Throwing a leg over my chopper, one thought bounces around my noggin, over and over: Damn, you look GOOOOOD.

It starts with the carefully chosen red bandana, black designer sunglasses, and kickin’ leathers with the elegant side-stitching that shows just a hint of skin. Don’t forget the cell phone holster that I picked up from one of those, what you call it… comparison shopping engines. Light up a Marlboro, and I’m ready to go from burn out to turn out, so I’m not rolling back door.

While I treat myself right (lots of leafy vegetables and exercise), there’s one thing that I couldn’t resist splurging on: my prada motorcycle boots. Because what says motorcycle style like Prada, am I right? The Prada motorcycle boot has a silvertone buckle that goes well with Anytime Annie tat on my left bicep. Usually I’d scoff at that near four-figure price, but it’s so smooth and sleek, and it matches the saddlebags just right. Usually I’d scoff at something not Made in the good ‘ol US of A, but I figure those Italians were on the right side during the war. Weren’t they?

So I couldn’t pass those sweet babies up. Only problem was that one of them hi-falutin stores sell my beloved bessie boots. Called Sacks, except spelled all funny. And while I’ve got cred to spare for riding The Double Ton, it’s not like I’ll spend that capital on any ‘ol thing. Thank god I was able find those Prada motorcycle boots on the Internets though. Shipped it to the Motel 6 I’m staying at, and everything. Fair ’nuff price, too.

Jimmy said I should pair it with a Cole Haan motorcycle jacket, but sorry bub, that’s for them uppity city folk. Leave me with my leathers and ape hangers.

Don’t be tryin’ to change me.