One day at lunch I am grading papers and working on lesson plans. As usual Jessica hides out in my room to eat her lunch and to avoid the other students. Now she sits hunched over a table at the back of the room. Her long pale blond hair hangs down and covers her face. She slowly pokes her food with a fork. I look up and watch her for a few minutes. I see her wipe away tears.
“Hey, are you okay?”
“I miss my friends back home.”
I recommend trying to make some new friends. I know it is useless advice even as I give it.
“You just don’t understand,” she says defiantly. “I didn’t think I’d miss home so much. Or my mom. You’re nothing like her.”
“I’m trying, Jess. I really am.” I go to the table. I sit down and put my arm around her.
She pulls away. “She never tells me what to do. My mom said you control everything I do because you don’t trust me.” Her voice rises with each complaint.
I shake my head and say, “I don’t expect anything from you that I didn’t expect from Stephanie.”
The bell stops us from continuing the conversation. At the end of the day she meets me at my car in the parking lot. We drive home in silence.
That night at dinner Jessica lays down her fork suddenly. “I have to tell you guys something. I don’t want you to be mad.” Dwayne and I look at her. We wonder what is coming next.
“I’ve been talking to Mom,” she starts, “and she’s coming next week to see me. I told her she can stay here. We’re going to talk about my going home.”
“Jess, why haven’t you talked to me about this before?” Dwayne reaches out to take her hand.
“I just couldn’t,” she chokes out the words between tears.
Dwayne stands up and pushes back his chair. “Let’s talk, Jessie Lane.” They go out on the front porch.
For the next two hours, I read and listen to the creak of the rocking chairs on the front porch. I can’t hear the words, just the sad melody of their voices floating through the open window.
The week quickly passes. Dwayne and Jessica pick her mom, Janice, up at the airport. For three days Jessica directs us as her California tour guides. We visit all of the places she likes. We do not talk about Jessica’s staying with us or going home with her mom. I ask Dwayne if we should talk to Janice, and he says it’s safer to let Janice decide when she wants to talk. He learned that the hard way when they were married.
One evening we return from a day in San Francisco. Dwayne opens the garage door for the car. Our Harleys gleam in the glare of the headlights.
Janice turns to look at me in the dim light. “I was so surprised to hear you ride a motorcycle. A Harley. That is hardly the behavior I expect from a teacher. I am not sure I would have agreed to let Jessica live here if I had known you were that sort of person. I expect such irresponsible behavior from Dwayne but not you. Next thing I know you’ll be getting a tattoo.”
“Get ready for my really bad example for Jessica, then. I got a tattoo a few weeks ago.” The words are out before I can stop them.
“I’m getting my daughter out of your house.” Janice swivels away from me and marches down the sidewalk to our house. The door slamming echoes in the dark night. We stare at each other in the glow of the streetlights.
Jessica pleads, “Don’t tell Mom I got a tattoo too.”
I assure her that it is her secret to tell. “How are you going to keep your mom from seeing your tattoo?”
“She never pays any attention to me. She just wants to make sure no one sees it and thinks she’s a bad mother.”
We stand in silence with the moths fluttering around the light above us.
Finally Dwayne lays his hand on her shoulder. “You’re going back to Texas, aren’t you?”
“I love you, Daddy. But I don’t belong here. I’m not a California kind of girl. You guys don’t need me. You and Mary have each other. Mom needs me. She has a ticket for me for a flight home.”
He hugs her tightly. She turns to me. I hug her too. We clutch each other in a tight circle.
Two days later we drop Jessica and Janice off at the curb at the airport. Dwayne pulls out their suitcases from the trunk. A large box with Jessica’s stuff will be mailed. The rest she has left behind. She says it will be there when she visits. We stand awkwardly in the foggy San Jose morning. We chat for a few uncomfortable minutes.
Around us people hug and say goodbye. Finally, Janice pulls up the handle of her wheeled suitcase and tells Jessica she’ll meet her inside. She goes through the sliding doors. They silently glide closed behind her.
“Bye, Daddy and Mary,” Jessica whispers. “I do love you.” She leaves us, pulling her suitcase behind her. She disappears into the terminal.
