I celebrate my forty-seventh birthday earning my motorcycle license. I straddle the small Honda Rebel and grip the handlebars. I lay my left hand on the clutch and pull in the brake with my right. I have practiced swerving and dipping around the plastic orange cones of the riding course for two weekends. The morning sun rising over the mountains behind me warms my shoulders through my leather coat. My head bobbles from the weight of the full helmet I’m required to wear. The rider before me finishes the course.
Last night I talked to Stephanie on the phone, and she told me she tells her friends, “If my mom can ride a Harley, she can do anything.” I use that thought to boost my confidence now.
I pull in the clutch lever and shift up to first gear with my toe. I look at my instructor, who’s writing on his clipboard. He studies me, astride the bike. I nod, and he raises his hand. I lift my left foot onto the peg, resting the weight of the bike on my right foot. He lowers his hand. I accelerate by rolling my right hand forward on the throttle. I take off with a jerk.
I soon get into the rhythm of riding. Accelerate. Lean right. Shift up. Lean left. Shift down. Pump brake. I stop with a tire squeak at the finish line. My instructor, Bill, smiles at me. He knows how nervous I am as the oldest member of the class. He writes my score onto the sheet on his clipboard and then he hands it to me. Ninety-five is written in red at the top. “Highest score in the class.”
I’m ready to ride my first motorcycle solo. An hour later I run in the back door of our small duplex. “I passed with the highest score!”
Dwayne is sitting with a glass of iced tea in front of the television. He jumps up and hugs me. “Let’s go roll that Honda out of the garage.”
We walk down the sidewalk to the garage behind the duplex. With a push of the remote button, the door opens. A small black motorcycle squats beside his Harley. Dwayne bartered some mechanic work for the Honda Shadow. He said he knew I would get my license and needed a motorcycle. I have sat on it every evening, getting used to it. Under his guidance I customized it by switching out some of its Honda components and putting Harley parts on it. I made sure I put a new exhaust on it for the signature Harley sound. He calls it my Hardly Davidson.
He hands me a helmet and gloves he bought me at work. I swing my leg over the Honda and roll it backward down the slope of the driveway. Dwayne fires up his Harley, and we ride to a nearby commuter parking lot. I practice turns and shifting for an hour until it is too dark to continue.
Dwayne sits on a bench by the train platform and watches me. As the darkness settles over us, I see the tip of his cigarette glowing each time I pass.
For the next few months, I ride every afternoon after I finish teaching each day at the nearby high school, and we ride side by side on the straight and curved highways near our town on the weekends. I brave the San Jose traffic one Saturday afternoon and ride to meet Dwayne at the downtown Harley dealership where he works. I shut off the bike and roll it back into the line of Harleys by the front door. The big motorcycles dwarf it. I get off and walk into the store.
My helmet swings in my right hand and bumps against my knee. A line of gleaming motorcycles stretches in front of me. I perform my usual ritual of walking through them and picking the one I might want. I’m ready to move from the Honda to a Harley. Since I am well known in the shop, I can sit on a bright red motorcycle near the front door to see how it feels without finding a salesman. I push back the kickstand and lean it against my right leg. I realize the seat is too high for my short legs. I quickly put the kickstand back down.
I continue to walk down the line of Harleys. I stop in front of a Sportster, the smallest bike Harley makes. Most Harley riders call it a ‘“girl’s bike” because of its small size and light dry weight. One of my friends from the motorcycle class has one. We spend a lot of time picking it up after it falls over on corners. It may not weigh as much as other Harleys, but it is top-heavy.
I feel Dwayne walk up behind me and wrap his arms around me. “You don’t want a Sportster, do you?”
I agree that I don’t. He asks me if I trust him to find me a Harley.
“Of course I do!”
“I will put you on a bike that will fit you like a glove. You don’t need to limit yourself to a small Harley just because it’s what other people say you should ride. You can ride any damned Harley you want.” He’s going to bring one he’s found for me home next weekend, but he wants to keep what model it is a secret until I see it.
