I took the picture of the folks on your left west of Toledo, and they appeared to be enjoying the afternoon sunshine and mild temperatures last week. I envied their ability to feel the breeze in their faces as they drove, though the fear of a crushed skull would mean that I would wear a helmet if I ever took up the pastime of motorcycle riding.
However, my distaste for brand-name mania means that I would not make much of a spokesperson for the Harley Davidson lifestyle. I am not against riding a Hog, mind you, but the idea of being decked head-to-toe with HD insignias and logos appeals to me about as much as being draped in Nike apparel or Hollister gear.
Which is to say, not at all.
I would, however, have no problem outfitting myself with a complete black leather cycle gear set. I say this with an eye toward the traditional outcast cyclist motif, a la James Dean or even 1980s Bono Vox, but I suppose one could make a Freudian argument that this really says more about my latent tendencies toward bovine slaughter or dominatrix fascination.