I've just put a cap on the final episode of a Sons of Anarchy binge fest, and I'm reflecting on my own life experience with bikes, bikers, and outlaw motorcycle clubs.
Once upon a time, I aspired to wear a Property of... rocker on my leather vest. Before you get your imagination running, allow me to say that I was never passed around, nor had I been disrespected in any way by any club member, though I had close contact with clubs, large and small. Neither was I ever, knowingly, involved in any illegal activity.
First contact with bikers was after my first husband left me for my best girlfriend; I was adrift, completely unmoored, estranged from my family of origin, rejected by my closest living relative, custody of my daughter threatened. I was alone and in need of some new friends and new places to go, where my exes, (ex-best friend and ex-husband-to-be), wouldn't show up.
My husband-at-the-time, an Izod and tennis shorts-clad ex-cyclist, turned entrepreneur, was rumored to have reached out to a mutual acquaintance, with purported mob ties about me. I took it as gospel.
The local biker bar, Erica's, was a place where he would be intimidated to go to, therefore I learned to get comfortable there. I was a fish out of water, a fresh-faced 30-year old, suburban housewife and mother to a first grader. Coca-cola was my drink-of-choice which became beer, which became Zima, which became margaritas, became tequila shots. My companions were the female bar owner, became the female bar tenders, became the various patrons; whoever you rub elbows with become acquaintances, and in turn, can become friends, or more-than-friends.
Grady, a non-patchholder, took me on my first Harley ride. After mere hours, this physically imposing guy, with a booming voice and high hilarity, straps a helmet on me and we roar off down the road, waking up the night. It was love at first bike, Harley, not Grady. Following that ride, I looked forward to any opportunity to ride. If Grady came to town, I was riding on the back. Warm desert nights, tearing up the winding, mountain road to Idylwild, or on over to Palm Springs. One night found me traveling over the San Gorgornio Pass, on the way to a bike run in Victorville, in the cold rain, in a tank top and shorts, and no jacket. Admittedly, that was foolhardy, chalk it up to being "ten feet tall and bulletproof", compliments of Zima and Cuervo shots.
My next bike experience was with JC and his cranky old Sportster. JC made the mistake of flippantly challenging me "if you can kick it, you can drive it". I watched him kick over his bike many times after closing down the bar. One night, I managed to kickstart his farty old bike and I took off around the block. Trouble is I held no motorcycle license, I was undoubtedly drunk, I had no helmet on, and the Hemet Police Department was a mere block away. Bulletproof.
Running around with JC, going on many bike runs, had me rubbing elbows with rider's clubs and motorcycle gangs alike. A run around Lake Elsinore, introduced me to Hessians and Vagos at different watering holes.
JC convinced me to get involved. Despite not owning a motorcycle, I held offices in the MMA (Modified Motorcycle Association) and ABATE (A Brotherhood Against Totalitarian Enactments), fighting to repeal mandatory helmet laws. I don't know how effective we were, but it was a great excuse to drink, carouse, and ride motorcycles. It was a whole new world.
A trip to Northern California put in touch with a bunch of family-oriented, Mexican bikers who taught me the finer points of preparing menudo, dancing to the Texas Tornadoes, and shooting tequila. When I moved to Washington, this group would travel up with the body of Al Kapone, a local biker character, who wrecked his Harley Davidson and died while visiting. The subsequent funeral, was a media event, and put me up close and personal with the Ressurection Motorcycle Club. I fell for a computer hardware guy by day and a cut-wearing biker bad boy by night. The dichotomy of computer guru/biker/family man appealed to me, but the tumultuous push me, pull you relationship was doomed by addiction and dishonesty.
My love of riding was the impetus for buying my own Harley; that and not having to depend upon finding a man to control me. I found that I was scared to death but the exhilaration made it worth facing the possibility of my own mortality.
But, I'm getting ahead of myself... After I moved back in with my parents, I met a high-ranking patchholder of the Bandido's Motorcycle Club. He became a passing fancy on my way to sobriety. It was my bad boy phase.
A series of unfortunate events (not a DUI, accident, nor death), drove me to chase sobriety. And, I'm grateful for it. Once sober, I expected maximum change with minimal effort. Eventually, my lifestyle not changing drove me back to drink. Three months later, I had enough and got sober enough to take an honest look at my life. Slowly, I made changes; changes that led me to meet, and recognize, a good man who shared my interests and goals. One of them being Harley Davidson motorcycles.
We've traveled many miles together: Mt. Rainier, Olympic, and Glacier National Parks, Mt. St. Helen's National Monument, and many points of interest in between. A point of pride, for me, is that precious few of those are tavern-to-tavern. We once recreated my epic first day of my first, out-of-state road trip, logging 700 miles to Sacramento from Seattle in one day. I was Iron Butt before it was a thing. Full disclosure: I didn't know any better.
I sold my Harley Davidson Sportster Hugger. And did not intend to replace it. However, riding my own Harley was important to my husband. He purchased a Harley Davidson Softail from a private party on my behalf. I'm the property of myself. Unfortunately, it turned out to be too long and I rode it precious little.
A trip to Alaska found me on a rental Harley Davidson Deluxe. It was a perfect fit! I rode from Fairbanks to North Pole to see Santa Claus, Chitinika to view an old gold-mining dredge, and up to the visitor center to see the Trans-Alaska Alyeska (Oil) Pipeline.
Soon after my return home, my husband surprised me by finding a Harley Davidson Deluxe for me. I adored that motorcycle with it's black and pearl paintjob, whitewalls, and tombstone taillight!!! And I adored my husband for his Harley generosity. I purchased white Harley Davidson leathers to top off my look.
Today, I'm grateful to be able to look back on my life and remember our rides together: through the trees and along Samish Bay of Chuckanut Drive Scenic Byway; our journey through British Columbia and up to Hope; sweeping the curves of the Yakima River Canyon; dodging potholes and raindrops on Skate Creek Road; or rappin' our pipes through the I-90 tunnel.
And I'm so happy to report that I'm the property of myself.
Once upon a time, I aspired to wear a Property of... rocker on my leather vest. Before you get your imagination running, allow me to say that I was never passed around, nor had I been disrespected in any way by any club member, though I had close contact with clubs, large and small. Neither was I ever, knowingly, involved in any illegal activity.
First contact with bikers was after my first husband left me for my best girlfriend; I was adrift, completely unmoored, estranged from my family of origin, rejected by my closest living relative, custody of my daughter threatened. I was alone and in need of some new friends and new places to go, where my exes, (ex-best friend and ex-husband-to-be), wouldn't show up.
My husband-at-the-time, an Izod and tennis shorts-clad ex-cyclist, turned entrepreneur, was rumored to have reached out to a mutual acquaintance, with purported mob ties about me. I took it as gospel.
The local biker bar, Erica's, was a place where he would be intimidated to go to, therefore I learned to get comfortable there. I was a fish out of water, a fresh-faced 30-year old, suburban housewife and mother to a first grader. Coca-cola was my drink-of-choice which became beer, which became Zima, which became margaritas, became tequila shots. My companions were the female bar owner, became the female bar tenders, became the various patrons; whoever you rub elbows with become acquaintances, and in turn, can become friends, or more-than-friends.
Grady, a non-patchholder, took me on my first Harley ride. After mere hours, this physically imposing guy, with a booming voice and high hilarity, straps a helmet on me and we roar off down the road, waking up the night. It was love at first bike, Harley, not Grady. Following that ride, I looked forward to any opportunity to ride. If Grady came to town, I was riding on the back. Warm desert nights, tearing up the winding, mountain road to Idylwild, or on over to Palm Springs. One night found me traveling over the San Gorgornio Pass, on the way to a bike run in Victorville, in the cold rain, in a tank top and shorts, and no jacket. Admittedly, that was foolhardy, chalk it up to being "ten feet tall and bulletproof", compliments of Zima and Cuervo shots.
