In light of the shit show of a debate on Thursday night, I felt compelled to FINALLY get this piece written. It’s about our country. It’s about our connection as a country…or lack thereof. It’s about judgement and aging and keeping dreams alive and shifting your dream p.o.v. Either way, it’s a feel-good foray into a world that I never “dreamed” I would be a part of.
When I was little, I had a Big Wheel. It was the first time I felt like I was a big girl like my older cousin Alice who handed-down her Big Wheel to me. I wanted to be her when I grew up and pedaling her Big Wheel meant that I was one revolution closer. But when I outgrew the last rung of holes to support that sun-stained, blue, plastic seat, it was time to graduate to Alice’s two-wheeler: a purple-glittered bicycle with a daisy-designed banana seat and flyers on the handlebars.
Remember the feeling of that first time you steadied-up on two, moving wheels which seemed like a massive deception of gravity? “Go, Lisa, Go!”, my dad said as he trailed me from behind until…until…I was flying for the first time. It was pure joy! It was magic! It was…freedom. Until…I found myself reeling downhill hitting Mr. Ferris’ front step and went flying head over heels into his front lawn. It scared the shit out of me but I loved it. I wanted more. I wanted to go faster, as fast as I could ride on my own. No training wheels, no dad grasping at my banana seat or mom screaming, “BE CAREFUL!!!!!” And at six years old, right then and there, I knew that one day, I would ride a motorcycle. I didn’t know how or when, but I knew it would be a part of my life story (minus the flying head over heels part).
Finally, at age 48, that chapter began. What started out as a Big Wheel trike, turned into a 2018 Triumph Bonneville T-100, matte black on black. She was perfect for Tor and I. It seems we both had the desire to get our licenses our whole lives. I always said, “I just want the “M” on my license and the know-how of how to ride. I’m not ever going to actually buy a motorcycle.” Because that would be stupid right? I mean, they aren’t nicknamed “donor-cycles” for nothing. Lisa…remember Mr. Ferris’ lawn??? But once you ride one, you’re hooked, and all rationale flies out the proverbial window. Tor and I decided we were going to share one and the “Bonneys” are the coolest looking mofo’s: classic, fast enough, and they sure can take a turn. But within two weeks I was over it. I wasn’t born in this lifetime to be a passenger. Some people are, but not me. So, I bought-out Tor from the T-100 and he upgraded to a T-120 and two years later we were on the road to our first motorcycle rally called Americade in Lake George, NY.
The thought of being a “biker bitch” was so foreign to me. And then there’s Tor: a Jew from Larchmont, which doesn’t exactly scream “Hell’s Angel” now does it?
After taking the scenic route from Brooklyn to Lake George, we glided-in seven hours later on our Brit bikes through the main thoroughfare which was lined-up on either side by 99.9% Harley Davidsons. To say we were out of our element would be an understatement. Trump flags flying. Confederate flags waving. Now, we don’t exactly consider ourselves lib-tard Democrats, but far-right Republicans we weren’t either. For some reason, it just didn’t matter. The flags didn’t matter, their beliefs didn’t matter, our beliefs didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was “two wheels down”.
Two-Wheels Down = whenever you see bikers give each other the “peace sign” as they pass each other on the highway or street, it is a code they live by. It is like saying “Namaste” in biker-speak. The two fingers down means, “may you always have two wheels down”. That is to say, if two wheels are down and not up, then you are alive and not dead. It’s a universal sign of respect that you have taken on a dangerous act in solidarity with one another. More on that later.
We arrived at our kitschy corner of the lake and I had to check-in. The pack on my bike weighed about 75 lbs so when I went to make a sharp turn out of the check-in lot, my bike dropped in slow-motion in the middle of the highway. My mind was reacting in jump-takes: Car coming at 11 o’clock/clutch handle snapped at the end/how the fuck am I going to lift this bike by myself??/Tor is already down the hill and has no idea I am in trouble. Fuuuuuuuuuuuck!!
No sooner did I say “Fuuuuu-“, and I see these two dirt bikers drive up, stop, jump off their bikes, ask if I was okay, the three of us lifted my bike up and one guy said, “Here’s your handle piece.” He put it in my pocket and then they were gone. The whole thing happened in maybe sixty seconds. Did you catch that it took THREE of us to lift my bike up?! These dudes were my moto-angels. Last thought on Day 1: motorcycle people are the best people.
Day 2 began with poolside coffee and meeting a guy named David who was on “fire” for Jesus. He played “fire hands” with us to feel the spirit of Jesus Christ moving through our physical forms before we even had our second cups. This was tough for Tor, not because he is Jewish and doesn’t believe in “Big J” (he and Jesus actually have a very close relationship), but he is usually non-verbal until after his second cup. We are talking caveman non-verbal. Aside from the dude’s body oder, there was a whiff that maybe he lived out of his car and was just bopping from one rural town to the next in his Grateful Dead t-shirt that could use a fire of it’s own. But there was also a whiff of salvation. He was the real deal. Spreading the word on a Wednesday morning to remind us that the only state you ever need to be in is having an attitude of gratitude. We thanked him and then we were off to the registration desk at the Holiday Inn!
We pulled into the lot and were not surprised that again, we were the only ones without Harleys in the parking lot. But then, out of nowhere, like a decked-out superhero gliding through the lot came a bright yellow trike. You’ve seen the trikes. They are those three-wheelers, usually ridden by people of a certain age, and definitely NOT in the 2 Wheels-Down Club. Like the people who ride Vespas, we don’t throw-down the fingers for them. There is no danger there. There is no need for the Namaste on the road of death. They don’t have to feel the rush of an 18-wheeler’s breeze blowing you into the far-end of your lane on the highway while you’re going 75 miles per hour. They are “Three-Wheels Down” which is not a “thing.”
But when these two pulled up, they actually were a thing. In fact, they were THE thing. Everyone gawked, wanted pictures, and treated them like celebrities. Rob was a Vietnam vet and Sharon was a hard-ass French Canadian who revealed that her ex husband left her for a newer model which was fine with her because he had a penchant for knocking her around a bit. She qualified that by saying she beat the shit out of him just the same to which I coined her “Take-no-shit Sharon”. That incited the biggest smokers’ laugh I’d ever heard out of a woman’s mouth followed by, “I’m using that!”.
The more we talked with them, the more we realized that these “old-timers” weren’t necessarily “trike people”. They were once “two-wheels down people” who found themselves older, slower, less reactive, arthritic…less driven by the thrill of danger and more driven by staying out of pain while feeling the wind in their faces and the smell of the rain before it drops. Trike people get to hold on to that feeling of being alive while increasing their chances of staying alive and there ain’t no shame in that game. This was Rob and Take-no-shit Sharon’s tenth year at Americade so they showed us the ropes of getting our credentials for the rally and we were off!
We spent the next two days riding every kind of motorcycle we ever wanted to try: Harleys, of course, BMW’s, racers, dirt bikes, cruisers, tourings, and yes…I even tried a trike which wasn’t for me…yet. We watched stunt-guys make Moto-cross bikes literally dance and walk upright, we ate terrible food, we laughed along with leather-cladded bikers and high-heel wearing biker bitches, Fat-boy riding lesbians and Trump-loving republicans. We bonded over our war stories over thunderstorms and seeking cover under the highway overpasses, the slow-roll of flat tires, the dumps at low speeds and the close calls that engrained in us just how near-death every pothole and every other car who doesn’t see you in their rearview mirror can actually be.
And with that, there is a universal understanding that all of the above is worth it. There is a sense of playing a trick on the universe when you ride. You have a superpower to circumvent hours of traffic because of your two wheels. You are in control of your vehicle unlike your basically self-driving car. You have customized your magic carpet to suit your seat, your hand position, and your foot position. Your “costume” is your armored pants, your armored jacket, your helmet that you can talk to your riding partner with through the headset like old-school truckers. It’s a vibe and a club that transcends race, color, gender and political beliefs.
We went to our first-ever American rodeo where they tie-up the balls of the bulls and the broncos and humans take their own lives in their hands to try and tame the un-tameable. What is this need for being close to death to find our true connection to being alive? Is that where we are heading as a country? As a world?
I don’t know the answers to that. All I know is, we went to a motorcycle rally in Lake George and felt like we were a part of something. Something greater than us. Something spiritual. Something human and at the same time, otherworldly. We watched a grown man cry over seeing a Suzuki that looked just like his first bike he had in college. “Rode that thing from New York to Tennessee every school year”, he waxed.
You learn a lot about yourself when you are riding alone. It’s a meditation. It’s where you think. It’s where you work shit out. It’s where you learn to trust yourself while trusting the iron horse between your legs. And God. There is a lot of trust in God.
As we rode back home to Brooklyn, there was a sense of sadness. We were heading “home” but also leaving “home”. We became “bikers” that week…albeit without the leather chaps and leather faces and high heels, but we were them. And they were us.
So, when you see those riders on the road or on the highway throwing that “peace sign” to each other, now you know what it really means. And now, when we see a trike on the road, we don’t give the two-wheels down because it would be stupid to do that for a three-wheeled vehicle. But we give the head nod of respect, understanding, and the acknowledgment they deserve. It’s their Big Wheel, full-circle.
We are them.
They are us.
Namaste.
As we head into the week of celebrating the birth of the United States of America, remember…We are them.
And they are us.
In Laugher,
LStL
Hi, I’m Lisa St. Lou. I hope you’ve been enjoying Laughing Matters. While nearly all of my posts will be free to read and share, please consider upgrading to a paid subscription if you are able. It’s a meaningful way to sustain my work as an independent writer, gets you a few subscribers-only perks, and help keep this space ad-free. I’m grateful for your time, trust, and support. - LStL