The next Saturday I’m sitting on the sidewalk in front of the garage. A red bandana is tied tightly around my hair, and I’m holding my helmet between my knees with my gloves inside. My booted foot taps impatiently on the concrete. I’m waiting for Dwayne to bring my first Harley home. I see his truck curve around the corner near our house. A large black-and-white motorcycle hulks in the back of the truck.
I feel a wave of anxiety and nervousness at the sheer mass of it. Dwayne gets out of the truck and looks at me standing there, clutching my gloves in my hand. He kisses me on the forehead and pushes my helmet onto my head. “Hell, you’re a Harley rider now. Go out there and kick some ass.”
I help him roll the Harley down the ramp from the truck into the street. For the first time, I realize it is a police motorcycle—a Road King with hard saddlebags and a tall windshield on the large front fairing. The Road King displays the black-and-white color scheme of a police Harley-Davidson. The outline of the Mountain View police emblem it once wore peeks from beneath the white paint on the center of the gas tank. The buttons on the handlebars include ones for a siren and flashing lights. I push them experimentally. Dwayne laughs and tells me they’re disconnected, so I won’t be able to lead parades.
I swing my leg over the wide seat and swing both feet up on the wide footboards while Dwayne steadies the front. I perch high above the sidewalk. I put my left foot down, balancing the bulk of the Police Special against my leg. Dwayne squats down by me. He shows me how to work the heel and toe shifter of a Harley. I step down on my heel to move into higher gears and down on the front pedal to move into lower gears.
“Take her off the kickstand, baby.” I push the kickstand back with my left foot. I am standing on my toes, since the motorcycle is too high for me to put my feet down flat. I look at Dwayne, and he nods.
I hit the starter button, and the motor rumbles to life. The motorcycle sways lightly beneath me like some strange beast when the vibration of the motor shakes it and me. I pull up on the shifter into first gear. I accelerate slightly and swing my feet up onto the footboards. The motorcycle surges forward.
I plan to ride through the parking lot of the school across the street on a test ride to see if I can control the heavier bike. I lean slightly left to turn into the driveway. The Harley leans with me. I wiggle my butt, and she sways slightly back and forth with me.
My Harley and I dance together through the parking lot. Wind rushes over the windshield and across my face. Strands of hair tickle the back of my neck as the wind lifts it. I accelerate and shift my way across the parking lot and back into the street.
I slow down in front of our garage and stick up my left hand. Dwayne slaps my palm in a high five and laughs out loud. I ride up and down the streets of our neighborhood for an hour. Each time I pass our garage, I see Dwayne sitting in a lawn chair in the doorway. He waves or gives me a thumbs-up as I roll by him.
Our weekly ritual becomes a Sunday ride. We cross the Golden Gate Bridge. We ride the Pacific Coast Highway from Pismo to San Francisco. We climb our way through Yosemite. I lead the way on the Police Special. He rides beside me on the right. Our motors growl together in a symphony.
A CLOSE CALL
On an early June morning one year after I get my motorcycle license, we are getting ready to ride to Elko, Nevada, for my first motorcycle rally. We will celebrate both my birthday and my first year of riding solo at the Elko Jamboree. The alarm rings at four, but we packed the bikes the night before.
I roll mine out of the garage, and
I pull out the choke slightly and hit the starter. As it warms loudly in the dark, I put on chaps and my leather jacket. I tie my bandana around my hair and cinch on my half helmet. Dwayne does the same by his. I ease my right leg across the seat in front of my tour pack. We ride out of our neighborhood side by side.
As the sun rises in front of us, we begin our ride across the Sierra Nevada mountains. The moist warm wind pushes across my face. The smell of pines and sage fills my nose. The Police Special pulsates below me.
I am leaning into a sharp uphill corner when my front tire hits gravel. The Harley shudders beneath me, and I shift my weight to restore my balance on the bike. At the same moment, the rear tire skids sideways, small rocks flying in every direction. One pings off my helmet. My knees drag the pavement, the denim of my jeans shredding but saving my leg.
My motorcycle instructor Bill’s voice echoes in my ear. You don’t have time for an oh shit moment on a motorcycle. I act without thinking. Push in the opposite direction of the fall. Start shifting down. Do not grab the front brake. Tap the back one. I do all of that at the same time. The Harley pitches back to an erect stance but weaves back and forth at an increased rate of speed, because I am now on the downhill side of the mountain.
