[photo quiz] easyriders of the blogosphere

Who's this daredevil of the Harley, born to ride, born to live, living to ride, living to die [no that's not right]. Who is this devil may care blogger? Here are your clues, of which only one was actually written by the blogger in question: Welshcakes When I ride pillion behind Rafaello, holding his muscular torso and feeling the wind course through my golden locks, I shout, "This is Sicily" and as we tear down winding narrow, stone edged tracks to Lakeland Plastics to purchase some klippets, as I just cannot be doing with the fiddly bag ties that come with Italian freezer bags, the throb of the engine is a metaphor for the homemade cannelloni filled with beef ragù, peas and ricotta, veal and pork cooked in tomato sauce, with contorni of peppers dressed in olive oil, peppers in agrodolce [oil and vinegar] and grilled, dressed aubergines plus a good Chianti or three and the thought lifts our spirits and our hearts beat as one. Richard When Brian and I used to jam in Edinburgh, we'd do wheelies down Princes Street on our Bonnevilles between gigs, taking in the Old Town to the south, feeling the good vibrations and quoting Rabbie at the Jimmies and Hens lined along the promenade, before tearing up The Mound for some wheelspinning, Brian belting out That Lucky Old Song and me shouting to the punters to turn up to the Festival Theatre or we'd set the 10 piece band on 'em. Then a quick visit to the Bow Bar on Victoria Street for a few swift ales, a bit of how's yer father and when the hunger nibbles - it's only a 10 pace stagger from a brilliant cheese shop and a historically significant brush shop for afterwards. Ordo Gwelai res o fythynnod ac ysguboriau a beudai o bobtu i'r ffordd a'r eira yn cyrraedd bron hyd at y toeau. Gwelai oleuni'r canhwyllau yn y ffenestri a'r mwg yn codi yn y simneiau, a chlywai'r gwartheg a'r lloi bach yn brefu yn y beudai, ac o'r llyn hwyaid deuai chwerthin llon y plant a oedd yn sglefrian ar y rhew caled, llyfn. And on a bike too. Wolfie There is something different about travelling anywhere by bike, in the city it’s the sense of freedom it gives you as you cruise past almost stationary traffic coupled with a feeling of superiority as you effortlessly weave your way around the almost stupefied drivers in their anodyne aluminium caskets and gracefully glide to the head of the queue at the traffic lights ready to leave them for dust when the lights flicker to green. As you reach the open road there is the sense of freedom coupled with belonging as you become part of the passing scenery. That concrete whizzing by five inches below your foot is the real thing, the same stuff you walk on, it’s right there, so blurred you can’t focus on it, yet you can put your foot down and touch it anytime, and the whole thing, the whole experience, is never removed from immediate consciousness. Ellee I’ve been to a couple of parties recently where the subject of inheritance tax has cropped up but that's not nearly as much fun as leaping on my Goldwing and dualling the York northern ring road with Julian. Man, we move and make beautiful music but yesterday, as we were cracking the ton past the Jorvik centre on the way to Betty's, I was removing the last crusty flakes of mascara when I saw IT through the side mirror - and froze. It was one of those nasty eight legged beasties on the fuel tank. Equipped for such an emergency, I silently inched my hand in to the pannier bag towards the spider catcher, keeping my eyes firmly fixed on this unwanted leggy guest. Then a passing truck shot a puddle all over us and when I next looked - the wee sleekit, couring, timorous beastie was gone!