I don’t know if it was the leather, the chrome or the window-rattling roar of fifty Harleys rolling toward the National Mall, but Greta had to be a part of it. She ignored the helmet laws, kick-started her custom Fat Boy and pulled on the throttle. We drew the line when she asked to hang out in the Wolf Trap Motel parking lot that night-- it was 7:30 p.m., at least half an hour past her bed time. She came home exhilarated, but exhausted, and fell asleep as soon as we finished washing the tattoo from her forearm in the tub.

 

Here, Greta checks out pipes on another hog.