MOTORCYCLE MAMA
used with permission, written by Linda Belinsky   Linda5817@aol.com

As I walked into the office of Miller’s Garage, I couldn’t help but notice the Harley parked outside. It called to me with its powerful engine and gleaming chrome. It suggested that I fulfill my fantasy and become the motorcycle mama hidden deep inside me. The image formed: leather pants. No…. tight, leather pants, halter top allowing my tanned shoulders with the small lightning bolt tattoo to show, long brown hair flying in the breeze. I was young. I was beautiful. I was bad. I was daydreaming………..

Robbie, my mechanic, interrupted my reverie and told me the Toyota was ready, inspected, and the oil changed. He must have noticed me admiring the bike because he asked: “Do you ride”? I laughed and said “Oh no, I wish I did, but no”. Robbie politely offered to take me for a ride, but I said I couldn’t. When I returned next week to have work done on the Ford van, Robbie repeated the offer to go for a ride on his bike. Again I said no but he must have sensed my hesitation and he persisted. He said if I gave him my phone number he would call me the next time he was taking the bike out.

Yeah sure, like that would happen. But what if he did call? I would be forced to face the possibility of fulfilling my fantasy. Would I be up to the challenge? Was I the mean, bad-ass biker chick that belonged on the back of a Harley? You know with the leather pants, tattoo, flowing hair, etc, etc. Aw, he‘ll never call.

Robbie called that night. He asked if I wanted to ride this coming Saturday. I was safe. It was Memorial weekend and the annual Penn Stater’s Picnic was scheduled for Saturday. I had a good excuse. “Oh, I’m sorry but I have this picnic that I go to every year. I couldn’t miss it”, I replied. Phew, no need to confront my fears. I wasn’t off the hook yet. He said: “That’s all right; Sunday is actually a better day for me”.

Now what do I say? Do I dance around and pretend I have another picnic to attend? Sure it’s Memorial Day, I could have two picnics scheduled, couldn’t I? He’d never have to know I was lying. Mellie was planning to come home for the weekend and I wanted to spend some time with her. I could tell him that I needed to be home because my 20 year-old daughter will want to spend time with me, her devoted and loving mother. Right, like that was going to happen when her cousins were planning a big party in NJ that weekend as well. I get a mental picture of Melanie debating with herself: stay home and play Scrabble with my Mom??? Go to a party with my boyfriend, my cousins, and their friends??? It’s a no-brainer. Party time! Darn, I can’t use Melanie for an excuse.

If I could just beg off a little longer, maybe I’d get the courage to say “Yes”. After all, I really am a motorcycle mama. I know I am. I’m a big, bad, chopper-riding Motorcycle Mama.

But the timing is off. This is just a bad weekend, right? I want to ride a bike. I can do it someday, but just not this weekend. Really, I’m not afraid, I just need some time to prepare, that’s all. Really.

 My rationalizing was falling flat. I knew it. This was it. If I didn’t do it now, then when would I? Aren’t I always preaching that life is too short, and live for the moment, don’t worry about tomorrow? In my head it sounds like good advice, but do I really mean it?

I don’t know where it came from, but I heard a little voice saying: “Sure, Sunday sounds great. What time?”

Who said that? Did I really agree to go for a motorcycle ride with my mechanic? A guy I hardly knew. What would I wear? Where would I sit? Would I be able to hold on to a complete stranger and act like I was cool with being so close? What if we hit a bump in the road? Was I ready to die? I must be crazy. Maybe I could retract it and tell him I just remembered that I had to wash my hair on Sunday, or do some ironing. Did I really agree to do something so foolhardy?

I continued: “I’ll meet you at your house at 9:00. I’m looking forward to it Robbie. Thanks.” Liar.

Maybe it would rain on Sunday. Please God, let there be a hurricane.

Sunday came and the weather was perfect: 75 degrees, sunny, no humidity. It was a perfect day to do anything outside. It was the kind of day that bikers must dream of. We were set for a motorcycle ride through the lovely countryside of Bucks County and New Jersey along the river. Thanks God, I’ll remember that.

