We're dangerous not because we are drug-crazed or angry or reckless. We're dangerous because we are the most awkward motorcycle gang in the world, and we are liable to do just about anything.

We agree on a few things. We're not big on Harleys; we're Triumph and BMW guys. And we all call each other, "Ace."

Actually, that's about it.

Some of us like to ride back roads, others like to take highways.

One of us is super punctual, one of us is pathologically late and everybody else is in between.

Some of us navigate by the sun, others need to know exactly where we are at all times.

We've got at least one Republican, but we don't talk about it because we don't like to fight.

There's one dame, but we don't treat her any different, because we wouldn't know where to begin.

Our professions range from writer to hotelier to small-company CEO to mortgage broker to restaurant manager to truck driver to one guy who nobody has any idea what he does even though he's tried to tell us many times.

We have no leader. The dame would probably be the leader if she had her own bike, but she doesn't. So whoever has the strongest opinion on a given issue gets his way. (That may sound like a Democratic System, but it's more like a Rotating Dictatorship.)

We don't even know what to call ourselves. Some of us call us "The Hard Cases," others call us "The Boys from Falconhead Manor."

Whowever we are, we're leaving this morning for a weekend ramble that it's taken us more than half a year to plan. We'll make about 700 miles roundtrip, from Chicago to Cleveland, then to some motorcycle races in a muddy field in the middle of Ohio.

Unless somebody suddenly feels strongly that we should do something else instead.

Wish us luck.

Wish Ohio luck.

Maybe I'll write something about it, if I make it back.