instinctively appealing. It’s not so much something that defines you, but something that lives within you. The characteristics that define me as a biker are there, have always been there, I think, in me. The physical act is just something that opens the door to those parts of me. It lets me do what I want to do and be who I want to be. And yet, when in conversation someone refers to me as “a biker”, I find it vaguely distasteful. It immediately serves to brand me with a certain stereotype. A rebel perhaps, or a braggart, or a wannabe cool dude, and more often than not something of an oddity. None of which is true. Biking is no more an unnatural act than, for instance, gardening, and is no more rebellious than watching a play is rebellious. It’s not all about high-brow philosophy and Pirsiguesque thoughts, of course. I love all of the little things, starting from the envious little sideward glances I get from fellow commuters as the