What do I wear? I don’t exactly own a biker outfit. I do have black boots, but they’re snow boots and have gray fur sticking out of the top. They’re not even leather, but nylon or some other type of waterproof material. OK. I’ll wear my sneakers. They’re all-purpose. And I’ll wear my jeans. If this pans out and I am turned on to a new hobby I will definitely invest in leather pants. Meanwhile, I hope the sneakers and jeans won’t be too bad. Hey, I do have a leather jacket. Oh yeah, I’ll be cool.

Pulling into Robbie’s driveway I finish my breakfast consisting of grapes and a handful of shredded wheat. It’s 9:00. We can’t be gone that long so I’m not worried about getting hungry. Robbie asks what time I need to be back home and I joke that my Mom said I could stay out all day. A little warning flag goes up and I realize that Robbie may very well stay out until dark, so I quickly add that I’d like to be home by 3:00. I use Melanie as my excuse so he doesn’t think I’m a wimp.

I’m wearing my Navy sweatshirt and Robbie seems appalled that it won’t be enough to keep me warm. Maybe his image of a biker chick doesn’t wear a sweatshirt that says “United States Navy”. I tell him not to worry that I brought a leather jacket too. But when I go to zip it up over the sweatshirt, it’s too tight. Now what? Wear the sweatshirt over the leather? That won’t be cool. But Robbie quickly offers me his Harley Davidson jacket telling me that he has an extra and that it can get quite cool when riding next to the water in the early morning. He even wants me to wear gloves. OK. I’ll wear the Harley jacket and take my leather gloves that happen to be in the pocket of my leather jacket from last winter. I’m set. I put the Harley jacket over my sweatshirt and zip it up. The goggles that Robbie hands me are in place around my head, although a little loose. Not to worry. The motorcycle helmet will hold the goggles up. The gloves are on.

Robbie asks if I’m right-handed or left-handed. I have no idea why he’s asking, but I answer: “I’m a rightie” and he motions for me to climb on. Maybe it has to do with the way you mount the bike. Uh-oh this may be a problem. In order to get on, I have to put my left foot on the peg and throw my right leg over the seat. I have MS and my left leg is my bad leg, my weak leg. Do I place my weight on my bad, left leg and throw my good, right leg over or do I stand a better chance of getting on board if I stand on my good, right leg and try to throw my bad, left leg over? When I’ve had this dilemma in the past, my husband, Paul, usually just gives my butt a little heave-ho and I’m able to get to where I need to be. But what do I do now? I can’t ask Robbie to do this. Not only would it be weird, but it can’t happen because he has to stay on the bike to hold it up. Oh well, let’s pray that I can do it. I opt to stand on the left peg (bad leg) and swing my right leg (good leg) over. Glory be to God: I’M ON! It isn’t a graceful mounting, but I’m on.

And we’re off. It’s 9:30.

We drive for a half a block to the gas station to fill the tank. Robbie motions me to get off the bike and take my jacket, helmet, goggles, and gloves off. He says I’ll get too hot if I keep the jacket on. Why didn’t he suggest that I walk the 100 feet to the gas station so I didn’t have to dress and undress a minute and a half later? Nevertheless, I repeat the process and this time my climbing on board goes a little smoother.

And we’re off. Take two. It’s 9:45.

Except now we drive ½ mile to the garage. Robbie left his cell phone there and he needs to pick it up. We pull into Miller’s Garage and I find myself climbing off the bike and going through the undressing process for the second time in three minutes. After a quick tour of the garage and an explanation about the float that is prepared for tomorrow’s Memorial Day parade, we’re on the road and I mistakenly think we’re headed for our destination.

It’s about 10:00

We pull into a driveway after riding for about four minutes. Robbie motions to me to get off the bike and to take everything off again. Is he serious? Is this a déjà vu? Do I have to again take off the jacket, helmet, goggles, and gloves? Robbie explains that we’re at a friend’s house that will be riding with us, but Tom is not home. Robbie calls him on his cell phone. Good thing we went to Bushek’s for the cell phone. Tom informs Robbie that he’s at Elwood’s house and we should go there. I suit up and mount the bike again. Is it me or is this getting easier?

