Playing Against Type

You may remember that Tom got a motorcycle for Father's Day this year. It's not our first bike. A couple few years ago we got bitten by the Harley bug HARD. He first bought a Dyna-Glide for himself. It is not an exaggeration to say that that bike became our life. We formed our social life around it. We formed our lifestyle around it. God knows we formed our wardrobe around it. We were bikers, dammit. Shortly after, he bought a Sportster for me. It was beautiful and I loved having a bike. Unfortunately I never really learned to ride it. I dumped it once in a parking lot during a riding lesson. I didn't get badly hurt, just sort of 'stoved', but it made me swear off riding for good. I had two young kids, for Pete's sake. I took my rightful place on the back. A seat we will NOT, by the way, be referring to as the bitch seat.

We quickly and eagerly tried to fit into every stereotype. We dressed the part (and whatever you're imagining, you're probably right). Tom grew a beard. Not a little well-groomed hipster beard, a full-on Grizzly Adams beard. We went to Bike Nights and Rallies and on Poker Runs. We hung out at biker bars. We spent a small fortune on Harley paraphenelia. (We weren't just bikers, we were that elite subset of bikers, Harley owners.) We wanted people to know, even when we weren't physically on the bike, that we were bikers. We were suburban biker hard-core. Everyone at our local Harley dealership knew our kids by name.

Eventually playing that part wore old - first for me, then for Tom. It didn't suit me - it wasn't me. The day he shaved that beard was one of the happiest of my life.

Those months (Years? It must have been years.) were very eye-opening, though. As we tried to fit into the stereotype, it didn't take long at all to figure out how much of it was superficial. There are folks who are frightened and intimidated by the biker image. There are just as many folks who will tell you that when you look through the tough facade, bikers are the salt of the earth - best people around. I'm here to tell you that neither of those things are entirely true. As it is with every stereotyped group of people, there are folks of every sort living a life within that group. Did I meet a few bikers who scared me? HELL YES! Did I meet a few who were kind and generous and sweet? OF COURSE! Because BIKERS aren't one of those things or the other, PEOPLE are.

I guarantee you that the same is true of any other stereotype you may hold near and dear as a way to feel like you know someone without really knowing them. Every. Single. One.

This time around, by the way, we are people who have a bike. More accurately, Tom is a person who has a bike. He rides to work when the weather is pleasant. He takes the kids to lessons on it (allowing them to feel like rock stars). Every now and then we'll go for a ride. I remember when we were in the height of our obsession, Tom would say that he liked it because bikers didn't give a damn what other people thought. It was a discussion we had more than once. I told him they - we - sure as heck DID care, or the physical part of the stereotype wouldn't exist. I challenged him to wear a pink T-shirt instead of a black one. (This was before the days when the entire NFL was wearing pink.) Heck, wear a green one if pink is a threat to your masculinity. He laughed me off. We were all about projecting an image. This time around we really DON'T care what people think. We wear what we normally wear (then add protective gear, of course...). We go where we'd normally go. It's a form of transportation (and a fun one, to be sure!), not a way of life.

I will always appreciate my 'Biker Days' as a time when I learned one of many valuable lessons on the dangerous pitfalls of judging a book by it's cover.

Keep the shiny side up, ya'll.

It Wouldn't Be Thunder Without a Little Rain

My hometown of Johnstown, PA hosts a big motorcycle rally every summer: Thunder in the Valley. We used to go every year, but when we gave the bike up, we gave Thunder up, too.

But now we have a bike again.

Now one of the (many) reasons I stopped riding last time was my husband's insistence on utilizing every safety precaution known to man. (Which completely counters one of the other reasons I stopped: I didn't think it was safe.) Now those of you who are cluck-clucking and saying, "Tammy, there is no such thing as too much safety. You are clearly a reckless gadabout and ne'er do well with no respect for life", hear me out. (Once again, isn't it eerie how accurately I can read your thoughts?)

