What my motorcycle taught about contentment...
and why I'd never go back.
I used to a ride a 750 Virago with obnoxious pipes that set off car alarms. I’d wind my way up either side of Manhattan, down to Bay Ridge or across the spans. I’d scoot around stopped vehicles — unless they blocked my way in a jealous rage — and tear up the avenues. The best was racing a taxi uptown or heading back at night from upstate, swooping under the greens. Black leather jacket, tan leather gloves, black motorcycle boots and often a pair of outrageous red bell bottom jeans. One of my favorite memories was a slow roll up the FDR and two cute blondes glanced from a back seat, amazed to see a rare woman on a bike (back then, very few rode). Maybe it was the bell bottoms. Of course I noticed — a lesbian in the City, natch — and I waved. They jumped and laughed, as if I couldn’t see them behind mirrored sunglasses. Then I zoomed past with a flourish.
60mph is slow on a bike. 75-85 was my natural rhythm, when I could get away with it. I mean, if I was going to die, it would be hard and fast. I didn’t die from those miles — but sold my bike before leaving the City. My Virago’s new home — after a curvy test ride with him on the back — was in the living room of a Soho loft.
My motorcycle license could have been carried over after the next move — but it wasn’t. I haven’t ridden a bike since.
Being on a bike was the closest this bird came to flying, other than the wonderful rush of a plane on ascent. Do I miss my bike? Once in a great while — but I’d rather not deal with texting, angry drivers and a drugged up population. Yet that’s really not the reason. If there was a strong urge, I’d take it up again.
I don’t need to. The memories suffice.
Was I content then? No. But what is contentment?
Back then, contentment was a vague notion that felt like an encroaching threat. My girlfriends tried to provide stability — money, jewels, social events, space, offering an enormous apartment in the City or a mansion in SI.
All I felt was a hand at my throat.
They tried. It wasn’t what I needed. Not yet. I wanted every mph I could get to wipe away the stress in my head, the shoulds, the consistently aggrieved expression on my father’s face, the women I left behind, afraid to have my heart shattered. I wanted to blast away from the fear of hell, the fear of living and the yawning years of emptiness and debt ahead. I’d never be a published author, a teacher or sit in my beautiful yard with an open day and a happy, relaxed heart. It simply wasn’t possible because I couldn’t find the way.
I’d twist the throttle instead and watch the needle rise.
I rode because it was emblematic of a previous elusive freedom, growing up in an environment with the scripts already written. Even my beefy motorcycle teacher was a total jerk, uncomfortable with a woman handling a bike. He was a shadow of my weak father, offering me the chance to stand up for myself.
Would I go back and be that woman again? Never — but I don’t regret a moment of that time.
That Raven flies on somewhere — endless roads, as fast as she desires. I’ll let her, existing still as a part of me. She doesn’t need to change or grow or upgrade her notion of contentment. I can do that now, casting forth new dreams that have yet to come into physical form.
She is perfect as she is.
