Biker Chick

Bad to the bone; B-b-b-b-b-b-b-bad.

Every couple of years, I feel like slapping on some chaps, hopping on a “hog,” and being bad to the bone.

The last time I felt the urge to ride a motorcycle was yesterday. To do so, I would have to take classes, obtain my license, buy a bike. It would be a time and money-consuming endeavour. I don’t have the cash to fund this on-again, off-again desire. I’m also too scared to ride my own BICYCLE around Montreal. The furthest I’ll go is my local park, which is two minutes away and doesn’t require me cycling on main roads. I don’t see how this biker chick thing could work.

Fear rules me. I don’t like the unknown and the what-ifs. My brain is always calculating risks and threat levels in any given scenario. The outcome always ends with injury or worse, death. Safety is my love language. Motorcycles have no seatbelts. If you crash, chances are you’re donezo. So why am I obsessed? 

I’ve looked into the matter.

1. I like the idea of me on a bike

I often have “visions.” They’re like daydreaming, but more intense and always very glamorous. I don’t want to be a biker chick: I like the idea of being a biker chick. Imagine this: a five foot one inch woman sitting on an über cool, matte black Triumph motorcycle.

My outfit would be the following: black leather chaps, an oversized denim jacket (long sleeves for protection, always), a matte helmet to match, and of course my beloved golden Ray Bans. I’d wear my hair in one long braid. As for footwear, perhaps I’d go for a cute little boot with a Cuban heel. In my fantasy I’m driving along a tree lined street while my husband and son are sitting comfortably in the adjacent sidecar. They’re both wearing vintage brown leather helmets and copper-rimmed goggles. Where are we going? I don’t know. All this, of course, happens in slow motion. 

Risk level of daydreaming: Zéro. I can do what I want. None of this is real.

2. I feel nostalgia for the past

My father used to ride motorcycles. I was nine years old when I rode with him for the first time. My father usually took me to Gatineau Park. We’d drive through the forest’s winding roads, and park my father’s Suzuki at the Champlain Lookout, where we’d take in the view of the vast green valley below. We’d also go on charity rides together. Every year, hundreds of bikers would get together to raise funds for a family in need. The charity day was called “La journée de rêves” (Day of Dreams). We’d take over the streets of Gatineau, drive through red lights while our engines roared in unison. I gave fellow bikers the peace sign whenever we passed them. 

I was fascinated by the women and men wearing black leather jackets. Their backs were decorated with skull patches and other insignia my nine-year-old self didn’t understand. The women were tanning-bed level tanned and wore bandanas over long, black hair. The men had low ponytails and thick beards. Many people had arm tattoos. I’d never seen tattoos before. I often wondered who those people were, what they liked, who they loved, and what kind of job they had to pay for their Harleys. 

I may be a fearful person today, but I wasn’t afraid when I was holding onto my father. 

Risk level of nostalgia: it depends if I’m planning on using a tanning bed.

3. I have a periodical need to rebel

I’m a rule follower. Sometimes I feel trapped in the “good girl” role. I strive to be a good person, do the right thing and do things well. All that striving often veers into perfectionism. When you hold yourself to such a high, unachievable standard, you choke all the gut impulses, all the creativity, all the playfulness out of your being. Being a goody two-shoes also involves seeking other people’s approval. Who am I being a good girl for? Why do I feel the need to always stay within the lines, do as I’m told, do what’s expected of me? 

When I’m feeling particularly trapped by my perfectionism, I revert back to one of my old coping techniques. No, not escapism. Not avoidance either. Rebellion. That’s when I dye my dark brown hair icy blonde. That’s when I march over to the SQDC (Société québécoise du cannabis) and decide I should be a marijuana-smoking mother. That’s when I think a motorcycle would free me from my good girl ways. None of these solutions have lasted. Blondes don’t have more fun. I don’t like drugs. And no, an über cool matte black Triumph won’t cure my perfectionism.

Risk level of morphing into a French Canadian Willie Nelson: unknown.

The key to being a real badass, I’ve learned, is to love myself more.