No spiked helmets.
No knuckle tattoos.
But we were a motorcycle gang. Sorta.
Six of us, all colleagues, or former colleagues, in the software biz, saddled up our bikes and road to mayhem and debauchery... in Brown County.
As you might imagine, our route was meticulously calculated. We were tracking ourselves with GPS and our progress was reported to one of our gangsters' Facebook page. Yeah, we're pretty badass, alright.
All of the toughest motorcycle gangs lunch at The Story Inn.
After lunch, we rumbled through Nashville. We tried to pillage it, but none of us could stow the baskets or weathervanes.
Without pirated booty, we turned north, back to our home turf.
Good thing, too, considering their lax driving standards...
Insured impaired motorists not a problem, apparently.
Numbers: 165.7 miles, 164.3 on the bike, 1.4 running around my neighborhood looking for my idiot dog.