Dwayne and I drive away. A family of two.
BIKER CHICK
I ease my new carburetor in place with my grease-stained hands. Dwayne leans against the workbench with coffee in one hand and guides me through the process with the other hand waving in the air. A Mikuni carburetor was my anniversary gift this year, and Dwayne promises me it will increase the speed of my motorcycle.
He told me when I started riding solo that there are two types of bikers: the ones who ride a bike at one hundred miles per hour and say, “Yes!” and the ones who ride at one hundred miles per hour and say, “Oh, hell, no!” I’m definitely a “yes” rider, living for the feeling of flying on two wheels down a highway.
A shadow falls across the concrete floor. We both look up and recognize the woman who lives next door. I stand up and wipe my hands on a towel. Dwayne walks across the floor to shake her hand. We both introduce ourselves.
She nods at both of us and tells us her name is Gail. She shoves her hands into the pockets of her navy-blue windbreaker. “I’ve been watching Mary riding her motorcycle.” She chuckles. “I’m a little embarrassed to admit I peeked through the window when she rode that Harley through the school parking lot across the street.”
I ease down my motorcycle on the stand and sit sideways on the seat with my legs stretched out in front of me. “Yeah, that was when Dwayne brought it home for the first time.”
I gently pat the black gas tank with its ghost flames. “It looks a lot different than it did that day.”
Gail clears her throat. “You may think I’m crazy, but I’ve decided I want to ride a motorcycle after watching you. What are you going to do with the Honda?” She points to my first motorcycle, the Honda Shadow, sitting in the corner.
Dwayne tells her we haven’t thought about what to do with it yet.
I look at her and smile. “How about you buy it and we’ll help you learn to ride?”
She walks over and stands by it. Following her across the concrete floor, I hand her the key and show her how to start it. “It needs to be in neutral when you turn the key to start. The Harley will start in any gear, but it leaps forward with you hanging on.”
She turns the key, and the motor rumbles. “It sounds more like a Harley than a Honda.”
“Yep, Harley parts and a new exhaust.”
Gail and I agree on a price, and she tells me she’ll bring me a check the next day. We shake hands on the deal.
Dwayne rolls it down the sidewalk to her garage for her. She stands and stares at it as we walk away with a wave.
He throws his arm over my shoulders and laughs. “You just sold your first motorcycle.”
Over the next three weeks, we watch her roll the Honda out of the garage. She sits on the seat and walks it flat-footed down the driveway. Dwayne and I help her learn about shifting and accelerating. Often he clasps the front of it while she tries to put her feet up on the pegs and balance her weight. She struggles with this balancing act. She never starts the motor while trying to keep it upright.
One afternoon we hold our breath as she starts the motor, swings her feet up on the pegs, and rolls the throttle forward in one smooth motion. Her foot pulls up on the gear shifter. The motorcycle lurches forward, but it stays upright when she squ
eals out of the parking lot. She pumps a fist in the air as she rolls down the street. We wave and shout encouragement when she passes our garage.
Every Saturday morning after that triumphant first ride, Gail and I meet on the street between our houses after Dwayne has ridden off to work at the Harley dealership. We pick a spot on the map—sometimes near us and sometimes a hundred miles or more away. Side by side we ride to our chosen destination. We park our motorcycles and eat lunch. We laugh about helmet hair and sweaty bras on hot days. I have found my first woman rider friend.
We learn that women motorcycle riders experience riding differently than men. I know if my Harley rolls against a speed bump while I’m backing out of a parking space, it will take an almost impossible burst of strength to push its 850 pounds of mass over it. It is clearly not a graceful act. Doing this in front of a crowd of men makes it especially difficult. One gentleman usually offers to help. This always makes me unreasonably angry.
One Saturday afternoon we sit in a booth at the Crazy Horse Diner in King City. The remains of our hamburgers on our plates have been pushed into a pile in the middle of the chrome-and-Formica table. Gail and I sit across from each other with mugs of coffee. Beside the dirty plates we’ve rolled out a map. We are trying to find a blue-marked road to take home. Blue roads are two lanes with little traffic and peaceful country on both sides. On a motorcycle you can feel the warm wind brushing through the tall golden grass. You can smell the cough-drop-scented eucalyptus trees.
