I started riding when I was twenty-one, and at the time the only thing I knew about motorcycles was that I didn’t want to be someone else’s passenger. The first motorcycle I bought was beautiful and tiny: a Honda Rebel 250 with an electric blue paint job and a speedometer that worked sporadically. It fit me perfectly. Over the course of the first summer I rode it, I was excited to experiment with taking passengers—mostly women, as small and light as I am, but once I took a man who must’ve weighed almost two hundred pounds around the block and vowed never to subject my cycle or my nerves to such an imposition again. By the time the next summer rolled around, I’d been dating an equally large man for a few months who thought that my motorcycle was pretty sexy and my leather jacket was even sexier. When I offered to teach him, he had zero interest in learning how to ride himself—what he did have an interest in was riding bitch. He enjoyed the idea of zipping through town on the back of my Rebel: this comparatively enormous man, so hairy he must have had a grizzly bear in his family tree somewhere, perched precariously on the back of my itty bitty motorcycle, hanging on for dear life.
I was hesitant to try this with him. I remembered white-knuckling my previous male passenger around a sleepy residential block and had serious doubts about taking this hulking man into downtown traffic. But, even I couldn’t deny that the aesthetics would be delightful. One day we decided to give it a try. A friend lent him a goofy-looking helmet, something a motorcycle cop might wear, which he paired with mirrored aviators and bushy facial hair. I turned the Rebel around in the driveway, headlight facing the busy road I lived on at the time, and he got on. Immediately the shocks compressed and the entire bike sank toward the gravel. The driveway was long, and so we rode the length of it together, but by the time we reached the end I’d realized this was a truly stupid idea. I could barely maneuver the bike with so much weight on it and just coming to a stop at the end of the driveway was a nightmarish balancing act. I put the Rebel in neutral and turned to him.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t think this is going to work.”
He got off, a little disappointed but probably also a little relieved. The Rebel sprang back into her correct shape. For a minute I thought about parking the motorcycle and riding another day, but the hum of the engine was too delicious—it would be a shame to waste such a perfect afternoon. Just a quick one, I told myself. I gave the boyfriend a wave, knocked the bike into first gear, and shouted that I’d be back soon, then zipped out into traffic. The Rebel and I roared into town, passing slow-pokes, revving at all the stop lights, taking the turns sharp and low. No baggage, no bitches, just us.
My fourth motorcycle was a different kind of beast. With a 750cc engine it was bigger, louder, and far better suited for heavy loads—except, I wasn’t so interested in carrying passengers anymore. I had a different kind of adventure in mind. I removed both the sissy bar and the passenger’s seat altogether to make room for gear instead of people, and as I was loosening the screws that connected the black passenger’s seat to the cherry red fender, it hit me: this machine was all mine. I was past showboating, past wanting to share my new passion with other people. This motorcycle was just for me. As I removed the physical space where another person might sit, my metaphysical self expanded to fill the gap left behind. The truth was, I hadn’t been interested in taking passengers for a while, but removing that seat made it official. My love of motorcycles had ceased to be about other people and how I wanted them to perceive me; by then it was about who I actually was, and better yet, who I wanted to become. I stopped revving my engine at stoplights because I no longer cared if the pedestrians waiting to cross looked at me and thought, cool. The self-consciousness I’d begun with was slowly seeping away.
Later that year, after a month on the road with the 750, I had grown tired of navigating unfamiliar traffic, of looking down at the directions taped to my gas tank, of worrying that the car I was about to pass didn’t see me. For once I didn’t want to be in the driver’s seat—so I parked the 750 and rode on the back of my father’s motorcycle for a while. I let him do the worrying and the navigating while I enjoyed the view. Leaning back into the wind, I watched the scenery whip by, or closed my eyes and let the visceral feeling of speed separate from the optics of it. I loosened my grip on the autonomy I’d been clinging to so stubbornly and stopped worrying that without constant vigilance I would somehow lose my sense of self.
