PERSONAL ESSAY
Being a Harley Mama for Seven Years Taught Me Some Good Life Lessons
Hop on, let’s go for a ride down memory lane
There are cool, bad-ass biker babes and bad-to-the-bone biker boys and then there’s me. I’ve never been a part of that scene, but I joined it for seven years by default.
My ex-boyfriend Ben has driven Harleys since he was 17. He bought one the first year we got together, right before I turned 40. Then, his brother, his cousin, and his two friends also got bikes.
Suddenly, we were a bad-ass biker gang.
When we rumbled down the street side by side, the sun shined off the chrome and our sunglasses and people stopped to stare.
At stoplights, the bikes’ mufflers roared in unison like thunder and time seemed to stand still. We were like Roman gladiators riding chariots into an arena or a gang of bandits galloping through an old Western town.
Kids gaped at us with big eyes and open mouths. Dads nodded and wished they had a Harley of their own. Moms smiled and dreamed of a carefree life or riding with the wind in their hair.
People were more likely just annoyed by the noise, but I preferred to think they thought we were the coolest mother fuckers around.
