I DID want to teach myself how to ride harder and faster, and I DID put in the time. I did hang out with the bad boys who I admired for the way they rode and the freedom of the lifestyle they had chosen. I wished that I could afford a cool Harley-Davidson, but at the time, I thought that dream might not ever be my reality. So I set out to have the coolest bike I could afford. My Honda was green when I bought it, and I painted it flat black, and later white. I reupholstered my bench seat with REAL leather instead of pleather! I flat-blacked every chrome and aluminum part. I was actually really proud of my work. And I had little white go-go boots that matched my tank…just like Nancy Sinatra.
Those Hells Angels who I was afraid might smash my little bike with baseball bats said, “At least you’re ridin’ sister.” When I did move up from that Honda, it was to a bigger Honda 1100, and I was equally proud of that bike, and changed every part of the bike a dozen or so times, with shiny, flamed Arlen Ness accessories. So I did try the shiny thing…
Looking back, I don’t feel the least bit embarrassed by those years. It took those years to get to where I am now. I know I am stronger for every mistake and bad choice I ever made. I DID set out to ride faster and crazier than any man in town. I DID feel the need to test my own limits of physical endurance, and I proved to myself that I CAN withstand ridiculous amounts of physical torture, and endure prolonged periods of absolute misery. In search of myself and the woman I wanted to be, I put myself through HELL! But is being able to withstand misery the true test, in the journey to be able to call yourself a true Biker?
Is a young girl on a little white Honda, a “BIKER” in your mind? Or do REAL bikers only ride Harleys? Am I any less of a “BIKER” if I trailer my chopper from California to Sturgis? When the rally is over I continue on to Minnesota to pick up my Pa with Parkinson’s disease to enjoy our now annual road trip back to Wyoming where we visit my deputy sheriff, brother Joe. Oh no, I won’t be able to buy the sticker this year that says, “I rode mine.” Oh well, the dozen or so times I DID ride, and I didn’t buy that sticker.
I feel the need to defend my brothers, my sisters and my friends who ride Hondas, Kawasakis, or any bike other than a Harley-Davidson. I even feel the need to defend those who have chosen Sportsters. I feel the need to defend the weekend warrior, and any friend who trailers their bike to any event. Because I feel like EVERY person who has taken that first step to learn to ride is a part of this family. They share the original feeling we ALL had to step out of the box, and go looking for ourselves…looking for adventure, and whatever comes our way.
Everyday I see a world divided by war and hatred. We segregate ourselves in the name of religion, politics, nationality, skin color, age, sex, education, economic status, even beauty…the list is endless! When I first became a biker (which Webster’s dictionary defines as any person on a motorcycle), I felt like I became a part of one of the most unique families on the planet!
I always KNEW I was slightly different than most of the people around me. I had a wild streak. Not wild in the sense of drinking, smoking, doing drugs and partying all night. I felt wild, like a wild Mustang. Like I did not want to be controlled, told what to do, or forced to live a certain lifestyle, just because it is what you are expected to do. Feeling “accepted” by the biker culture gave me a base to explore my individuality. Going to Sturgis for the first time and seeing all of the eccentric individuals on Main Street was a memorable and liberating moment.
This was a culture that ACCEPTED you for EVERYTHING that was NOT like the others. In fact, they celebrated it! I was drawn into the world of motorcycles because you could be exactly who you are, no matter how weird, or ugly, or imperfect that was. I have gone to Sturgis completely alone many years and never felt lonely or afraid, because I felt like I was among family. I have always felt like every person on any road on anything from a moped to a Boss Hoss shares my fundamental love of the road. I could talk to any person on a bike about their favorite road, their experience of learning to ride, the wildlife they’ve seen, the people they’ve met, the mistakes they’ve made, the best sunrise, the best sunset…
I am GRATEFUL for the thousands of people who embraced me when I was a goofy girl on a Honda in go-go boots. I will forever consider any person on any bike, my BIKER friend. After so many years of riding, it seems odd to me to come up against an attitude. If I trailer my bike, or if I am with someone on a bike who doesn’t “fit in”, or if I haven’t been riding as often as I used to, I am not living the “BIKER” lifestyle every single day anymore, so does that make me a poser?
Aren’t we Bikers all a bunch of misfits on some level, and shouldn’t we all continue to celebrate our common bond, rather than segregate. We are all facing different stages of our lives, and levels of available time, money and strength to do what we love doing?
Most recently some friends and I set out to attend a gathering of some of the coolest cats out there on some of the coolest bikes in the country. The third annual Choppertown Campground in Black Canyon City of Arizona is a weekend event held by Pinky Pancake and Long John just 45 miles north of Phoenix. Our hosts with the most, the infamous Jack Schit & his beautiful wife, Lady Diane, encouraged us to deviate from attending Arizona Bike Week again, and check out a smaller venue of friends who gather at Kid Chilleen’s Bad Ass BBQ Steakhouse.