We finally decide on one. I go find the pay phone to call Dwayne at San Jose Harley to let him know where we are and when I’ll be home. I hear him yell out my location to his coworkers. He tells me all of them love to know where his old lady has ridden to on Saturdays.
I walk back to the table just as Gail returns from the restroom. She shows me a crumpled piece of paper. “I think we should contact this women’s biker group to ride with.”
I take the paper and read it. Eagle Riders of Northern California. An All-Woman Riding Club. Under this title is a blurry picture of a woman on a large motorcycle, the words Contact Carolyn Clark, and a phone number.
Gail pulls the paper out of my hand. I agree it’s time we rode with a group. We both admit it’s a little scary to consider riding in the middle of a group of strangers. I’ve only ridden with her and Dwayne.
“Dwayne always says a turtle never gets anywhere until it sticks out its neck. So let’s stick out our necks and give it a try!”
We walk outside and start to get dressed for the ride home. My Harley stutters as it warms. I swing my leg over the seat and yell to Gail over the noise of our engines. “I’ll call this Carolyn Clark to see if we can meet her and the group.”
We pick up our feet and roll out of the diner parking lot. The sun falls down over the mountains as we ride north in the cooling wind to Morgan Hill and home.
Early the next Saturday morning we sit outside a coffee shop in Hollister. Carolyn told me on the phone she would meet us there. I could hear her take a deep breath into the phone before she said, “There’s really not a group of women yet. You two will be the first ones.”
We told each other goodbye, and I heard her say we would meet at the coffee shop in Hollister and then ride over Pacheco Pass to a bar she knows over the mountains in Los Banos. Neither Gail nor I have ever ridden the steep mountain pass near our houses. We argued during the week about whether we should cancel or just admit we can’t ride over Pacheco.
Now I lean back in the metal chair outside the coffee shop. Beside me Gail hunches over the table with her hands wrapped around her paper coffee cup. Her booted foot taps against the concrete under the table. She turns and looks at me and opens her mouth to speak.
“Don’t even say we can’t ride over Pacheco Pass. Let’s just wait until we meet this Carolyn and then decide.” I sip my hot coffee and try not to burn my tongue.
A shotgun of sound fills the air. An enormous bright purple motorcycle swings with ease into the parking lot. The woman on the seat towers above the large windshield and wears a full helmet and studded leather gloves on the controls, making her seem more machinelike than human. We can see she also wears full black leathers from her neck to her booted feet. She pushes the tall heavy motorcycle back with ease against the curb next to our bikes.
Gail looks at me. “Do you think that’s her?”
I squint in the bright sun. “It has to be.” I try to find a way to describe the person striding across the lot toward us. “She is not very, well, feminine.”
“You mean no boobs or hips.” Gail sums it up.
The woman, and it is a woman, pulls off her helmet when she reaches our table. Her short spiky auburn hair springs up. Her tanned brown face wrinkles as she smiles at us. Her emerald green eyes examine us as we stand there speechless.
She peels off her gloves. Her wide hand grasps mine, and she pumps it up and down. “I’m Carolyn Clark. Just call me C.C. Everyone does.” She turns to Gail and slaps her on the shoulder. Gail sways a little from the force.
We drop down in our chairs. C.C. drags over a chair from another table. She wedges herself into it. She fires off a series of questions at us. We try to answer them with the history of our riding. The history is brief for me and Gail compared to C.C.’s story. She started riding dirt bikes at seven and rode in flat track races at twelve.
C.C. stands up and pushes her chair back against the wall with a bang. “Let’s hit the road.” She marches off the patio toward our motorcycles.
Gail and I stand up and stare at each other. I straighten my shoulders, wrap my bandana around my hair, and pick up my helmet.
Gail reaches out and grabs my arm. “Are you actually going to follow that woman over a mountain pass on a motorcycle?”
I wave back at C.C. as she motions with her arm to join her. “I sure as hell am not going to tell her I don’t think I can do it.” I buckle on my helmet. “You know, the funny thing is she kind of makes me think I can. Her confidence is contagious.”
