I shared with readers my story of how I became a biker babe. Well, OK, that is an exaggeration … really, in a quick nut shell, it went like this. Me, scared to death of motorcycles, meet Paul, a Harley lover who gets me on the back of his bike, and after a few short rides in Joplin, he drags me almost 2,000 miles in four days across Colorado, where we hit a bird, almost died in a tornado, I wore my helmet backward half the trip causing the worst headache of my life, he laughed at me, and now, three months later, I still don’t walk the same.

So Paul gets another bright idea: Let’s take Jane to a bike rally. So for everyone who likes a good fish-out-of-water story, here goes.

Fayetteville, Ark., is the home of Bikes, Blues and BBQ. Paul had been there before, and this September provided a beautiful day for us to saddle up and head down. (“Saddle up” is a biker term, I guess.) We met up with some of his friends who also like to bike — Jay and Donna and one of their friends. They are, like Paul, more seasoned bikers than me. They also look the part a little more. Granted, on this trip my helmet was on right, but evidently that was the only thing I had going for me.

They all had on Harley-Davidson apparel. Donna had a nice Harley jacket and riding boots. Paul had boots and a Harley shirt, and the other guys were way decked out in their leather stuff. This Jay guy, not one to hold back, he looks at me and points out my flaws. And while he is doing this, he is laughing. I had on the best riding clothes I could think of. I just figured Paul would be happy the helmet was on right, mainly so he wouldn’t look stupid and I wouldn’t be complaining about a headache.

I had on a blue, long-sleeved Hollister T-shirt, jeans, my black Nike jacket and flip flops with gold sparkles. Well, heck, we were on a time schedule. I didn’t have time to change, and honestly had nothing more biker-ish to change into at home so we headed down the road.

The closer we got to Fayetteville, the more bikers we saw. Predictions had it as 400,000 bikers were coming in for the weekend. When we got to the rally, which was one street of downtown lined with what looked to be millions of bikes, we couldn’t even find a place to park. We paid some fraternity boys $5 to park in their lot and took out looking at the bikes and the people. I scanned the crowd, and quickly knew I stood out like a pregnant nun at a Hooters restaurant. But, by golly, I was branching out and trying new things. I was being adventurous. Paul was quick to buy me my first ever rally T-shirt. I am pretty sure a tramp-stamp tattoo or leather chaps won’t ever follow, but next time I may wear tennis shoes with my new rally T-shirt.

We met up with our friends for a snack and to people watch, and Jay starts to point me out to the crowd like a novelty item — the girl in flip flops; the one who rode cross county in a backward helmet. My defense? I did it, didn’t I? I was there and you know what? A few years ago I would have been scared to death to go to such a thing. I figured bikers were all Hell’s Angels who probably wanted to kill me. What I know now is that most of them are super nice and super fun. Many ride for great causes like Bikers Against Child Abuse. I got a button handed to me from a group from ABBA, the Arkansas Baptist Bikers Association. People were friendly and there was great food, sights and fun. I didn’t see any fights, or anything I wouldn’t want my grandma to see.

We took out around 6 p.m. to head home, which turned into one heck of a cold ride in flip flops. I had some cold toes. Like I complained about my headache, I complained all the way home about my cold toes, when suddenly it dawned on me. Paul doesn’t wear ear plugs to protect his ears from the wind, he is trying not to hear me. But that’s OK, I’d go again in a second.

Jane Drummond is a parent educator for the Carthage School District. Contact her at janedrummond@mchsi.com.