My friend Masyn came out from Boulder Colorado, and my friend Qian rode out from Los Angeles, California. My boyfriend Mark and I came from western Colorado, and all met up the day before at the Schit compound in Mesa, Arizona.
You’d think Arizona in mid April would be nothing less than long days in the blazing sun. But in 2011 riding through Monument Valley to get to Arizona Bike Week, we rode in 30-degree weather and wore down jackets and Ugg boots! This year, we anticipated the possibility of less than perfect weather, and packed and prepared for the worst. But once we were at Jack and Diane’s comfortable pad and realized that rain was in the forecast for the bulk of the weekend, we had wishy-washy feelings about camping in the rain, when we had such cushy accommodations just down the road.
It was hard to believe that it could or would be dismal just up the hill when we woke up to yet another perfect Mesa day. We struggled with what to bring to the extent that Jack’s driveway looked like a massive garage sale.
We had stayed up to the middle of the night gabbing with our hosts, who we see all too little of. Hence, we got off to a late start, and missed hooking up with Pinky & John’s group, and were forced to try to find them along the route up to Prescott, Arizona. Our host Jack injured his back wresting alligators, or something crazy like that, so he was unable to serve as tour guide.
We rode off in the direction of Prescott, knowing we couldn’t miss this group of vintage riders. But within minutes of climbing up Hwy 17, our sunshine disappeared, and every piece of clothing came out. By the time Pinky and John’s group passed us at a gas station just leaving Prescott, we were all so cold and hungry we needed to hunker down, thaw out, and eat.
In search of Qian’s daily requirement of fried rice, we made a few wrong turns, and illegal change of directions, and Qian paid the price for this one! Woooooooooo that made her mad! By the time we got done eating, the sun slipped behind the hills, the weather was still ornery, and we were off to hook up with our friend Milwaukee Mike back at the Schit compound, and we hadn’t even seen Choppertown Camparound yet, other than passing it on the freeway. We decided to ride up with Mike & friends the next day, and just enjoy the hospitality of our friends for the evening.
We collected at our new pal Kevin’s place the next day, and rode up with a group of Arizona riders who traveled at warp speed thru the super windy city. A badass boy on a badass chopper riding in front of me literally had pieces flying off of his bike. He rode with one hand at 90 miles-an-hour, while the other hand was trying to stop the pieces from flying off of his bike. I am not sure exactly what golf ball sized part almost hit my head, but he did eventually make it to the campground, with a little help from some friends!
We stopped at a local bike hang halfway up the mountain, and finally made it to Choppertown Camparound just before the sunset! Yes, it took us all weekend to get from Mesa, to Black Canyon City, just a few miles up the hill! Whatever…don’t be hatin’ us!
This desert mountain destination is a perfect spot for a group of riding friends to hang out all night, eat, party and hang by the campfire into the wee hours of the night. There is plenty of space for tents to spread out, and the scenery is beautiful in every direction for day ride destinations.
The restaurant food and atmosphere was awesome, and in addition to the bar and music, everyone had their own mug of Moonshine in their hand. The group of riders who gathered from all around the state and country were really down to earth, cool Bikers.
I wish the weather had been better, and that we had more time to spend. My friends and I all felt disappointed. We didn’t get to ride and spend as much time with Pinky, John and friends as we had set out to, like we had failed our mission. But I’ve always felt that the key to enjoying any motorcycle adventure lies in enjoying exactly what DOES happen, rather than whine about what doesn’t go as planned. Because really, how many bike trips go exactly as planned?
So what makes a Biker a Biker? Bikers come from every walk of life. I’ve met and made friends with bikers from countries all over the world! Of every race, nationality, age, sex, every occupation and income bracket. I’d like to think that it’s not about the bike, how fast or how far you ride, the amount of miles you’ve logged, or the destinations you’ve seen. It’s not a test, of physical endurance or mental strength… We are not prospecting.
Isn’t it about a hunger, a desire for freedom and adventure? We could choose to focus on all of the different levels of “commitment” that we have to this “lifestyle.” We could segregate and divide ourselves accordingly. Or we could respect and appreciate that the simple love of the road unseen makes this a brotherhood unlike any other. United we stand, divided we are just like the rest of the world…segregated by hatred.
I hope Choppertown Camparound continues in the years to come, as the Arizona riding is some of the most beautiful in the country. I’d like to do it again and spend days riding to Sedona, Jerome, Tombstone, and more. In the end, I enjoyed meeting new friends, and hanging with old. Isn’t that what it’s really all about? It’s got to be the goin’, not the getting there that’s good. Thanks for having us Pinky Pancake & Long John! Hope to see ya’ll next year, and somewhere on the road in-between.
Thanks Jack & Diane! If you ever find yourself feeling like you don’t know shit, log on to:
