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Ah, the season is upon us. The sun beats down and the bikes are back on the road. The Spring Goddess shines down on Vancouver today. For most of the West Coast, riding season has been here for a couple of months and boy, can you hear it! Engines rumble by my window…a Pan-head, a Ducati, a F4, red one, green one, little one, blue one…Dr. Seuss would be happy. And of course, the shivers start making their way down my spine.
Ah…motorcycles. My passion. This year is a little different. I’m a little different. Despite all the anticipation mounting in the air, I feel apprehensive to submit to it. I won’t be riding this season and I have mixed feelings about the whole damn thing. It’s good and it’s bad. It’s good because I am very happy about my new growing belly and the life inside. Yes, I’m pregnant for the first time. But it’s bad because I can’t ride my motorcycle! Stomp. Stomp. Pout. Pout. My column should be changed from Motor Girl to Motor Mommy. I think I’m going to revamp my whole website www.motorgirl.com into a site devoted to pining mothers-to-be who have decided for the safety of their growing babes, not to ride. And I’ll tell you; it’s just about killing me. Groan.
Yes, I know, it’s probably for the best. My leathers don’t fit. My belly hits the gas tank and I’ve got an IQ of two. This basic feature they call balance well, they take it away from you once the sperm finds that egg and starts multiplying into life. I’ve heard of other women riding but it’s not for me. I have truly morphed into a highly emotional radical chick. Some of you might say, what’s really changed? Well, the difference is this pregnant chick ain’t about to do wheelies down the road. I feel this whole new sense of responsibility. Of protection for this life growing inside of me and there is no room for a 140 km/hr entry into a corner.
I mean it’s not like I don’t have the experience. I’ve been riding for over twenty years…since I was a ten year old girl in the orchards of the Okanagan Valley. I was never really allowed to ride. My mother forbade me. I just couldn’t stay away. It was unavoidable like a junkie to crack. I just liked the smell and sounds of those dirt bikes or was it the smell and sounds of the neighbor boys? I can’t remember. I know that from the moment I first wiped out and got my pants caught in the chain of that Yamaha, I was hooked. Literally. And here I am today, twenty years older sitting in my Gastown studio, listening to rumble of bikes, whimpering away for the wind in my hair and the smell of the road.
I shouldn’t be upset. I mean it’s not like I haven’t been riding all these years…on the contrary. I’ve been a road demon! Rippin’ up the highways and byways of North America for most of my twenties. Photographing and writing stories about motorcyclists most of those years, collecting images for my coffee table book called “Women and the Art of Motorcycles” and the subsequent calendar in 1999 which raised money for Breast Cancer Research. Even while I attended four years at art school, my projects always seemed to reflect the mystery of the machine, the freedom of the ride and the passion of the motorcycle. My latest art show, “10W30” showcased my heavily lacquered work with the themes of women and motorcycles. I even painted with used motorcycle oil finding that it acted as a superior solvent. Everything in my life has been about the motorcycle. Everything. The ride. The road. The stories. The people. It’s just that this year is a bit different. I’m a bit different. There is life growing within me. It’s heavy, man.
I guess you could say that over the years, I’ve become a bit of a motorcycle slut. Excuse the phrase, but I’ll ride just about anything with two wheels. And no, that is not how I became pregnant. I don’t care for the whole typecasting-motorcycle-mob-mentality. I’m a rider. I’ve raced sport bikes, I’ve put my knee down in a corner on a Valkyrie, I’ve ridden most dirt bikes, love trial bikes and will even ride a Hardtail for the fun of it. As long as it’s a motorcycle and goes fast – I’m a happy girl.
I’ve even worked on my own bikes. During most of my university years, I was riding old 70’s and 80’s Hondas. They were efficient and easy to work on. I loved the freedom of knowing how my motorcycle – my baby - was put together. When I was younger, I had watched my father tune our trials bikes, so I knew the basics. However, a street bike was a different creature all together. So, I took some courses, pumped my boyfriends, annoyed my neighbourhood garage mechanic and finally figured it out. But you see, that was the thing. It was my bike. My baby. And I knew what made it sick and what made it happy and in a way I guess I was a mother. A motorcycle mother.
Maybe that’s another reason I feel like sighing. The night is coming. The sun is just dipping behind the coastal mountain range blinding me with red light and air is perfect for a ride. But my baby sleeps – my other baby, the one with a V6 engine - in a nearby garage. And it will continue to sleep for one more year.
Sigh. One more year. But then my other baby, this beautiful creation that swims inside the safety of my belly right now moving gently like a feather, will be born. And next year when my leathers fit, my balance is back and my IQ goes up a few notches, I’ll be riding again. Then, Motor Mommy can put on her leathers and ride into the sunset. But of course, I will return. Breast-feeding is kind of like that.
Published: Motorcycle Mojo and Inside Motorcycles |
