On a different note, the kindness of Harley riders continues to surprise me. Our resident I.T. and Harley guy, Will Sheppard, stops me in the lunchroom, hands me a little bag, and says, “Here, you’re one of us now. You can’t buy one, it has to be given to you.” As I pull a small bell out of the velour satchel, I think that this must be some kind of joke. I am no stranger to hazing, especially from these perpetual 13-year-olds I call co-workers. “Now you know where potholes come from,” he says.