And don’t you forget it!
This past weekend, I attended the Long Beach Motorcycle Show in Long Beach, California for what seemed to be the umpteenth time since I moved here 13 years ago. Warm, sunny California day? Check. Free demo rides on motorcycles that I wanna buy to fill my garage? Check. Seeing my women homie riders? Check. I’m there every year.
This year, I plopped my ass down on a Honda Africa Twin, a well engineered adventure bike that I hope to own someday to add to the three Hondas I already own (an ’04 Shadow Aero 750 with 102,000 miles on it — yes, you read correctly, a ’99 750 ACE, and my favorite, a 1989 Honda Hawk — the most nimble bike I have EVER ridden and ask anyone who has been on one and they will tell you the same thing).
I also hopped on two Kawasakis: a new style 900 Vulcan, and another one I can’t remember because at some point, they become a blur. Just give me anything with two wheels and an engine and I’m happy.
I’ve never missed an opportunity to ride a motorcycle at the show. I’m not brand loyal (although I do prefer Hondas so maybe, yes, I am) and will ride any bike that has a short line for a demo ride. I mean, I came there to ride, after all.
So glancing over at the black Indian canopy in the parking lot, I noticed several long lines and one with no one in it. There was my chance to ride yet another bike without waiting for it… kind of like when you hit the jackpot at Disneyland by not having anyone queue up in front of you.
Ah, Indian… the over 100 year old motorcycle company that seems to endlessly go bankrupt and like the phoenix rising, always emerges with another owner. This time, though, I think Polaris will be keeping the tradition rolling on two wheels for a long, long time. They killed the sort of popular Victory line of bikes in order to build upon the century old reputation of the classically beautiful Indian line and introduce new, sportier models to sit in the showroom next to their beefy Chieftain models. They also do that to appeal to the younger generation that doesn’t necessarily want to take off on a huge bike like their mothers and fathers did.
I headed straight to the empty line and started to squeal with giddy excitement, knowing I’d have a new bike between my legs to thrill me the same way I get when I have something ELSE between my legs. I could hardly wait.
But wait I did. I stood there with my helmet in hand, my armored jacket over my body, my riding boots firmly wrapped around my feet and ankles, my reflective vest with my club’s patch carefully sewn on the back. I am a biker and I fucking look like one, too.
For at least five minutes, I stood at the front of the line while several white haired, white bearded or goateed guys with skimpy ponytails, one by one, walked right past me to assist other guys who were waiting on line to ride other bikes. I felt like barking out “Hey! Hey! I’m here on line!” but I’m sure they were thinking I was waiting for a husband or boyfriend to join me in line because in their eyes, this bitch must only be able to ride on the back. Not me. I felt steam beginning to stream out of my ears.
Determined to get on one of the three Baggers just sitting there idly, I then decided I would just wander onto the lot where the bikes were lined up for the next anxious rider. I approached a group of three aforementioned white haired guys and clearly stated that I was on line to ride an Indian Challenger Bagger. I could see their faces collectively register the same thought: ‘A BAGGER?! THAT’S A 106 CUBIC INCH ENGINE (translated to 1900 ccs for us metric folk out there) AND NO GIRL CAN HANDLE A BIKE THAT SIZE. IT’S AN 800 LB BIKE.” Then guy one came out with the words “You want to ride a Bagger?” “Yeah, I do,” I responded, friendly but mildly tersely.
One guy asked “Which one?” Now to me, the only difference was the paint color but apparently there were a few other differences between the three. Personally, I could care less, I just wanted to straddle the biggest bike on the lot and put my skills to the test to ride a big honkin’ bike that I don’t need to own.
I pointed at the one with the slightly pink paint job (PINK?! On an Indian!? Oh, they call the color “Ruby Smoke.” Yeah, okay.) “That one.”
I walked the several steps ahead of the rude, white haired guy who proceeded to scan the code on the front fork to make sure I’d return the bike in due time. Then nothing.
Several of the motorcycle companies that have demo rides usually have guided rides of up to ten bikes with a company representative leading the ride and another riding sweep. They have a mandatory riders meeting before the ride to check in and briefly go over the route. But not Harley and not Indian because maybe they trust their riders to be able to handle their bikes, not get lost, and return them in perfect condition. Besides which, they’re too damn heavy to do a wheelie or a stoppie with so I guess that makes sense.
I had to ask the rude guy about what the route was and questioned if the directions and the arrows were the same as the orange ones Harley uses to mark their rides. “No,” he answered flatly. “Ours are maroon.” Silence. “And what’s the route?” I asked, always wanting to know what general roads I will be on whether I am demo riding or going on my own damn ride. He reluctantly pulled out a map from his back pocket, unfolded it for me and shoved it towards me. No explanation, no general information about the ride (“You’ll be on the freeway for a couple of exits, then over on Willow then down on Long Beach Blvd.,” kind of thing). Silence.
Since I know the roads in the vicinity of the Convention Center, I figured out about where it was going, maroon signs be damned.
What usually happens next is the company representative walks you through the bike to show you where the on/off switch or key is (they are often in very different places on the bike), how to operate the radio, turn signal information (self-cancelling or manual?), how many speeds available, and just info to make your ride fun and impressive so you’ll part with your hard earned cash to buy a bike after the show. But me? What did I get from rude white haired guy? You guessed it. Silence. Fuck you. I was beginning to seethe.
As I started preparing myself for the ride, donning my gloves and slipping on my helmet, I stood next to this beautiful creature of a motorcycle. I threw my right leg over the bags and plopped on the seat.
It was then that ANOTHER white haired, old biker guy came up to me and said “You should slide through over the seat instead of throwing your leg over the bags. When you do that, you might scrape the bag.” My response? A very flat and annoyed “I’ll… consider it.”
