I saw them in Cleveland the fall of 2008 – a blonde, a brunette and a redhead flying west on Rt. 90. Single file and long hair streaming, the three women were comfortable not only in their own skin but on their own bikes. A freeze frame of feminine freedom locked into my memory bank.
Pride rose up through my middle. Women on their own bikes going where they wanted to go. Riding pillion is a true joy but I wanted to be like them – in control. So I signed up for the motorcycle safety course at Lakeland set for mid-July. My class would meet on two consecutive Sundays starting at 7:30 in the morning and hopefully end before the July sun consumed us.
The heat was physically overwhelming on that asphalt lot. I was sure I was going to melt right off the little Rebel 250 that was doing its best to support me. I did fall once but I did not drive off into the woods or weeds fringing the parking lot as did some classmates. My hands ached from nonstop death grips on the clutch and throttle. The bulky toes of my bike boots wouldn't fit under the tiny shift lever and I couldn't feel the brake pedal at all. I despaired. How could I possibly succeed at this class let alone ever zoom on my own down a curving country road. It would be easier to just quit. Maybe sign up for an early spring or fall class where at least the temperature wasn't an additional obstacle.
Our class was a few members lighter the second Sunday but I was there. No one died or even fainted. We finished with varying degrees of confidence and skill. I remember commanding myself to pass that last skills test, the combination of all tasks learned, and gritting my teeth while swiping at the sweat getting into my eyes. Lo and behold – I was the only one in my class to get a PERFECT score. HAH! Who da guessed? I was so shocked when the instructor announced it that my response is not printable here.
So – in the summer of 2009 I got my motorcycle license just days after turning 48. Too cool. I was ecstatic. Practicing on my husband's cruiser through the fall last year has made me more confident and now I'm hungry for my own bike.
In May of last year The Motorcycle Industry Council reported female ownership of motorcycles increased from 9.6 percent in 2003 up to 12.3 percent in 2008. If you want to talk big numbers, here's some - women accounted for 23 percent, or 5.7 million, of the 25 million Americans who rode a motorcycle in 2008. Not bad. But here's my question – since women make up more than half of the population why are we such a minority when it comes to riding?
I acknowledge that there are some very valid reasons which I may cover here in future posts. Right now I'd just like to get those who can to do some thinking.
Calling all women who don't ride – since March is Women's History Month why not make some new exhilarating personal history? While there are plenty of avenues to do just that please consider taking hold of the handlebars of a motorcycle. Don't know where to start? There are a myriad of resources to help us – websites, guidebooks, reports, etc. – covering good bike choices, safety, equipment and much more. But I'll tell you right now – you've got to want to –really want to. Passion for the task carries you through the tough spots and the burden of responsibility when riding.
Harley Davidson does it right by offering "Garage Parties" at local dealerships where women can meet to talk about gear, best bikes and other matters interesting to current or potential female riders. Our very own local Western Reserve Harley Davidson is hosting one on March 25, 2010. Visit Garage Party for more info and then call Patti at WRHD, 440-974-6900, to sign up. I plan to be there.
As for pride in my ride I think it may take me some time to find the right bike – or for the right bike to find me. But I'm enjoying the journey to that moment when my hands are on the handlebars and my not-so-long hair is flopping out from under my full face helmet. More on that as we go along – together through this blog.
No comments:
Post a Comment