You can't call yourself a proper biker until you have:
- Loaded your bike up with so much camping gear and assorted clobber in black bin bags that would look like some kind of deranged two-wheeled bag lady
- Had afore-mentioned baggage fall off on the motorway leading to cars driving over your grundies and rendering them useless
- Got to a campsite , unrolled the tent only to find you have forgotten the poles / pegs / both
- Parked your bike up right next to the tent only for it to keel over on soft ground in the middle of the night and land on the tent / you
- Slept in all your clothes, including leathers, and still been ******* freezing
- Stumbled back to the site off your swede, unzipped the tent to find a random couple copulating. Ooops, wrong tent
- Stumbled back to the site off your swede, spend an hour trying to work out where you left your tent, give up, pass out under a hedge, wake up dazed and confused
- Woken in the night full of beer, unzipped the tent and tried to piss out of it kneeling up, fallen over and pissed all over yourself / sleeping bag / clothes
- Woken to the tent smelling like a diseased rhinoserous has shat in your tent, only to realise it a night's worth of your accumulated farts
- Put a soaking wet tent away, strapped it to your soaking wet bike, and ridden home wet and cold and swearing you'll never camp again. But you do.