In my teens I adored bikers. That is why I started liking bikes. I wanted to be like that, wanted to have a bike like that, leather outfit, tattoo, everything. I believed I could do it.
How come I never saw the biggest obstacle there was to me being a biker – I am a woman. I can’t grow a beard. Try as I may. No testosterone, no rights. That’s the way things are with bikers. At least with those who wear colours.
When I turned 20 I got the driving license and a Yamaha SR 500. I had no car. I had just the bike. For many years the men in my life never had bikes. I always did, a claim to be special and an escape from being ordinary.
I still had the dream. One day, I’d have a big bad Harley-Davidson. I’d be a real biker. I’d be free.
After the Yamaha in my twenties, I called a Suzuki Savage my own in my thirties, nicely customized but not exactly the real thing. Still that single piston’s rhythm was my heartbeat. Rumbling on steadily as my life wound in strange circles.
I still dreamt about the Harley but it became less over the years. The one day I am going to have one had become more of a mantra than a real intention. Dreams supply us with considerable safety as long as they stay unfulfilled. Danger and pain lurk behind the try to make them real. So leaving them to be a onetime to be fulfilled goal is the safest possible way to go through life.
I was caught up in an endless scene. But paradise takes time…..