Route 66

Yes! It is unavoidable and necessary. Inescapable. Like Pavlov’s conditioning and involuntary reflex action. You just must.

You own a Harley – you do the Route 66.

I always thought that’s what I wanna do, one of these days. Me and my Harley – like the unknown legend in Neil Young‘s song. Long blond hair floating in the wind. I could picture myself quite clearly, I could almost smell tarmac and  feel the heat coming off the cylinder. I could see myself ordering a burger sitting on engine red faux-leather in some roadside diner.

Like Thelma and Louise I pictured my self  looking dead cool and sexy in tight leathers. Dangerous and not to be messed with. On the road. Alive. Nothing more. An outlaw going through Texas (was that on the way?) or at least heading for the West. Have my own movie. Live my own story.

Until last week.

I watched a documentary feature on the telly. Route 66. The camera crew followed a posse of Norwegian bikers on Harleys. They had a tour guide (!) with them. Everything was prearranged. Motels, diners, picture spots. The guide made them pose underneath road signs, made couples kiss over the borderline of two different time zones. They stopped for a coke (!) in a cozy (!) biker bar and gave them time to haunt the souvenir shops. Fancy a Route 66 dishtowel? They said they had always wanted to be different.

What an bunch of numpties!

Route 66???

NEVER, EVER! Not like this.

So, American bikers out there: is there a cool route to take somewhere in this vast and beautiful country? A road where you can ride into the sunset and not from picture spot to picture spot??

LET ME KNOW WHERE!!

 

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Cowboys

I watched Pale Rider last night. Having had thoughts about John Wayne and his deputies in my last post, Clint Eastwood suddenly turned up and made me think even more about Cowboys.

Isn’t that just the image you want to create on  a Harley?

The lonesome Cowboy, just him and his horse and the endless horizon, never to be messed with when he enters the saloon.

Don’t we know it all? See it right in front of us?

No frontiers, American dream, no roots, no mercy.

Do all bikers crave the beauty of a life as wild as a cowboy’s?

Some do. I do.

But I am a woman.

“I wish I could grow a beard.” This thought flashed through my brain watching Clint Eastwood get on his horse, eyes like steel looking round.

The wish, spoken out loud, got a reply.  “The boys wouldn’t like it!”

The boys wouldn’t like it???

Why should I care what they like? On my Harley, I don’t. I refuse to be judged by their standards.

But what are my standards? How to be a female cowboy. With no beard! Well, theoretical beard.

Where are the strong mythical female figures? The tough chicks?

How can you be cool without a beard?

There is no myth to support us.

Pale rideresses???

No!

If we don’t want to be judged by male standards, we need to create our own.