I am officially outside of my mind.

My name is Kellye, and I'm a 25 year-old writer and editor from Alabama. This past Wednesday I bought my first motorcycle, a pearl white 2006 Honda Rebel 250 with an endearing dent in the fuel tank from being laid over by a previous owner at a stoplight. I bought it with no advice from anyone, no permission, no outside input whatsoever. The decision to learn to ride was entirely mine, and it's been on my own secret unwritten bucket list for a long time.

Besides that, my elderly Grand Am (160,000 miles and counting) is wearing down fast on my forty-mile-a-day commute, and she guzzles gas - as a result, I have been forced to consider a form of transportation with a little better mileage and a lot more style.

All of my friends, family, and coworkers think I have gone completely mad, or perhaps have succumbed to some insidious early form of midlife crisis, or am, alternately, revealing my decision to ride as a way of coming out about my secret death wish. My mother is convinced that I am going to disfigure, kill, or otherwise maim myself for life. My dad, a veteran biker in his own right who has owned dozens of them over the years, is equally convinced.

But part of my issue with driving cars (hereafter referred to in this blog only half-affectionately as "cages") is the sheer level of distracting stuff involved in driving one. There are radio stations to change, cell phones to fiddle with, passing scenery to gawk at. Cages almost give you a false sense of security, because even if you do run into something, you're very unlikely to get seriously hurt.

A motorcycle lends no such false sense of security. You are traveling across unforgiving asphalt at 40, 50, 70 miles an hour. (And it feels about as twice as fast as it goes.) There are no "crumple zones". The cocky, the unwary, and the disrespectful get bitten in a big way. If your bike bucks you, your next big ride might be in the back of an ambulance, or a coroner's wagon.

What's worse, it doesn't matter whether the reason for your wreck is someone else or not. As people have told me over and over again since I came out about my deep dark desire to ride, it's not you you have to be worried about, it's the other guy. You know how the old ditty goes: Here lies good old Mike O'Day, he died defending his right of way. He was right - dead right - as he sped along, but he's just as dead as if he'd been wrong.

On a motorcycle, I don't experience any of that absent-minded professor syndrome or penchant for trivial over-multitasking that I typically do in a car. No - on a bike, all multitasking is crucial to my survival, and any lack of coordination on my part could result in my sudden death, and - most importantly - there would be no one else to blame but me. There is a delicious amount of freedom in this knowledge. My life is in my own hands.

On a motorcycle, my wild ADD-driven multitasking is reserved entirely for the mount - clutch, foot shift, hand brake. Counter steer, apex line, sight distance. On average, motorcyclists have to make as many reflex-based decisions as a fighter pilot. These are NOT things your average commuter has to deal with.

Are they too much for this only-slightly-daring entry level cube rat to deal with? I guess that's the pivotal question, and it's one we'll find out together, soon enough. I am starting this blog to keep in contact with others who have been touched by this crazy obsession, since with most of the people I know, "crazy" is the operative word.

But lots of stuff to take care of between now and then - living wills to draft, insurance policies to haggle, titles to switch, and appropriate licenses to acquire. To the DMV!