Gearing up for a ride - EVEN IN SUMMER - consisted of long jeans, heavy boots, a leather jacket (with armor), a full-face helmet, gloves, and chaps. Yes, my friends, chaps. Now for those of you who don't know me or haven't seen me in a while, it is with a heavy heart that I inform you that of all the fruit shapes a body can adopt, mine has chosen the pear to emulate. The posterior? She is more than ample. The effect of chaps on an ample derriere is considerably less than delightful. Fat-bottomed girls, in chaps, assuredly do NOT make the rockin' world go round. It's like effectively drawing a circle around it for emphasis. "Oh, and in case you were in danger of missing it - HERE'S MY ASS!!!"

Man I hated those chaps.

And in summer, I hated it all.

We would go to rallys and bike nights and my husband would point out women - sometimes even my age and every now and then even my size - wearing cute, sexy little tops. "Why don't you ever dress like that?"

"Because I'd just have to cover it with a frackin' leather coat of armor! Geez, for all you or anyone else knows I might BE dressed like that under here!"

(I wasn't.)

Boys can be stupid.

No offense intended to my three esteemed male readers.

But sheesh.

So when we got this bike, the hubs assured me that he was ready to lighten up. He still insisted on full gear for highway riding, but for jaunts around town we could tone it down a notch or two.

The retirement of Safety Boy was a huge factor in my encouraging him to get a bike this time 'round. Being in danger of heat stroke doesn't feel safe.

He rode to Johnstown, fully geared up, while I followed in the car with the girls. We dropped our stuff (and the girls) off at my parents house and decided to hit Thunder. Just a little jaunt around town.

"You don't have to gear up, if you don't want to."

"Seriously? How much do I have to wear?"

"Whatever you want."

"So I don't have to wear boots?"

"Nah, you'll be fine."

"How 'bout a jacket?"

"We're only going a couple miles..."

"How 'bout a HELmet?" I asked teasingly. We're both very pro-helmet. I was really only kidding.

"Let's leave 'em. It's only a couple miles."

Wow.

Riding through my parents neighborhood in a sleeveless top with no helmet was downright blissful. Freeing. I was giggling like the simple shit I am (right below the surface).

Then we pulled out onto the main road. Not a highway. A little road. But a busy one. And I didn't like it. I felt vulnerable and scared. I envisioned my smashed skull on the pavement at every turn. I thought about my soon to be inevitably orphaned children. I felt stupid beyond almost all reason. What had possessed me to DO this? Never again, I vowed (the way one is wont to vow to oneself when one is right smack dab in the middle of a stupid decision).

We made it to the festival and I was tempted to pick up a cheap helmet from a vendor. I know they're not the sort of helmets that actually offer much protection (other than protection from the authorities in states with helmet laws) but I thought one might give me some peace of mind for the ride back to my parents' house.

I was really getting nervous about getting back on the bike without gear. I felt naked, and not in a good way.

And then, with barely a warning, the skies opened up and it started to rain. Hard. I don't know why I didn't see it coming. this was Johnstown, after all. Known, if it's known at all, for it's floods. Now we were going to have to ride back to the house without gear in the RAIN. Even if it cleared up (which it did) we were going to be riding on wet roads.

Message recieved, universe.

As God is my witness, I'll never go lidless again.

Can't say the same about the chaps.

King of the Road

Yesterday Tom and I rather spontaneously entered Phase II of our collective mid-life crisis.


We got a new bike.

We used to ride, then we stopped - for reasons that don't seem so important anymore.

Yesterday, for Father's Day, we headed to the dealership and signed the papers on a new to us Harley.


Gorgeous, no?

She is so like us.

With the tour pack and windshield on, she is really quite practical.

Off, and she is so damn badass.


We rode around a little today - just getting a feel for it again.

It came back like - um - well - like riding a bike.

As we put her in the garage I made a connection I hadn't made at the dealership: She is exactly the same color as my first bicycle. My Schwinn Fair Lady with the white sparkly banana seat.

Coincidence?


Probably. But still...