I was surprised to find that yielding my chokehold on this illusion of control, this lone wolf pride I used to hold so dear, didn’t diminish me—it made me bigger, stronger, and way more fun to be around. We’re all riding bitch in one way or another and that’s not something I can change—hell, it’s not something I would want to change. It’s been five years since I took my first passengers on that little Rebel, but since then I’ve come to realize that sometimes being an independent, grown-ass woman means letting someone else drive.
Tags: feminism, lily brooks-dalton, motorcycles, writing
I loved this piece and its depiction of increasing self-confidence, but I have to admit that the term “riding bitch” makes my skin crawl. It just seems so deeply misogynist. The equation of passenger/passive = woman = bitch, just, ew.
I’d be curious to hear the author’s thoughts on the term – does it seem problematic to you? Or do you feel like you’re reclaiming it?
You make a good point, but I think using the term to describe male passengers on a female powered vehicle turns the expectations of the reader upside-down and that’s always a good thing… in general, I find the world of motorcycles pretty misogynistic and having an irreverent sense of humor about it usually feels like the best response.
lol i kind of love that the name for various motorcycle parts are just arbitrarily misogynist terms. “Climb onto the bitch bucket and wrap your hands around the cunt thwacker, I’m stepping on the tit throttler!” like why bro
i mean i know why and the answer rhymes with “smisogyny”
cunt thwacker
I must admit to being curious about your experiences (if any) with the larger bike-riding community. I’ve seen just enough of it to be, well, mega-turned off by the “smisogyny”. But since I have a very hard time being in those sorts of spaces at all, I’m always fascinated and impressed by the women who can handle it. Your use of the term here both seems very deft and aware of its baggage, but the reminder of the term’s existence still triggered my “bleh” face.
Guess I’ll have to go find the book, huh. 😛
I ride behind my Beloved on his beautiful bike. Tall and bulky, with a bristly goatee, he looks the part. When on a group ride, someone will inevitably make some condescending remark refering to his rider (me), because the culture is sexist. I love his natural, consistent response. He allows a short silence, to force eye contact. Then he throws back his head and lets out a loud belly laugh. Those poor saps are too stupid to know how fierce his wife is!
That’s not “the culture”, that’s the people you are riding with. The group I ride with wouldn’t think of demeaning a woman, either riding pillion or piloting herself.
I am grateful to hear that. Sadly outside my experience, so far.
Yeaaaaaahhhh but it is the culture. I’m so glad you ride with awesome people, though! That’s fantastic!
Yeah. It is THE CULTURE. In America at least (the only culture I can speak for) the culture is rife with smisogyny. That doesn’t excuse it; and it is an embarrassment to motorcycling, but people can’t blame (or be forgiven for) bad behavior on a “culture”.
I’ve always referred the male passenger on my rides as riding “cupcake”. They never complained…from what I could hear.
Although the term doesn’t bother me one way or the other, my father let that slip in front of other adult relatives of mine . . . ONCE – in the 70’s… when women were starting to push back against those old stereotypes. Since then, my whole family refers to it as, “Who’s gonna be the luggage?” That makes me laugh. Luggage in the positive sense is important and when we take it with us, we guard it. As a little girl, I thoroughly enjoyed my father, who somehow seemed taller and stronger and more awe-inspiring as he straddled his enormous Goldwing calling me his most precious luggage as he cinched the chin-strap down. Good memories. 😀
Riding passenger on my Dad’s motorcycle is one of my favourite treats, and has been since I was about 9. I haven’t gotten my own M license yet because – to be honest – I prefer not having to worry and think about other traffic, turns, road conditions, blah blah. I don’t think I’d feel the same freedom driving that I do in the back seat.
Oh no that above sentence makes me look like I have to turn in my strong independent beyoncette card. 😐 It’s like having a chauffeur, okay? All powerful women have chauffeurs!
From a dad whos wife (in good faith) will not allow herself or our children to ride with me. I am envious of the grin on your fathers face.
“Sissy bar”: so THAT’S what that thing is called. I agree with betsaroo above that that and “riding bitch” are pretty… awkward. “Ape hanger” for a high handlebar is great, though.
I am too scared of being on a motorcycle, but I appreciate your passion!
