"Nice bike baby girl, but I'd like to take a ride on you." Disgusting. I shoot the man at the gas pump on the other side of me a cold look before carefully putting my gas cap back on, avoiding scratching the tank of my prized possession: my Harley. My sweet, 2018 Harley Davidson Sportster Iron 1200. I just bought her about 100 miles ago, after a quick little stop at a Harley shop on my way to my new home in Florida.

"And you think I haven't heard that one before. Smooth one, jackass. Next you're going to tell me that I'm too pretty to ride this all by myself. Or maybe, that this is for a man, and that I should go back to my Toyota Prius like I belong?" I retort back to the middle aged man, who is clearly taken aback. I hear shit like this all the time, being a lone wolf in the biker community, a girl on a bike all by herself.

Before the man has time to process and think up a comeback, I zip my leather jacket up, replace my gloves onto my hands, and slide my full face helmet over my braided hair, adjusting the strap to ensure no wind will sneak it's way up. I sigh with excitement, for in less than 5 hours, it will finally be warm enough to strip off the leathers, break down to my half helmet, and enjoy the wind crash against my body, blow my hair around, and breath in fresh, unpolluted air.

Two hours later, the wind is still bitter, forcing a shiver down my spine as I pull into another gas station. The one downfall of riding is constantly having to fill up, especially when you ride hard like me. I have learned that my new bike rides exceptionally well at higher speeds, but boy does it eat up gas like nobody's business once I hit about 85 miles per hour. Thankfully, my parents, who were kind enough to follow me in their Silverado to haul my stuff, need a fill up as well, so I squeeze myself in between the truck and the pump. "Corina, sweetie. I love you, but I am not putting any gas in that monstrosity you call a Harley," my dad quickly says as I shut off the bike.

"Dad, seriously. This bike is a beauty. She radiates pure happiness," I state back to the chuckling man I am happy to call my father, before letting a laugh escape my mouth.

"Why did you have to get the Iron? I mean yeah, it's a nice bike, but not for my seasoned rider I call my daughter!" I roll my eyes at my dad as I remove the gas cap, yet again. "They had such a beautiful Wide Glide on the other side of the shop that had your name all over it. It was even still brand new from 2016!"

"Because, dad, she spoke to me," I say, lightly stroking the beauty of my beloved Iron's tank, before realizing I'll smudge her up. I run to the truck to grab a microfiber towel from the back before adding in, "Plus, I do not plan on getting a Wide Glide just because you have one."

"That is most definitely not what I meant, and you know that," my dad replies while I look at him in disbelief. "I want you to have a Wide Glide for so many reasons. They are such good bikes. Plus, they completely stopped making the Dyna this year, so in time it will be worth something."

"Then I will look into a Dyna next, whether it be a Wide Glide, or even that Low Rider that caught my eye," I say to make my dad happy.

"I still think you should have got anything but that damn Iron. You basically already have that bike in the trailer!" My dad motions to the trailer hooked up to the truck, which carries the bitch that started it all: the 2009 Harley Davidson Sportster Nightster 1200. "Same motor, same design, same everything."

I sigh, thinking of my one and only love. That bike has given me so much in the almost 10 years we have had it. My dad bought it brand new from A.D. Farrow Harley Davidson, the oldest Harley shop in America. I still remember that 2 hour trip with my dad like it was yesterday. We were both as giddy as a 15 year old on their way to take their permit test. I was allowed to be that giddy, I actually was 15. My dad, on the other hand, was nearly 40.

"Okay, you may be right on that one, dad, but that bike will never be replaced. Black Betty has a special place in our hearts," I say as my mom laughs from inside of the truck at the name I gave the ole' girl back when we first rode her off the show room floor. "But, she needed a sister, and the Iron looked like a perfect addition to the family."

Mom finally gains her composure, and adds in "Black Betty and the Iron are two great bikes, you two. Now shut up and fill up. I'm getting hungry, and gas station food will not suffice for another 7 hours." My dad and I roll our eyes in unison before finishing up and heading on our way to our next stop.

5 hours later, and the leathers have finally been removed from my body, and placed in the back of the Silverado. I haven't felt warm air on my skin in over 4 months. In Southeast Ohio, the riding season typically ends in the middle of September, and with it currently being early February, it's just a tad too cold for me in general, let alone on a Harley going 90 miles per hour. I may be dedicated, but not that much. I breathe in the sweet, Savannah, Georgia air, before taking an exit and pulling into a nearby Comfort Suites. Minutes pass before I see the Silverado pull in, with my mom sticking her head out the window, yelling "Freedom!" as loud as she can, which forces a laugh out of me. Once they park, she opens the door as fast as she can, practically falling out of the lifted truck. "Your dad farted. Tacos were a bad dinner choice," she directs to me, but glaring back at my dad in the driver's seat." I laugh and give my dad a thumbs up. "You're sharing a bed with him tonight." At that, I gag, pleading my mom to take it back. Ignoring me, she runs into the lobby to check in.

5 more hours later, and its 3 in the morning. I'm wide awake, thinking how I have a 4 hour ride until I'm starting my new life in Daytona Beach. I excitedly look through my phone, examining the detailed pictures of my, thankfully, fully furnished apartment. It's a small place, just under 600 square feet. One bedroom, one bathroom. Tiny kitchen that will never be used, open concept living and dining room, and a small patio. I was lucky enough to find a place that was similar to a condo, almost resembling an actual house, garage and all. That was my one stipulation. I need a place to store my bikes, their spare and futures parts, and my tools. I am so thankful I had my dad as a kid to teach me how to work on my own vehicles, because not once have I had to pay a ridiculous amount of money to a mechanic to have them sit on their ass for days, just to charge for the "labor" they put into doing absolutely nothing.

It's now 9 in the morning, and my mom is lightly shaking me awake. "For God's sake, Anne, just let the poor girl sleep. She did 10 hours on the bike yesterday. She rode hard. You remember how exhausting that was for us when we were her age?" I hardly hear my dad grumble from the hotel bathroom.

"Jim, I don't want her to miss the continental breakfast. You know her deal with bacon," my mom says while peacefully running her fingers through my hair, putting me back to sleep.

Dad laughs, then replies "then we can bring her up some bacon, but I'm getting hangry, as the millennials say, so let's go!" Within moments, the door shuts loudly behind them, and I slowly start to raise up out of bed. Jumping in the shower, after nearly tripping over the extremely high walls of the tub, I let the warm water rinse off yesterday's long ride, as well as some stubborn bugs caked onto my arms, and begin dreaming of my new life in Florida.

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