The Cross Roads was no Barcalounger. She’d seen even more ginormous touring bikes, complete with headrests, intercoms, stereos and foot massagers. No, a graceful curving line provided support and style. Those side bags looked like they might eliminate the risk of an unsprung bungee whipping into her carotid artery or tangling in the spokes. Oh, she was zipped, fitted, warm, dry, comfortable and as unafraid as she’s ever been on two wheels while looking less like a homeless chick picked up at a truck stop and more like a woman of independent, if limited, means.