When we got home from Las Vegas, I was in a big hurry. We were three hours behind schedule and I had to take my Harley home, swap for the car, and race off to pick up Noah.
The problem was, I was in comfortable, semi-gay leisurely travel clothes.
But they were working. I had flip-flops and a baseball hat on while we made the drive back, which is the only way manpris should ever be worn (if you missed our Manpris debate, you can find it here).
But then we got back. And I didn’t have time to change into more proper Harley riding attire, so I threw on a couple of tall black socks, a pair of zip-up low-cut boots, and decided to just get going, no matter what looks I got from people who know that people who ride Harley’s don’t ever wear clothes like that.
My Harley was parked at my best friend Tobi’s house, and before I sped away, she had to get a picture.
Which you can find on the next page.
I mean, please. Did you really think I’d leave it on page one where you’d just cheat and scroll straight to it? No way.
CONTINUED ON NEXT PAGE