When someone walks down the sidewalk of Sheridan Road they’re likely to see people on foot, bikes, rollerblades, scooters, even a unicycle or two. So, why is it then that I feel vilified for rip-roaring my sweet steel power-mobile down from Tech to Kresge? You see athletes park their little princess mopeds outside of Kresge all the time, so why is a hot-rod, caged-beast, method of transportation any different?

Each time I kill the throttle and stop power-fisting the air with the sounds of pure testosterone I get a little nagging feeling that I’m being judged for living my life in the best way that I know how. I want anybody reading this to know that my Harley is just as much a part of me as my spit-shined black leather backpack or my barbed wire tattoo curling around my expertly manicured bicep. It’s impossible for me to leave those behind and so I shouldn’t be expected to take anything other than my monolith of rugged wayfaring on my pilgrimage of learning to the front doors of Kresge.

It’s true that Harley riders have cultivated a powerful image and I understand that. I really do. No one wants to be that intimidated before their 8 a.m. classes but it’s not something I can control. If the sensual growl of this Big V-Twin engine unnerves or disturbs you I implore you to take a second look at this heavyweight, ice-cool cruiser before you rush to judgement.

We all learn differently and it’s imperative that every student at Northwestern be given the optimal opportunities to succeed in their own ways. The most important thing any student can learn is how to balance mental health with the stresses of university life.

So, please, next time you see me zig-zagging across the Marjorie Weinberg Garden pathways in my two-wheeled sex piston hold your judgement. Let my enjoyment of the sweet high-octane hurricane on wheels be my own. Just like you, just like all of us, I’m trying to get by the way I know how. The only difference is that my way is a deus ex machina, carbon fiber chainsaw of personal transportation.

And, hey, next time you see me, ask for a ride. Trust me, screaming down to Kresge in 30 seconds may just have you wanting your own Harley.