THANKS FOR FUCKING MANSPLAINING THAT TO ME, OLD WHITE GUY! Like I’ve never been on a bike before, fucker. I’ve been riding twenty years, ridden a quarter of a million miles, owned lots of bikes, ridden what must be hundreds on demo rides, and, most importantly, and impressively, NEVER BEEN DOWN. Never been in an accident, not even close. How dare you fucking tell me how to throw my leg over a bike. Besides which, it’s a fucking demo bike and the companies could care less about them and of course, I didn’t scrape the precious bag on the rear because I fucking know how to get on a bike.
In case you haven’t picked up on this, I was furious that I experienced this level of blatant sexism on behalf of the old, white haired guys who ran the demos. You know them: you see them on their same-looking Harleys all the time. The ones that have scantily clad “bitches on back” which is NEVER THIS bitch. I’m sure they thought that a girl like me must’ve been waiting for her husband to show up to take me for a ride. Not me. Nope. Like a patch I proudly display on my safety vest says “I need a man for some things but riding a motorcycle is not one of them.” ‘Nuff said.
Now it was time for my ride. I was sorely tempted to pull out a few feet from the staging area and then purposely drop the bike but then I thought that would have fueled the stereotype that women don’t know how to control a big bike. So I didn’t.
Off on the road I went, mentally still in the tizzy that these sexist men presented me.
Anyone who rides knows you have to be in a clear head to have a good ride. I took a few deep breaths and decided “Fuck ‘em! I’m gonna ride this bike wherever I want to!” and headed up to the freeway, cruising past the suggested exit which came way too fast. Fuck those maroon arrows. I know the roads in the area and dammit, I’m gonna take this Indian penalty ride for as long as I want to.
I exited onto the famous Pacific Coast Highway, chugging along the four lane Long Beach stretch filled with auto repair shops, fast food outlets, cheap markets where the blended ethnicities of the city can buy their tacos, samosas, Thai iced tea and Bimbo snack cakes. Yeah. Bimbo snack cakes.
Then a destination came to mind because as us riders know, it’s not the destination, it’s the journey. I was about to make my Indian Bagger ride a journey and headed further east on the PCH to one of the many parallel roads that head south back to the ocean.
I rode on the PCH for a few miles, turning a few heads of guys realizing it was a sixty one year old white woman riding a hulking motorcycle by herself. I smiled. I turned right onto a two lane road to head to Broadway, a main thoroughfare a few blocks from Ocean Ave.
I wanted to celebrate my handling of such a ferocious ride by showing it off to one of my friends who, lucky for me, is a woman who rides motorcycles. She owns a small gift store in Long Beach and had just reopened a year after suffering a devastating fire which totaled her store. She had been open under a week and I knew she’d be in the store to celebrate her first Saturday in her newly built store.
Approaching the store, I saw that Broadway had transformed into Skinny Street as they had eliminated a lane on each side to create a shoulder hugging bicycle lane with parallel parking a few feet away from the curb. There was a yard-width space between the parked cars and her store so I tested a bit of the bike’s maneuverability and easily squeezed it in between onto the bike lane. Take THAT, you sexist demo ride guys! If you only saw me do that, you’d see I know how to ride a motorcycle!
I stopped the bike in front of her store, engine running and tooting my horn in front of the store with celebratory glee. Barbara emerged from the store with a grin as wide as mine, exclaiming “Kiiiiiiiiiimmmmm!” with her arms wide open. “Nice bike I’m borrowing, eh?” I smiled back. I told her what I was doing and briefly glimpsed at her beautiful new store. I told her I’d return later after returning the Bagger to the staging area.
The rest of the ride was beautiful, riding at my own pace down Ocean Avenue, snaking my big ride down Shoreline Drive into the staging area.
Pulling up to the check in tent to return the bike and get it scanned back in, I glided in and guess what? No greeting from the white haired guys, no “Did you enjoy your ride?” which ALL of the companies greet you with when you return from their rides whether guided or on your own. They just scanned the bike and left me on my own, just like they had began.
I pulled up to the lineup with the Bagger glistening in the sun and was approached by a young guy sporting a full sleeve of tattoos and a Mohawk. “How was your ride?” he asked. “The ride was great,” I responded, “but I gotta tell ya, I dealt with the most sexist attitude from the staff that I have ever experienced. These guys really need to be called out on that.” He seemed honestly surprised and empathetically sighed “I am soooo sorry. I really am.” He was sincere and I could tell he really did care about how I felt. He asked that I point out the sexist white haired guys (it was pretty easy) and then shared the most important thing I heard from an Indian representative. “I manage these guys and they’re sure to hear about this.” He thanked me and I felt a sense of relief that my frustrations would be shared with the offenders and then offered me something that made me recover from such an uncomfortable experience.
“What bike do you want to ride? I want to make it up to you so pick a bike. You don’t have to wait on line or anything. Help yourself.” Whew! Of course I wanted to ride another bike — it’s why I demo ride my butt off at the show! I hopped on a new Indian Scout — a zippy 1150 cc bike similar to a Harley Bobber but much more fun. Unlike the other inconsiderate white haired guys, after he explained the controls and anything else I needed to know for the ride (with this bike being much more simple than the bagger), I cruised off on a beautiful ride, following those maroon signs with glee. I effortlessly returned the bike with a much better attitude because of his kindness.
So my advice is never put up with such sexist attitudes, speak up to call them out, blow them away with our riding skills on ANY bike and show them how us gals like to ride them. In the front. With our hands on the handlebars, the way it should be.
See you on the road.