NOTE: I wrote three “Confessions of a Biker” Chick articles, the first in 2005, for The Sun News newspaper in Myrtle Beach, S.C. They ran as part of the paper’s coverage of the large annual motorcycle rallies in May. (My job led to me becoming a biker chick.)
CONFESSIONS OF A BIKER CHICK
By Sarah P. Kennedy | The Sun News
Photos by Janet Blackmon Morgan and Randall Hill
For my 38th birthday in October, I bought myself my first motorcycle.
My mother was appalled. She immediately began mailing me newspaper
clippings from around the country about death statistics and the odds of
becoming a vegetable.
My father said: “And here I thought it was your brother I had to worry
about.
Said brother said: “That is so cool!”
I had learned to ride only a week before my big purchase. My friend Tonya
and I took a safe-driving class at Horry-Georgetown Technical College. The
first day was classroom instruction. Right before the class ended at 10 p.m.,
we were told we had to have proper gloves, among other things, for field
instruction the following day or we wouldn’t be allowed to ride. Tonya and I
exchanged a look. Where were we going to buy motorcycle gloves at 10 p.m.
on a Friday night?
The only gloves we found that looked like they were made of the right
materials — grippy stuff on the palms and rugged stuff on the tops — were
water skiing gloves. They were on sale for 3 bucks at a 24-hour retail store.
Score.
Three of about 11 riding mates quit the Saturday parking lot class about two
hours into instruction. They just couldn’t get the hang of it and feared for their
personal safety.
I should have feared for mine.
The first time we were allowed to do a full lap around a small section of the
HGTC back parking lot, I was so excited I forgot to apply the brakes when
stopping. I opted instead to crash into the curb and do a half-flip off the bike
onto the grass median. One of the instructors came racing over — I quickly
assured him, “I’m OK” — to check the bike, completely ignoring me.
Tonya was impressed with the flip.
Undeterred, I managed to avoid any more flipping the rest of the day, and I
was hooked. I passed the class, passed the written permit test, and bought
myself a Honda Shadow 600. I named her Ruby. It’s a baby bike, but all the
bikers I talked to advised me not to buy a bike that felt too big or I’d lose my
nerve and stop riding. They said I’d want a bigger bike in about two months.
They were wrong: I started jonesing for a 1500 two weeks later. But until
She’s paid off, Ruby stays.
The first week, I rode every day. I dropped my bike just about every time I
came to a complete stop or even thought about coming to a stop. (For you
nonriders, “dropping one’s bike” means “allowing one’s bike to fall on its
side in front of an embarrassing number of people.) Each time — except the
last time — a man would stop, jump out of his vehicle and help me pick up
450-pound Ruby. He would say, “Are you all right?” — which sounded
suspiciously like, “Are you out of your mind?”
The last time I dropped my bike, I was at a busy intersection, and no one
stopped to help. They were too busy whooshing by at high speeds, and there
was NO WAY I was going to walk home and call AAA. So I finally figured
out how to turn the front wheel and position my back against the bike for
leverage, and — ta da! I picked it up all by myself. And I haven’t dropped it
since.
All bikers will tell you, as they surely tell me (I think they’ve been talking to
my mom), that if you take up riding, sooner or later you will “lay down your bike.”
(That means you will make a split-second decision to avoid crashing head-on into
the vehicle that pulled out right in front of you by tipping your bike over ON PURPOSE
and sliding yourself and your bike on pavement. You likely will lose some skin
(“road rash”), but it’s a better choice than the alternative. I hope to never face that choice,
but this is the risk we bikers are willing to take, an internal agreement at which nonbikers
can only shake their heads.
The thing about riding is, it’s really, really cool. Bikers don’t ever SAY that.
That would be utterly uncool. But the sheer joy of driving in the open air with
your hair flying and pipes roaring is cool. (OK, I have short hair that just
sticks up when I ride and pipes that not so much roar as meow, but it’s the
FEELING that counts.)
Robert Pirsig said it best in the first few pages of Zen and the Art of
Motorcycle Maintenance:
“In a car you’re always in a compartment, and because you’re used to it you
don’t realize that through that car window everything you see is just more TV.
You’re a passive observer and it is all moving by you boringly in a frame.
“On a cycle the frame is gone. You’re completely in contact with it all.