I meet C.C. at the motorcycles, looking at hers for the first time up close. It is a Honda Valkyrie, a massive machine with a bulky chrome motor that bulges out of the frame. I watch in awe when she swings effortlessly onto the seat. She snaps up the kickstand and balances the bulk of the bike against her right leg. Without even looking to see if Gail and I are ready, her Valkyrie bolts with a screech of her back tire out of the parking space.
Both Gail and I, with our legs frozen in the motion of sliding over our seats, watch her swerve and glide out of the lot with a fluid movement, as if she were on one of her dirt bikes and not a motorcycle with a six-speed engine resembling a car motor.
I catch up with her and stay on the right side. Gail pulls out behind me. She aligns herself to my left. I watch the purple Honda speed down the highway white line ahead of me. I accelerate to keep up with C.C. I hear Gail’s smaller Honda engine whine, struggling to keep up.
The next thirty minutes pass in a blur. I lean and shift into corners. The Valkyrie’s red brake lights blinks on and off as it swings around the sharp bends in the road. I increase my speed and veer my Harley to one side and then another, following in C.C.’s path. When I lean into the curves, the footboards on my Road King spark against the pavement. I climb higher and higher over the mountains on my motorcycle, and I can see the sides of cars inches away, passing me going down the sloping road. I feel the hot wind of their exhaust.
Suddenly, the Road King surges forward, and we begin to descend the mountain. Now I need to tap my brake gently with my foot to slow the motorcycle down. I resist the urge to grab the front brake lever. I gently pull the clutch and tap down on the shifter to decrease my speed. I bob and weave around corners. The reservoir on my right glints in the sunshine. I don’t risk looking at it.
The road straightens. We slow down, and I can now look at the sun-browned hills around me. I push myself back slightly from the handlebars. My neck aches from leaning over them. I flex my left hand, which has been furio
usly grabbing and releasing the clutch to shift.
A horn beeps on my left side. I glance over at Gail, who has ridden up beside me. She waves her left hand wildly in the air. “Whoopee!”
Sharing her celebration, I pump my fist in the air.
We throttle forward with a burst of speed. We keep C.C. on her Valkyrie in sight as we roll on down the highway.
My legs almost buckle under me when we get to the bar in Los Banos, and I slither off my seat. Gail and I stare at each other across our bikes and say at the same time, “I can’t fucking believe I did that.”
Over the next few weeks, no one else joins C.C.’s biker group, but the three of us become a fearless trio of female riders. Gail and C.C. soon become partners and lovers, and Gail moves to Hollister to live with her, no longer my next-door neighbor.
Often on our regular rides, we follow C.C. without question when she turns off the freeway onto a narrow gravelly road that disappears at the top of a steep peak. C.C., like Dwayne, believes being a woman doesn’t mean you can’t do any damn thing you want to do on a motorcycle.
Several months later, the sun glints off the steel of the Bay Bridge when the group of a hundred women on motorcycles ride side by side across it. My rearview mirror reflects the San Francisco skyline behind me. C.C.’s brake lights flicker off and on in front of me as she controls her speed to match the bike in front of her. She, Gail, and I are riding by choice at the back of the pack.
I glance to my right and watch Gail move up beside me. She clutches her handlebars. She stares straight ahead and doesn’t look at me. Her nervousness about riding with such a large group of women made us to decide to ride behind everyone.
Now the Bay shines indigo in the afternoon sun. The heat from it warms my back in its leather vest. I lean back against the backrest Dwayne made for me and prop one boot up on my highway bars on the front wheel. I take a moment to enjoy the warmth after a foggy start.
Most of the motorcycles in this motorcycle club are Harleys. I met a couple of the women at San Jose Harley, where I was leaning against the parts counter talking to Dwayne. They asked me to join them on this motorcycle run. Their club is known as the Devil Dolls, the only all-female riding club associated with the Hell’s Angels. Most of them ride Sportsters, a Harley that outlaw bikers believe women can handle. Only a few ride large Harleys like my Road King. I know they invited me because they were curious about a woman on a Road King with a husband who thought she could and should ride one.
She Rode a Harley Page 10