It was perfect weather and I felt a plan forming last Friday, so I made some calls to see what my friends were doing.

"We were thinking of taking the bikes out, do you want to come?"

Bikes? I haven't been on a bike in years. I don't know if I can still ride one of those things. In fact I'm not certain where the heck my center of gravity is anymore. Would any of my peers notice if mine had training wheels?

The last time I saw bike people, they had sweat on their brows, wore spandex shorts and carried gallons of bottled water. I'm no longer a size-nothing so I wasn't sure about those little bike shorts, and I didn't own a water bottle.

Then there was the helmet thing. It wouldn't save me. If I fell off a bike I'd have to land on an area with the most natural padding.

But, I said yes anyway.

"Great, we'll be by in an hour to pick you up, so dress warm."

"Dress warm," I stopped mid-sentence. "It's 75 degrees out. Aren't the spandex shorts enough?" I said.

"Not for riding on a Harley."

I felt the peer pressure. My mouth didn't work. I knew I was in trouble. I couldn't form a sentence. The phone went dead.

I had an hour left to live. I didn't know how to be a biker chick. I'm a mom, a businesswoman and a nerd.

I left the office, taking one last look around just in case I fell off the thing.

I got home and raced to my closet with only 38 minutes left before the gang arrived. I had a pair of leather pants behind a reptile skin blouse. I hoped they fit. If not I would probably look like a big sausage.

I was in luck and found a jacket that still zipped, and dug out the gloves. I found lots of shiny things in my teen's room, added them to my look and glanced in the mirror. Not too bad, I could do this.

Helmet, I forgot the helmet. How on earth was I going to get big hair into a helmet? If I added a lot of hair spray, it could be worse. I could only imagine the helmet line I'd have, provided that most of my hair didn't break from the weight. If that happened I'd probably end up looking a little bit like my brother. Well, maybe I'd like the helmet and leave it on all day to avoid helmet hair.

I felt the ground vibrating and ran outside to wait. The leather pants were making swishing noises, sort of like snow pants. I guess that's sort of cool.

My god in heaven, the bike was big. A chill ran down my spine. These leather pants have been in my closet forever. How on earth was I going to lift my 43-year-old leg over that high seat with out splitting something? What if I couldn't gracefully do it? The pressure was on. I decided on a diversion while I tried to get my leg up and over the seat. I pointed up to the sky and jumped on as they turned. I really should have done some stretching first. I felt something give and it wasn't my leather pants. But, I was on. I hoped they planned a long ride because there was no way I was getting off.

I could hear my hair crunching as the helmet went on. Yup, I was going to end up looking like my brother.

Into the first corner I struggled to find the seat belt, to no avail. At the second turn I realized just how slippery leather on leather is. All I could do was close my eyes. There were no handles, so I grabbed onto the driver, who I knew was laughing at me. Maybe it's a good thing I was wearing the helmet. They couldn't hear my screaming back in the pack. The driver looked back to see if I was in panic mode yet.

"Isn't the foliage lovely?"

"All I can see is the inside of this helmet."

He was laughing. I was locked on his jacket. If I fell off, he was coming too. I never got my gloves on and saw that my knuckles were white. I didn't think that there was any tool on the planet likely to pry my fingers loose from his jacket. I wondered if he realized that when we stopped, the jacket was coming home with me. I saw it all then, four or five big guys in black leather, all trying to get my hands to open again.

Would tomorrow's real estate appointment think I have some odd attachment to leather, with a jacket still affixed to my permanently frozen fingers?

The worst was yet to come-the dismount! I knew that I tore every muscle in my behind trying to gracefully mount this thing. My leg muscles had seized up. I didn't even want to think about the pain I was going to be in tomorrow. How would I explain to my real estate appointment that I can't step over that two-inch tuft of grass because I injured myself getting on a motorcycle? The good thing about my pain will be the benefit to my children. Should I survive, I would never again have that peer pressure discussion with them.