<div class="floatright">(http://images.askmen.com/galleries/model/keeley-hazell/pictures/keeley-hazell-picture-7.jpg)</div><strong>Christine Daniels</strong><br/><br/>California! An amazing chunk of real estate, stuck on the very western end of the most amazing collection of real estate in the world. I'd been here a few weeks now. I was supposed to be on a gap year tour of the world, financed by Mum and Dad. I was supposed to be in Syndey, Australia tomorrow. But the Golden State had captured me. There was simply too much of it to enjoy in the three days I had originally allocated.<br/><br/><div class="floatleft">(http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_gl2p-sKpvZ0/TJ10Nc9lxEI/AAAAAAAACXc/RlUfdYrbk0s/s1600/2011-yamaha-yzf-R1.jpg)</div>So I was wandering around on a hired motorbike, a Yamaha R1, not quite as good as my kawasaki 250 Ninja, but good enough. Not that I was a biker or anything, oh hell no. I ride a motorbike, is all. If anything that makes me a motorcyclist. The pink leathers tend to give it away!<br/><br/>Anyway, I was mostly looking for out of the way, off the beaten track places that would make good photos, or that simply sparked my interest.  And it just happened that I was riding down some almost forgotten and winding little road, what, in the uk, we would call a country lane except it was a fair bit wider over here in the States. I came around a corner and there, in front of me was the cutest looking bar I'd ever seen.<div class="floatleft">(http://shop.stylees.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/2010/05/Ladies-Belted-Motorbike-Jacket-150x150.jpg)</div><div align="center"> (http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_zl6CvOzHcbw/SqAg7sJxv0I/AAAAAAAAAoA/psCzFMNOsBg/s1600/100_3503.JPG)</div>This impression was helped by the large number of motor bikes parked outside. I just had to stop off and have a closer look. I pulled in and parked my bog-standard hire-bike next to the customised and souped up machines. I put my helmet in the top box and took a few moments to look the bikes over. They were all different, but all had one thing in common, a stylised bird of prey painted on them somewhere.<br/><br/>I was actually feeling thirsty, and decided a beer wouldn't hurt. I turned and headed for the door. A woman was lounging outside. She was middle aged and rather wizened, but was wearing leathers. I guessed she owned one of the bikes. In fact it turned out she owned the bar, but I didn't find that out until much later. She looked me up and down and said, slowly, "Honey, I wouldn't go in there if I were you."<br/><br/>I looked at her and shrugged. "It's a bar, isn't it? I'm thirsty! I have money..."<br/><br/>She looked at me in a way that made me shudder slightly, and simply repeated, "Seriously, sweetie, you do not wanna go in there!"<br/><br/>But I'm a stubborn bitch when it comes to doing stupid things. So I shrugged again and pushed through the swing doors. It was dark inside. I took off my sunglasses and still couldn't see much. It smelled of stale tobacco, stale beer, and something else I couldn't identify, all mingled with the smell of old leather and, oddly, Channel no 5. I made my way to the bar, as my eyes began to adjust. The woman behind the bar wore leathers too, and I began to get a feeling something was wrong.<br/><br/>"Uh, a bud please?" I asked, beginning to feel distinctly nervous. The bottle appeared on the counter, unopened, and I pulled one of the ridiculously identical bank notes that the USA insists on using so as to confuse tourists, sliding it across the counter. I knew the ones in that part of my wallet were all fives, so it should be okay.<br/><br/>And then I turned around...