I was conceived in the back of an International Scout at the top of Stevens Pass in December 1965. My mom recalls telling my dad "if you don't want kids, now's not the time", but youthful horniness won out (as it so often does) and here I am, nearly 41 years later.

I needed a new start, given career changes and philosophical changes, given that I'm scouting new territory.

And so I bring you Scout.

My whole life I wanted my nickname to be Scout. Of course I didn't know my conception story when I was a kid. I liked the implication that I had a good sense of direction (still do), and that somehow I was out on the land of the wild west, finding the way through the mystic Cascade Mountains, leading a party of bewildered suburban weekend warriors.

Then, in my twenties, I read To Kill A Mockingbird and loved Scout. I saw the movie and still loved her. I was a lot like her: thinking, playing outside, more tomboy than tinagirl.

Now that I'm riding a motorcycle and getting into the stunning anthropological wealth that provides, I realized I needed a road name.

Guess which one?

At the Rally for the Troops I saw a lot of bikers with their nickname patches, military and civilian. And it hit me: I can be Scout right now.

Scout has been with me since the glimmer took a long, linear vacation to Womb World, and so Scout I shall be.

Look for the patch as I ride by, bugs in my teeth, singing out loud to whatever tune came up on "shuffle".