Biker Catharsis

Just a few moments ago, I heard a rumble outside, peeked out the window to see a police escort of nearly 150 people on motorcycles. I grabbed my son & we ran to the front porch to watch. The leaders of the ride were big, battle-scarred, burly men dressed in leather -head to toe. With tears rolling down their faces.

Chills rocked to my core. A few of the women waved to my son--who was saluting them. My hand went to my heart because it felt like it was being pulled out of my body with emotion. Pride. Love. Empathy. Human connection. Several of the riders I knew nodded to me, they winked at my son solemnly saluting them. For some strange reason, I felt that they approved of me--raising a son who knew by instinct that he had to honor them somehow.

By the time they passed, my face was streaming in tears. The rumbling faded into the distance and I turned to walk in my door. I walked into my bedroom, flopped on my bed face down in my pillow to sob. My heart breaking for many things, this catharsis flooded over me--not just because of the riders, but for the people I've lost in my life, for the sadness of this summer when I held my daughter's hand during her abortion, the injustice of watching my child struggle with the biggest and most difficult, haunting decision of her life, the bad luck that has followed me throughout the last several years, the poverty level that we live at is not fair to my children--but my body is too broken to hold a job, the shame of begging for food at the pantry, the sneers I am attacked by at the grocery store when I use my food stamp card, the doctors accusing me of being an addict--of the very same medication they gave me, the guilt I feel when I tell my kids "sorry, we can't afford it," every.little.thing.that.has.ever.gone.wrong--it spilled out into keening & soul-wrenching sobs.

These people are family to each other. They were bonding together to raise money for a woman biker who has cancer, no health insurance but her 'family' has hope. Hope that she will have the strength for this battle. Hope that she will make it through chemo. Hope that she will ride again with them.

Hope.

Bikers get a bad rap. My dad's best friend when I was 2 was my first 'biker friend.' I remember the very first time I met him, he was So.Cool. He was 4'11", tattooed from neck to his feet, a ZZ Topp beard and a leather "Bowery Boy" hat. He partied too much but had the most amazing stories. When he showed up, I'd jump into his lap & make him flex his bicep to see the Naked Lady dance. (My mother was flipped out that I'd even go NEAR him.) After he'd leave, I'd make my dad draw tattoos on my forearms. I vividly remember begging for a tattoo until my parents' ears bled. The begging continued all of my childhood years--which is why once I turned 18, I got one. My mom was shocked when it went through the gossip grapevine & called me names, saying that "Women With Tattoos are Trashy. How could you? You better had hope your dad doesn't find out." She eventually got over it, although she gets a little wild-eyed when I mention the next one I plan to get. (I would have done it by now, but money for food seems to be a priority over me getting more ink. lol)

Anyway, I'm rambling. Back to bikers getting a bad rap. Society has tried to outcast this group of people for decades. Too loud. Too rough. Too much alcohol or drug abuse. Too wild. Too dangerous. Too non-conformist. Whatever.

I'm drawn to my memories of sitting in my "Uncle Biker's" lap & laughing until my belly muscles hurt. He was my first living teddy bear. He let me drag him into my bedroom for tea parties. He had the biggest heart I'd ever seen. He let me hang around in the garage while he worked on his bike & hand him tools. He was the first one to show up when I wrecked my dad's truck at 16 to help put it back together--all the while calling me a dumbass. He offered to kick my ex-boyfriends ass at 17 because he broke my heart. He gave me an old tool box filled with some extras he had lying around for my graduation present. (In the bottom drawer was a flask of whiskey & two joints---I never did figure out how he knew--he just did. My parents would have had a Conniption F.I.T.) But I always knew I could go to him with my problems, he'd either laugh at me or help me figure out a plan. He died about 5 years ago. I miss him almost as much as I miss my dad.

When I'm in a store and I see mother's pulling their child closer to them because of a leather-clad, tattooed biker. I am appalled at her behavior. I cringe at the invisible slap in the face he just received. I can't imagine judging someone by their appearance. If anything, I'm more leary of starting up a conversation with a June Cleaver type person, than a person with tattoos & a motorcycle.

We are all on this planet, surviving, trying to get ahead, looking for connections, making friends, enjoying family and just enjoying life. I am more moved by Biker Rallies for Charity than I am by the Golf Outings or the 5K runs. Because I've seen inside their hearts, I've been touched by their souls. I know in a heartbeat who of my friends will be here to help me when I need it the most. And it won't be the phony Christian neighbor with her awful casserole & a hallmark card. It'll be my friend Snake & his wife--showing up with food for the BBQ, maybe a couple of beers, maybe a bottle of Crown & they'll hug me when I need it the most and make me laugh through my tears.

When tragedy knocks me down again, I will hear that familiar rumbling of a Harley and know that I'm going to be all right. I am blessed. I have been touched by humanity. In my world, it just so happens to be teddy bears in disguise--tattooed & dressed in leathers.