Robbie heads out onto the road once more and is in the left hand lane that turns onto I 95. “Uh, Robbie, we aren’t going on I 95, are we”? I ask. He laughs and says “No way”. That’s reassuring. That would be just a little too scary. So we travel on some local streets and pull into Elwood’s driveway. Once again, I dismount, undress, and try to look cool.

Robbie introduces me to Elwood and Tom. Oh wow, these two guys look like biker people. Tom is about 6’2” and 250 pounds with a ponytail and a big moustache that droops over his lips and down his jowls. He looks to be about 50. Elwood is a little guy with a big beer belly and a gruff manner. His dog races up to greet us and as I bend over to pet the dog, Elwood snaps: “Don’t pet him, he bites”. Why am I not surprised? Elwood and Tom aren’t mean, just not overly friendly. I begin to feel just a little uncomfortable. Can I pass inspection and pull off the charade that I am a bad-ass biker chick? Tom looks at my helmet and declares that we need to go back to his house for a better one. I tell him that I’m fine with this one, hoping that we can just get underway soon. Tom’s not buying it. He insists I need a better helmet. I go through my dressing procedure again and climb back on the bike. We’re headed to Tom’s house. While I’m trying on Tom’s new helmet, Tom determines that he needs new biker goggles and suggests we go to Brian’s, a motorcycle shop in Langhorne. Well, he didn’t actually suggest, he just said: “We’re going to Brian’s”. Robbie and I follow him.

It’s 10:15.

We’re back on the road and I see that Tom’s turn signals are indicating that we’re turning on to I 95. Little warning buzzers are beginning to go off in my head. Surely Robbie and I will go another way and meet him there, won’t we Robbie? Didn’t you just assure me less than fifteen minutes ago that we wouldn’t go on I 95? Nope, it’s not happening. Robbie and I are on I95 cruising the highway with the speedometer registering 70. I’m questioning if Robbie just succumbed to adult peer pressure. After bargaining with the Lord, I realize that there’s nothing I can do now but to hold on. I get as close to Robbie as I can and hold on as tightly as possible. If I can forget that I’m traveling at what feels like a speed faster than sound, and if I can forget that there’s nothing between me and the asphalt but a thin piece of leather and a helmet, maybe it’s not so bad. In a way it’s kind of exhilarating. Can my powers of denial last the entire ride? I see the sign for Brian’s Motorcycles and am relieved to be traveling on Route 1 at a mere 45 mph.

It’s 10:30. I hop off the bike and am out of my biker clothes in two seconds.

Brian’s Motorcycles is a way cool place. They have about a hundred motorcycles on display. There is every kind of imaginable household item, motorcycle equipment, and article of clothing with HARLEY DAVIDSON emblazoned on it. I spend about twenty minutes hobbling around admiring the machines. I couldn’t bring my cane on the bike, so walking is a little tricky. Which Harley should I get? That little purple bike is cute. Does a biker chick choose her bike because it’s cute? Time to leave Brian’s.

It’s 10:50, Tom has his new goggles. We suit up and head for Elwood’s house.

 Elwood is with a guy named George now, so I say hello and introduce myself. It doesn’t seem like these guys go out of their way for introductions. Is this a biker thing? A guy thing? What? Elwood’s dog comes running up to me again, but I’m a quick learner. I turn my back to him and hobble to a bench while the guys discuss motorcycle stuff. After about 15 minutes of looking at the bike and checking various parts they decide it’s time to hit the road. Oh great, finally, we’re heading for the river.

Wrong.

 We’re on the road for about ten minutes and I sense that the river is in the opposite direction. That’s because we’re now pulling into another driveway. Now what? A man named Pete proceeds to pull out 3 motorcycles from his garage. Robbie, Tom, Elwood, George, and Pete all confer on which would be the best one to ride. Twenty minutes later I’m putting the helmet, goggles, and jacket on again and hoping that we are actually going to begin our ride. How many times will I have to do this? I’m tired from just getting on and off the bike and zipping and unzipping my jacket. I’ve mounted and dismounted the bike thirty two times. I can put the goggles, helmet, and jacket on with record speed.

 It’s now 12:00; three hours later than when I first pulled up at Robbie’s house. We haven’t gone more than 3 miles!!!

Robbie assures me that this is it. We’re on the highway headed for the ride of a lifetime.

