You're a biker if:

If you can keep your lid when all about you are dropping theirs and blaming it on you,

If you can trust your map when all men doubt you But make allowance for their GPS,

If you can wait at lights and not be tired by waiting, Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies, Or being hated, don’t give way to hating, And yet don’t look too cool, nor boast too much

If you can wheelie — and not make wheelies your master,

If you can stoppie –and not make stoppies your aim;

If you can meet with Ducati and Bimota, And treat those two biposto’s just the same;

If you can bear to hear the throttle you’ve adjusted Twisted by kids to make a thrapp for fools, Or watch the expensive plastics, broken, And stoop and fix ’em up with gaffer tape and glues:

If you can make one pile of all your fasteners And drop them upon the garage floor, And lose them, and start again at Halfords, And never breath a word about your loss;

If you can force your arse and knees and back To sit in the wind blast all day long, And so hold on when there is nothing left within you Except the dispatch rider which says to them: “Keep on!”

If you can ride with L plates and keep your virtue, Or walk with Rossi and not lose the common touch,

If neither BMW’s nor Mercedes Benz can hurt you;

If all men ride with you, but none too close,

If you can fill the unforgiving M1 With 12 hours worth of engines run,

Yours is the garage and everything that’s in it, And–which is more–you’ll be a biker, my son!