“We’re all riding bitch in one way or another” YOU ARE PERFECT TO ME
just gonna alternate between making ‘vroom vroom’ sounds and saying “RIGHTEOUS” and “THAT’S BITCHIN’ MAN” for the rest of the afternoon
And trying to figure out how to look that cool in a leather jacket.
No no. You are making the jacket look cool.
When I got my helmet in preparation for my motorcycle safety class, I just sat around in my apartment making vroom vroom noises for the better part of an hour. It was amazing. I still do this occasionally.
I was briefly filled with hate at the phrase “revving at all the traffic lights” but surmounted that to love the turn of the piece in the last paragraph!
note to all motorcyclists, who I am sure lurk this website religiously: nobody is thinking you’re cool when you rev your engine whilst at traffic lights. they are thinking that you’re annoying. this piece was great though!
Ahem…it may not be about annoying you. I’ve ridden vintage bikes that you /had/ to keep reved, or the engine would die. Just all part of the charm.
why do you have to be so reasonable!!! I prefer to think that everything that annoys me is specifically being done to annoy me
What is the reasoning behind my neighbor revving his motorcycle for like ten minutes before he leaves [at 6:15, sometimes 5:15] in the morning? Regardless, I hope he dies a fiery death and has time as he’s flying over his handlebars to contemplate what a douche he was for wearing an American flag bandana instead of a helmet and waking up everyone in every apartment that faces his garage every morning god I hate him.
Diagnosis: micropenis
Also, did you know that every time you rev, your penis grows just a little bit? Well, you do now!
Carburetor needs more air, mix gets too gas-heavy at prolonged idle.
But going vroom is fun.
Brings back great memories of riding on the back of my own Dad’s motorcycle! I was never really into the idea of trying to control his giant Honda on my own, but cruisin’ around backwoods Pennsylvania was incredible fun and I still have a fondness for motorcycles and motorcyclers!
My dorky dad rode motorcycles all through my childhood, partly as a concession to the gas crisis, partly for economy, and — surely, based on his uncharacteristic indulgence of having more than one at a time — partly as a gesture of some masculinity that was outside his bookish, nebbishy, “gentlemanly” experience of life. It was a great treat to ride with Dad: for the breezy, small adventure of vrooming along in the open air, yeah, but also because with five kids in the family, just getting away alone with a parent was special.
Ok I rev my scooter at traffic lights because sometimes it stalls otherwise. It is not to look badass, my helmet has Sailor Moon stickers on it and I cannot go faster than 45 mph.
but yes to Hondas, yes to bikes with giant piles of baggage on them because YOU ARE CLEARLY GOING SOMEWHERE FUN
And now I really want to date a biker dude. Or a biker woman. The bike is the important part.
A great piece, though.
This is perfect — I love the encapsulation of the control issues.
I always equate being the passenger on a motorcycle as similar to being on a roller-coaster — part of the thrill for me is the lack of control and not knowing what’s coming next (being on the back of motorcycle taxis in Bangkok traffic has its own special excitement). Whereas driving is the complete feeling of freedom.
This is perfect — I love the encapsulation of the control issues.
I always equate being the passenger on a motorcycle as similar to being on a roller-coaster — part of the thrill for me is the lack of control and not knowing what's coming next (being on the back of motorcycle taxis in Bangkok traffic has its own special excitement). Whereas driving is the complete feeling of freedom.
My dad bought his first in-my-lifetime bike when I was a freshman in college, and I used to beg to ride with him. I even went on a charity run with him once, and that was great because the rest of the group lost us and since we knew our way around the county, we took the lead for a good fifteen miles.
I still have all my own gear, and since dad’s tinnitus has rendered him incapable of riding, I’m tempted to buy his bike off of him – but I need to take the rider safety course and get my license first.
Thank you so much for bringing back these fond memories.
My dad bought his first in-my-lifetime bike when I was a freshman in college, and I used to beg to ride with him. I even went on a charity run with him once, and that was great because the rest of the group lost us and since we knew our way around the county, we took the lead for a good fifteen miles.