My next bike experience was with JC and his cranky old Sportster. JC made the mistake of flippantly challenging me "if you can kick it, you can drive it". I watched him kick over his bike many times after closing down the bar. One night, I managed to kickstart his farty old bike and I took off around the block. Trouble is I held no motorcycle license, I was undoubtedly drunk, I had no helmet on, and the Hemet Police Department was a mere block away. Bulletproof.
Running around with JC, going on many bike runs, had me rubbing elbows with rider's clubs and motorcycle gangs alike. A run around Lake Elsinore, introduced me to Hessians and Vagos at different watering holes.
JC convinced me to get involved. Despite not owning a motorcycle, I held offices in the MMA (Modified Motorcycle Association) and ABATE (A Brotherhood Against Totalitarian Enactments), fighting to repeal mandatory helmet laws. I don't know how effective we were, but it was a great excuse to drink, carouse, and ride motorcycles. It was a whole new world.
A trip to Northern California put in touch with a bunch of family-oriented, Mexican bikers who taught me the finer points of preparing menudo, dancing to the Texas Tornadoes, and shooting tequila. When I moved to Washington, this group would travel up with the body of Al Kapone, a local biker character, who wrecked his Harley Davidson and died while visiting. The subsequent funeral, was a media event, and put me up close and personal with the Ressurection Motorcycle Club. I fell for a computer hardware guy by day and a cut-wearing biker bad boy by night. The dichotomy of computer guru/biker/family man appealed to me, but the tumultuous push me, pull you relationship was doomed by addiction and dishonesty.
My love of riding was the impetus for buying my own Harley; that and not having to depend upon finding a man to control me. I found that I was scared to death but the exhilaration made it worth facing the possibility of my own mortality.
But, I'm getting ahead of myself... After I moved back in with my parents, I met a high-ranking patchholder of the Bandido's Motorcycle Club. He became a passing fancy on my way to sobriety. It was my bad boy phase.
A series of unfortunate events (not a DUI, accident, nor death), drove me to chase sobriety. And, I'm grateful for it. Once sober, I expected maximum change with minimal effort. Eventually, my lifestyle not changing drove me back to drink. Three months later, I had enough and got sober enough to take an honest look at my life. Slowly, I made changes; changes that led me to meet, and recognize, a good man who shared my interests and goals. One of them being Harley Davidson motorcycles.
We've traveled many miles together: Mt. Rainier, Olympic, and Glacier National Parks, Mt. St. Helen's National Monument, and many points of interest in between. A point of pride, for me, is that precious few of those are tavern-to-tavern. We once recreated my epic first day of my first, out-of-state road trip, logging 700 miles to Sacramento from Seattle in one day. I was Iron Butt before it was a thing. Full disclosure: I didn't know any better.
I sold my Harley Davidson Sportster Hugger. And did not intend to replace it. However, riding my own Harley was important to my husband. He purchased a Harley Davidson Softail from a private party on my behalf. I'm the property of myself. Unfortunately, it turned out to be too long and I rode it precious little.
A trip to Alaska found me on a rental Harley Davidson Deluxe. It was a perfect fit! I rode from Fairbanks to North Pole to see Santa Claus, Chitinika to view an old gold-mining dredge, and up to the visitor center to see the Trans-Alaska Alyeska (Oil) Pipeline.
Soon after my return home, my husband surprised me by finding a Harley Davidson Deluxe for me. I adored that motorcycle with it's black and pearl paintjob, whitewalls, and tombstone taillight!!! And I adored my husband for his Harley generosity. I purchased white Harley Davidson leathers to top off my look.
Today, I'm grateful to be able to look back on my life and remember our rides together: through the trees and along Samish Bay of Chuckanut Drive Scenic Byway; our journey through British Columbia and up to Hope; sweeping the curves of the Yakima River Canyon; dodging potholes and raindrops on Skate Creek Road; or rappin' our pipes through the I-90 tunnel.
And I'm so happy to report that I'm the property of myself.
Comments
Post a Comment