While traveling on Route 1, I notice an older man in a car next to us. I smile at him and wave. Is this biker etiquette? I’m feeling pretty darn cool sitting on the back of this hog and I want to share my excitement with someone. A friendly little wave from a “biker chick” may make this man’s day. He blushes and smiles back. Oh yeah, I’m bad.

By now we’re on Route 29 on the Jersey side of the river. It’s a beautiful day and I’m enjoying the scenery. Sweet scents of honeysuckle and raspberries perfume the air. It’s a caravan with the 5 of us on the road and we’re cruising along. Now that we’re finally “riding” I’m really enjoying it. I am a Motorcycle Mama!!! I start thinking that maybe Paul should sell his airplane and we should buy a Harley. We could spend hours on the road seeing America; seeing it at a height of 6 inches rather than 6,000 feet. This is thrilling. Robbie keeps checking to make sure I’m okay. He really wants me to enjoy this ride. After about an hour and a half I ask if we’ll be stopping soon because I need a bathroom break. He motions to the guys that I need to go to the bathroom and we should pull over at the next gas station.

I feel a little embarrassed, but surely one of them will have to go too, won’t they? No. It seems I’m the only one who can’t control her bladder. We pull into a Sunoco station in Lambertville and I wait in line to use the facilities. Somebody in the bathroom is taking a really long time and I have to wait for 15 minutes before it’s my turn. I feel badly that I’ve delayed them. One of the guys, Tom or Pete, (not sure which one) asks if I have bad knees and that’s why I have trouble walking. Robbie politely explains to them about the MS. Great, I can use the handicapped thing as an excuse and maybe they won’t be so annoyed by the delay.

It’s about 1:30 now and I’m starting to get a little hungry. The grapes and shredded wheat were a long time ago.

After some conferring the guys decide that we’ll continue up Route 29 to Frenchtown, cross over the Delaware River to Pont Pleasant and stop at The Beehive for something. Something to eat I hope. Great idea.  Cute little name, The Beehive. Maybe I can get some brie cheese with fruit? Some French bread maybe?

We pull into the parking lot of The Beehive and there are 18 Harleys lined up in the parking lot. Dismount. Disrobe. My legs are stiff and it’s difficult to walk, but as I enter the dimly lit “restaurant” I quickly realize that The Beehive is a biker bar. Okay, switch gears. I’ll settle for a burger instead of the fruit and cheese plate. How many times can I be wrong in one day? This biker bar doesn’t serve food and it’s full of tattooed, mustached, long-haired biker people. And that’s only the women! I’m a little cranky.

The guys order drinks; a diet Coke for me. I’m surprised that they all order soda or water since I thought for sure they’d want a cold beer. When I ask why no one gets a beer, Elwood explains that he’s on two wheels and “when you’re on two wheels, you can’t afford to drink”. This is admirable, except I now notice that Robbie’s drinking a Michelob. Doesn’t Robbie feel the same way about safety precautions and driving a motorcycle as Elwood does?  I guess not. Oh well, it’s just one beer. He should be okay. We sit around a table and chat for a little while.

Well the guys chat, no one is really talking to me. No matter, I try to enter the conversation. I ask how long they’ve all been riding.  Elwood, George, and Pete each have been riding for 35 years or more. Tom’s been riding for 30. Robbie shocks the daylights out of me and tells me he’s been riding for less than a year. In fact, he says: “You’re the first person I’ve taken for a pleasure ride”. Did I hear him correctly? One year? First passenger? Oh my God, I’m with a rookie. A rookie that had a beer, no less.

Well there’s nothing I can do about it now. I’m in Point Pleasant, about 30 miles from home. I’m starving. The diet coke just wasn’t filling enough. Everything hurts. My sit-bones are sore from hours of sitting. My thigh muscles are spastic from holding that provocative position that is required for bike riding. How long can I keep my legs spread apart? We’ve been riding for two solid hours. Can I just hold out for a little longer? I telephone home and whine to Paul. I’m tired, sore, and hungry. Paul tells me to just sit down and he’ll come and get me. I can’t do that. Robbie has been so kind and attentive. If I tell him that I’m done riding and I’m just going to wait for my husband, he’ll feel badly. He’s gone to a lot of trouble to make sure I’m comfortable and he’s asked me every ten minutes if I’m okay. I can’t ruin his day by dropping out of the caravan.

