At the end of the dead end road where I grew up, there was a biker woman who lived in a little rental house. It annoyed her that we chose the street as our playground. She’d ride by on her chopper and growl in a smoker’s voice, “get outta the way!” followed by an eye-roll and a “Jeeezus H”.. Sometimes she would even flip us off with a smile. Keep in mind we were a group of 10 to 12 year olds. She was riding past us one day when the animosity bubbled over. Someone (John D, I think) threw a green tennis ball – lodging it in the back of her motorcycle seat with a “plunk”. Our little mouths dropped in what felt like slow motion as she turned her big long bike around to come for us. In the moment when she dismounted, I remember her black leather pants looked like they’d been won in a knife fight. She could have been the aging CBGB mascot-love child of Patty Smith and Iggy Pop, only I don’t think she’d ever been outside of Oregon. Her words came out like an adult-child bully… (at this point I’d already learned not to take anyone seriously who used the word ‘aint). I remember staring at the 5 inch gap in between her thighs as she was yelling. I kept thinking, “how did that space in between her thighs get so wide?” ”Is riding a motorcycle like riding a horse, or what?” It’s true that we did take up a lot of room on the street when we played kick ball.