Motorcycle boyfriend

“You look like you’re ready to be shot out of a cannon.” He said the same thing every time so I mentally mouthed the lines along with him. A final tug on the chin strap sent my bowling ball of a head rolling around even in an extra small helmet. “Ready!” I flung my arms straight out like a T and prepared to be lowered onto the seat like a thrift store Christmas angel. I got my love of riding from the first guy I ever met: my dad. We’d spend summers as a family in North Carolina where that little Suzuki stayed year round and, in my teenage years, became the only thing that could drag me from the Svengali pull of dial up internet.

The years wove in and out of Carolina summers as we swapped dial up tones for smart phone speed. I remember a friend in college asking me what kind of guys I was into. “I want a motorcycle boyfriend.” Full stop. I was 27 when I got me my first motorcycle boyfriend. Well, kind of. Alan was between bikes when I met him but knew enough about them for me to want to know more about him. Although Alan never had one of his own while we were hoppin' around, he did help me get my first bike. Sadly, Alan and I didn’t last and, even more tragically, the bike shit the bed not long after we did (figuratively speaking).

So there I was with a broken heart and 200 lb paperweight I was too embarrassed to admit I knew nothing about. So I decided to sell it. I called the mechanic, had them come to the house to pick it up, and a week later, shuffled into the shop looking at my feet. “Ok you’re all set!” Eliot rang me up and tossed me the keys with the kind of half salute you only see in East Nashville. “Um..I think…I’m actually I think going to sell it.” “Why? It’s a great bike for you.” “I um I don’t honestly really know how to ride very well.” “Oh! well, let me teach you then!”

With Eliot’s gentle guidance, I made a few “ma’am have you been drinking?” circles around the parking lot as he watched me like a parent when you open that gift you thought you weren’t getting at Christmas. “See?” I could see where this was going and I was politely not having it. “Yeah. I um, I don’t know I’m just not really comfortable. I feel silly. I don’t know what I’m doing.” “That’s why you practice.” “What if I drop the bike?” “You pick it up.” Ugh. Eliot was not buying my shit so I finally leveled with him.

“Ok look. I’ve never seen anyone like me on the road before. I don’t know any girls who ride. It’s all just dudes and women who look like they could melt steel just by staring at it.” It was hard to admit then and I’m still not proud to admit now that I was afraid that the minute I stalled at a light or dropped my bike, people would laugh at me because I was a girl and that riding is for the boyz.

“Listen to me.” Eliot leaned forward like he was about to drop some real shit. “I’ve worked here for years. We don’t see too many women your age come through here and we’d like to. We all want to see more women on the road.” We became friends and he introduced me to some of the girls that, ten years later, I’m still in NSFW group chats with.

A few years later, I decided to fly out to California for an all women’s motorcycle event. I was going by myself and had decided to rent a bike. I called the rental place and asked what the smallest bike they had was. “We’ve got a Triumph 750 you might like” “I um…I have a CB 125 and it’s the only bike I’ve ever ridden. You don’t have anything smaller?” “Ehrm, we have this piece of shit Suzuki 250 that we use for road tests but…” “Do you guys take Visa?”

I flew to LA, rented a car, drove to the desert, and walked into Eagle Rider to be greeted by my childhood bowling ball in human form. “I’ll be with you in a minute” he said without looking up. I busied myself with some hot merch before landing on a skull ring that looked like it had once belonged to someone in prison (see photo). “I’ll take this and, uh…I have a reservation.” He pecked at the keyboard for a few minutes as a trench began to form on his brow .

“Whiddon?” “Yes.” “What did you reserve?” “It’s a Suzuki…a 250 I think? The guy said you use it for road te...” “Oh shit. Yeah that bike’s not here.” [Slow blink] “What do you mean it’s not here, I placed the reservation last month.” An archived Seinfeld clip about holding reservations looped through my brain as he tried to convince me that I could handle 750ccs of pure chaos. “Actually, we’ve got a Scout I think you’d like. It’s a 1200 but it’s low to the ground. Here, walk with me.”

I went from apprehensively clammy to full blown meat sweat as he led me to an Indian Scout that was parked with its hand on its hip looking like it should be smoking a cigarette. “Just sit on the bike to see how it feels.” I clambered awkwardly onto the seat and heaved with all my might but the bike wouldn’t budge. “I can’t do this. I can’t even get it off the kickstand.” “Turn the handlebars to the right.” The bike floated up off the stand as if by magic.

“I can’t do this. It’s just too heavy.” “Listen to me.” BB placed his own clammy hand on the handlebar leaving a smudge of forensic evidence. “Let me tell you something. Any bike can be ridden by any person. You can’t whip this thing around like you do on that weed eater back home but if you respect the bike it will respect you back. See these?” I followed the direction of his girthy point. “These are crash guards. You got the insurance. Have a great weekend and I’ll see you on Sunday.”

Bowling Ball was right. I did fine. I was careful, I stayed with the group, and I didn’t ride over my head. Eliot was right too. I did drop my bike. And I did pick it up (with a little help). Although most of my achievement in life can be credited to the stronger, bolder, smarter women who did it first, my confidence as a rider was sparked by the men who wanted to see me out there even more than I did.

I’m thankful to those who inspired me to become my own motorcycle boyfriend, and most of all, for connecting me with the girls that made me the most proud I’ve ever been to be a woman.