You’re IN the scene, not just watching it anymore, and the sense of presence
is overwhelming. The concrete whizzing by five inches below your foot is the
real thing, the same stuff you walk on, it’s right there, so blurred you can’t
focus on it, yet you can put your foot down and touch it anytime, and the
whole thing, the whole experience, is never removed from immediate
consciousness.’’
I never made it much past that passage in Zen, but that was enough for me.
That exactly sums up the coolness of riding. It’s like oysters or opera: You
either love it or you hate it.
Riding is cool in and of itself, but it takes a little effort and education to BE
cool while riding. Here are some tips:
Helmets
(Mom, please stop reading here.) Uncool. I know, I know, stupid, stupid,
stupid. I own a helmet. I have worn it. Mostly I don’t. It’s part of that “frame’’
Pirsig was talking about, but I’ll tell you the ugly (and I mean ugly) truth
about why bikers don’t wear helmets: They look silly. Especially on me. I
have a big head to begin with. Add a big padded shiny helmet, and I go from
Xena Princess Bike Warrior to Marvin the Martian. It’s particularly uncool to
wear a helmet in a state in which you’re not required by law to do so. Wear a
helmet in Myrtle Beach, and local bikers shake their heads and say, “You
can always tell the ones coming down from North Carolina.’’
Windshields
Uncool. Yes, they cut down on wind and bug guts. But windshields are for
sissies, end of story.
Leather jackets
This is absolutely, positively the only chance you have of making fringe look
cool. The only reason I don’t have a coat with long strings of leather hanging
off my elbows and cleavage is because they apparently only make and sell
one fringed jacket in Myrtle Beach, and there are beads and turquoise
coloring involved, and I can’t be a part of that ugliness. But I’m on the
lookout.
Leather chaps
Again, riding a horse or a bike is the only chance you have of getting away
with wearing chaps and not being asked if you’re one of the Village People.
Plus, chaps make your butt look good.
The wave
One must master the cool wave to other bikers. It’s friendly, and it makes car
drivers jealous because they don’t have their own wave. It is uncool to lift
your hand high up in the air and shake it around vigorously “like Mr.
Rogers,’’ as I was told I did from the back of a guy’s bike once. My guy
turned around with a horrified look and said with a gasp, “WHAT did you
just DO??’’ I said, “What are you talking about?’’ He said, “What was that ...
that wave?’’ (Said as if I’d offered the passing bikers a different gesture.) He
continued: “You DON’T lift your hand up like that. You keep it down low
and make it a smooth, single, graceful motion.’’ He was right (though he
never got me on the back of HIS bike again). You can make the wave your
own by subtly shifting the angle of your left hand, or by pointing your (index)
finger as you wave, but there’s not much room for variation if you want to be
cool. And we do.
Smiling
Uncool. You get bugs in your teeth, and you just look like a big dork if you re
grinning from ear to ear while riding. Dorks are not cool; therefore, smiling is
not cool. (But I can’t help it.)
Burnouts
The coolness of this escapes me, but I am assured it is way cool. Some biker
bars have burnout pits out back or burnout rooms, in which the point is to rev
your engine as high as it will go with your bike standing still, ruining your
back tire and risking the destruction of your engine. It smells really, really
bad and just seems silly to me and no one can explain why crowds rush over
to watch this puzzling spectacle. But they do. And applaud and hoot and
holler and clink their beer bottles afterward. Which is cool.
Riding on the back of someone else’s bike
It’s romantic to snuggle up behind your man on his big, loud Harley, but it
ain’t COOL. And you know it’s not cool because there’s an expression for
riding Back There, one that I won’t share here (this is a family newspaper,
people). Suffice to say, the quaint little phrase equals “not cool.’’ Cool is
chicks in front. Better still, chicks on their own bikes. Which brings me to ...
Women riding bikes
Is there anything cooler? I think not. Lots of women have their own bikes
these days, but it still attracts attention. And the truth is: Bikers love
attention. They love to give it to one other, and they love to get it. It’s a huge
part of riding. The chrome, the fancy paint jobs, the clothes, the attitude, the
noise -- they all demand (and, oh, yes, deserve) attention. And if I am out
there risking bad hair and bugs in my lipstick, sunburn and brain damage, I
want some recognition.
So the next time you see me out there, give me a cool wave. You can even
smile if you want. I will be.
Contact SARAH P. KENNEDY