I still have all my own gear, and since dad's tinnitus has rendered him incapable of riding, I'm tempted to buy his bike off of him – but I need to take the rider safety course and get my license first.
Thank you so much for bringing back these fond memories.
This was great.
(If any of you bikers are ever in NW Connecticut, be sure to make a pitstop at the Toymaker's Cafe in Falls Village! The owner runs a side business selling vintage British motorcycle parts, and it is the cutest biker/AT thru-hiker cafe you will ever find. And the waffles are amazing.)
I really like how you got into the issue if being in control! Before I started riding myself I was perfectly fine in the backseat…now I can Harley stand it. But then again I’m a backseat driver in the car too…
Thank you for this article, I’m going to look for your book
And just an FYI… A crying baby is louder than a motorcycle.
Looks like they’re roughly the same: http://www.chchearing.org/noise-center-home/facts…
I’d rather hear a motorcycle, though!
Maybe, but the baby doesn’t go away as quickly. 😉
And some motorcycles are quiet. Our gorgeous, lightning-fast Aprilia has a most civilized purr.
I’m currently a backseat rider on my boyfriend’s old BMW, and I think it’s great! A very small part of my brain wants to do the driving, so we’ll see if that turns into anything.
I have my license, and I’m STILL terrified to ride a motorcycle — but, like, terrified in an “I totally want to do this right now” way. Then again, I don’t have a bike, and I’m not even sure I could get it going if it were right in front of me — it’s been a few years.
I like you big-bike kit, smart not to have side bags. This looks easier to balance. And love the shot with your Dad, it radiates happiness from you both.
He’s very cute but please remind him to wear his boots. Sneakers-bad.
This was perfect to me. Working with some grief right now, and trying to shake loose my perceptions of control, and I just bough my first motorcycle as well. I’m going to come back and read this over and over.
I just got my motorcycle license and this makes me feel so excited about the prospect of really getting to know and ride a bike, versus the anxiety I’ve felt about looking stupid if I stall out or accidentally Fred Flinstone at a red light. Thank you!
I just got my motorcycle license and this makes me feel so excited about the prospect of really getting to know and ride a bike, versus the anxiety I've felt about looking stupid if I stall out or accidentally Fred Flinstone at a red light. Thank you!
I’m moving back to my home state soon, having been living in Sydney for four years. For the entirety of this time, my bike has been under a cover in my shed, because I am terrified of the way they drive in NSW and can’t find my way around on the ridiculous sprawling roads system (I come from a planned city where everything is a grid aligned to the cardinal points).
So. Psyched. To go. Home. And ride.
You are a terrific writer and this post makes me happy, despite my current hatred of motorcycles (this due solely to the jackass who lives next door and revs/runs his collection under my window seemingly every time I am trying to study). Is there an actual reason he needs to do this that I would be best not being ignorant of?
Yes! I have done this. If it's an older bike, that's sometimes what it needs to warm up. Or sometimes there's gunk in there and it's taking a long time to start or clear out. I can almost guarantee you that he isn't just trying to piss you off! Lately, my bike has been super finicky and I need to rev it wayyyyy up in order to keep it from stalling out as soon as I start moving. You could try asking him if the noise is happening while he's working on the bikes, and if you could work out a time of day to be a "no loud bikes" time so that you can study – it's very unlikely that he's trying to piss you off.
Potential diagnosis: it's chilly out and he's warming it up. Some old bikes need that. Could you ask him to keep the door halfway shut while he's warming it up?
Also, man, I am really glad I don't have to get up and and head to work at 5am.
Great article 🙂 I like the idea that surrendering control of a situation can be harder then doing everything yourself, but that you also might need to do the alone thing before you’re ready for that. As a self-acknowledged control freak this is something I’ve learned the hard way.
Also, yay bikes. I inherited an ancient moped – a rather hilarious piece of junk, older than me, makes 25mph on a good day. But, it has two wheels and a motor and well, the seed has been planted. :B I’m definitely going to get a real bike once I have the money.
Well, darn. Now I can't be mad at him. Hey, thanks for the info! Very helpful!
Haha. Well, I'm not saying bikers can't ALSO be jerks…