Taking a deep breath, I wrestle the handlebars to get the motorcycle back on a straight path again. But now the Harley and I are headed directly toward the edge of the road. Below the brink is nothing but a sheer drop. I hesitate a second to wonder if I should compress the front brake completely. The bike would instantly stop. I would fall off, but that might be a better option. In this brief moment of thinking, out of nowhere a short piece of concrete appears in front of my tire. The motorcycle hits the chunk with a lurch.
But it pushes me away from the edge. I have the Harley back in the center of the road. I am sitting up in the saddle, the bike not leaning beneath me now. I loosen the knots in my shoulders and swing my head a little to relax. Ahead I see another steep curve. I shift up a gear and roll the throttle to accelerate into the curve. My Harley and I swing through it without a pause.
Behind me, I hear Dwayne tap out a beep beep beep signal to congratulate me. Both of us need to stop and to recover. However, nothing but breakneck curves and lofty mountain roads wait for me. I can’t stop until I’m through this part of the mountains. For the next thirty minutes, I shift and power my way over the rest of the twisty two-lane road until we reach the interstate.
I pull into the first gas station. As soon as I stop, I get off and walk with shaky legs to a nearby bench. I lean over my knees and wonder if I’m going to throw up as a wave of nausea hits me.
Dwayne parks by me with a squeal of tires on asphalt. He squats by the bench and rests his hand on my back, rubbing it gently. “That was scariest damn thing I’ve ever seen.”
He takes a deep breath. “You accept the risk of riding when you’re on two wheels. But it’s a whole different thing when the biker is your wife and you’re watching her start to plunge off a mountain.”
He stands and pulls out his pack of cigarettes and taps the bottom repeatedly against the wall. One pops out, but he doesn’t take it. He keeps clicking his lighter with one hand and beating the pack against the block wall rhythmically. “I’ve been riding Harleys forty years, and I’ve never seen anyone do what you just did.” He lights his cigarette and laughs. “I think your mom must have been watching over you and threw that chunk of concrete there to save you.”
I pull him down beside me and stretch out on the bench, my head on his knee. “I’ve never been so afraid in my life.” I take a deep breath. “But I kinda feel proud of myself. I really can ride a bagger Harley.”
We don’t move. Cars and trucks drive in and out of the station. Trees bend back and forth in the light wind. The smell of his cigarette drifts across me. He strokes my hair.
Then I stand up and stretch the kinks out of my muscles. I wipe the sweat off my face with my bandana. Dwayne brings me a bottle of water from the cooler he has strapped onto his back fender.
I walk to my motorcycle and stand by it for a few minutes. Then I pull my helmet in place. “What are you waiting for? Your promised me a steak dinner and a margarita for my birthday.” I swing my leg over the seat and look at him. I point to the shredded knee of my jeans. “You gotta buy me a new pair of jeans too.”
He grins and shakes his head. “Crazy-ass biker.”
Our engines roar to life in unison. We drop over the mountain into the flat desert on our way to Elko, separate but never more together.
MOTHERS
My stepdaughter, Jessica, and I experience our first real mother-daughter connection as we sit side by side in a Santa Cruz tattoo shop. Books of possible designs for our tattoos lie open in our laps. We take turns pointing out the ones we like to each other. I choose a small angel. I want something that will remind me of my mother, who had dozens of angels all over her tiny, cramped house. Jessica wants something with roses and crosses. Dwayne leans against the wall by us. He points to his faded tattoo with a Harley motor on his upper right arm. He warns us to make sure we want to live with it for the rest of our lives.
Then he laughs, “Hell, you know I love the idea of my girls getting tattoos together.”
Jessica takes my hand. “My mom would never let me do this. She sure wouldn’t be doing this with me.”
I feel a moment of pride. Doubt quickly replaces the pride. I fear my newfound independence and confidence has warped my good sense as a mother.
