I don't like motorcycles. When I was young, occasionally a motorcyclist would come bombing up NY route 369 to the corner (it was a reasonably flat and quiet ride from Binghamton, or maybe from the Chenango Valley State Park). The noise would carry across the valley to our farm, disrupting the rural tranquility. To a young boy it represented the intrusion of urban aliens into our agrarian paradise. No, I don't like motorcycles.
But, given this sentence from the Times profile on Judge Sotomayor, I'm ready for her to be on the Court: "One incident that figures largely in firm lore was a seizure in Chinatown, where the counterfeiters ran away, and Ms. Sotomayor got on a motorcycle and gave chase."
This was when she was with a law firm that was trying to protect trademarks from counterfeiters, particularly high-end pocketbooks. It's the urban equivalent of Justice O'Connor's youth on her Arizona ranch.