It’s 2:45. I put the biker clothes back on and climb back on the bike.

We start our return trip home. Surely I will only have to endure another 45 minutes of pain and hunger. I can do it. As we get closer to home, Robbie asks if it would be okay if we stop at The Road House before we quit riding. He tells me it’s a great place. I’m exhausted but I can’t say no. The fatigue from the MS is really getting to me and I should say no to The Road House, but I don’t want to disappoint Robbie. Besides, I’m hoping we’ll finally get something to eat and I need to use the bathroom. What the heck. What’s one more stop? I guess Robbie has forgotten that I want to be home by 3:00. 

We pull into The Road House and I only see a handful of bikes in the parking lot along with some cars. I hope that this isn’t another biker bar. Then I notice the picture of the Harley on the tavern sign. Here we go again. As I walk into the bar, this place seems a lot brighter than the other bar we visited. There are windows at least. The bartender is eating a sandwich; this is a good sign. I head to the ladies room and tell Robbie that I’ll order when I come back.

My spirits are starting to brighten. It feels good to be off the bike sitting in a chair with a backrest. I’ve enjoyed the ride. The day has been a great experience and fun. Even uneventful……that is, uneventful until a woman from the bar comes up behind me, taps me on the shoulder and says: “I just couldn’t let you go around like this without telling you. You’ve got toilet paper stuck to the seat of your pants.” OK. How mortified can I be? I’m in my second biker bar with a bunch of motorcycle junkies. I’ve been trying to act cool all day and pass for a biker chick and I have toilet paper stuck to my jeans!!! My coolness factor has just bottomed out. This can’t really be happening to me. I skulk back to the bathroom wishing I could just vaporize into thin air.

Now I’m grateful that these guys have barely talked to me. No one comments about my embarrassing situation or even snickers. Whether they noticed my predicament or not, I don’t care, I just want to order lunch, eat, and go home. I notice that everyone is drinking a beer now. I ask for a menu and I’m told the kitchen doesn’t open for another hour.

I am in Hell. Dear God, what have I done to deserve such punishment?

I order a glass of water and pray that Robbie finishes his beer quickly and we can head home. But no, it’s not to be. Robbie orders another round of drinks and I realize that I now will be a passenger on a motorcycle with a rookie driver who’s had 3 beers! I’m going to die! Eventually the group decides to call it a day.

It’s 4:10. I get on the bike and go through my dressing routine for the last time.

Within 20 minutes I recognize Robbie’s street and see my Solara parked out front. After a few minutes of goodbyes and handshakes, Robbie leans in, gives me a hug, and whispers: “What happened on the ride should just stay out there on the road. No need to mention anything to my wife”. I panic and think that maybe I blacked out and something took place that I should feel guilty about. Robbie adds “You know about the smoking and drinking. Don’t say anything about that”. Oh no, now I’m being placed in the position of keeping Robbie’s drinking and smoking habits a secret from his wife. This is just too much. I just nod and say “sure” trying to be the cool biker chick. The whole day’s events just got a little weirder.

No matter, I head home to Huntingdon Valley. The first thing I do is call Paul on the cell phone and start crying: “I’m tired, I’m sore, and I’m hungry. Help me”. Paul directs me to a WAWA that is nearby and I hurry inside for something to eat. I quickly get back in the car and tear off the wrapper to my sandwich and shove the whole thing into my mouth. Oh it’s good to eat again.

At 5:00 I walk through the door at home. Melanie and Paul instantly take pity on me and recognize that I’m wishing to die. Melanie steers me into bed, helps me off with my sneakers and jeans, and begins to rub my head and neck. All I can say is: “I’m home. This is my bed and my room and I’m never, ever going to leave it again”. My fantasy has played out. But the dreaming is better than the reality. I am not now, or never will be, a Motorcycle Mama. I had an amazing experience thanks to Robbie but the leather pants will just have to wait. I drift off to sleep thinking that I must remember to tell Paul not to sell his plane. Hey, how would I look in an aviator’s jacket with a flowing silk scarf?