Michael, who will do Jessica’s tattoo, interrupts my second thoughts. He asks Jessica to work with him to sketch out what her tattoo will look like. He flips open the cover on a large notebook. She describes the colors and elements she wants in hers. His pen flies over the page as she talks. As Dwayne and I watch, an intricate design of yellow roses—for Texas—and a Celtic cross in the center appears. Jessica looks at us and smiles. She follows him to his booth and sits sideways in the chair. He plops down on a rolling stool and pulls over his tray of tools. Soon the buzz of the needle fills the air.
Now it’s my turn to meet with my tattoo artist, Damian. He and I stand on opposite sides of the front counter. I lean over his notebook. He flips to a new page. I show him the angel I have chosen. Like Jessica I start to tell him how I want it to look. I stop. Damian looks up from the notebook.
“You know, I don’t think I want an angel.”
“What picture really sticks in your mind?” he prompts me.
“Dragons.” I don’t know where that comes from, but I like the idea as soon as it comes out of my mouth. “I teach Beowulf every year. I want an English kind of dragon. With flames.”
Damian laughs. “Good choice. See what you think of this.” His pencil curves and corners on the page. A winged emerald dragon appears. Orange-and-red flames curl around his head. A forked tail spirals below him. The tattoo is much larger and more elaborate than my simple angel.
“I love it!” Then I hesitate. “I really want HD for Harley-Davidson on it somewhere.”
“No problem.” An ebony HD appears in the center of the flames.
We shake hands. I follow him back to his booth. Like Jessica I sit sideways on the vinyl chair covered with a white sheet and lean over a high table by it. Damian, on his stool behind me, swabs my right shoulder where I will put the tattoo. The cold alcohol tingles on my skin. He lays his sketch down on my shoulder after the alcohol dries. He outlines the dragon where it will be engraved. He presses down hard with a special pen to create an outline for the actual tattoo.
Then he picks up the needle. A long electric cord snakes from it. He flips the switch. I hear the buzz of the needle before I feel it. At first I feel each pulsation of the needle as it penetrates my skin—a small electric tingle each time. Then, in a few minutes, I only feel a numbness and vibration.
Outside the large front window, Dwayne smokes and peers in at me with the bright streetlights behind him. He gives me a thumbs-up and grins. I lean my forehead on my arm and eventually d
oze off and on for the next two hours.
I wake with a start when a sharp pain shoots down my arm. The needle pauses. Damian lays his hand on my arm. He tells me he is rolling the ink into the dragon’s wings to create a 3-D effect. This will also cause the color in the tattoo to last longer. I grit my teeth and nod, and he turns the needle back on.
I hear Dwayne’s engineer boots thudding across the floor. He squats down by me. “You okay, baby?” I nod yes. Then he stands up and bends over my back to see the tattoo for the first time. “Goddamn, that sure ain’t no little angel!”
He sinks back down on his heels. We look at each other and laugh. “I tell you, Mary Jane Black, you’re a real biker now. You aren’t that shy English teacher I met in Chili’s anymore.”
“I’m still an English teacher, just a biker one.”
At three in the morning, Jessica and I walk out of the shop with our brand-new tattoos stinging on our bodies. Dwayne opens the door for each of us. We nod off to sleep as we drive the twisting road over Mount Madonna to our home in Morgan Hill.
I wake up the next morning to the smell of coffee. Dwayne hears me get up and brings me a cup. He carries a bottle of peroxide and cotton swabs. As I drink the hot coffee, he gently washes the new tattoo. He tapes on a new soft gauze. Then he kisses me good morning.
As I get ready for school, he goes into Jessica’s room to wake her up. He will take care of her tattoo too. She has recently moved to California to live with us. Now she attends the high school where I teach. It has been a lot of firsts for both of us. Strangely, our tattoo adventure is the first time we feel like a family.
The bond we created in the tattoo parlor becomes strained over the new few weeks. Late at night we hear her voice murmuring in the dark while she talks to her mother. Each day we come home together after school. She slams the door behind her when she retreats to her room. She either ignores us or yells at us in unexpected angry outbursts. She doesn’t want to go with us anymore on our weekend rides.
She Rode a Harley Page 9