Still, you wouldn't ride a bike if you didn't want to cultivate a bit of an outlaw status. I was working on my Entrance, one of the most important aspects of being a biker. You come into town and cruise slowly down Main Street- rump, rump, rump, cough-REVVvvv-rump- rump (obviously a high-powered machine, dangerous if not for your expert control)- and at the end of the street do a slow U-turn and come back to the cafe.
You back the bike up against the curb, taking long enough that you know all eyes are upon you, take off your helmet, put your sunglasses back on, and walk toward the door. You use the Strut: shoulders back, head high, just a hint of pelvic thrust You step inside the door and, chin still high, moving only your head, survey the room (even if it only has four tables). Then you take off your dark glasses and hook them in the left-breast pocket of your leather jacket the way fighter pilots do in the movies. Don't look. This is crucial. If you have to fumble for the pocket, you've blown it and you might as well get back on the bike and leave. Okay, by this point the men are cowed, the women trembling, and girls behind the counter moaning softly.
Riding With Rilke Ted Bishop p26-7