The Spokes-Women Reporter
July and August, 2010

This Month's Content

Motorcycle News
Liz's Birthday Card
Montclair Iris Gardens
Biker Chicz Filming
August Picnic
Flying with SIS
Martino's Dinner Run Unusual Motorcycles

Liz Smith 7/5
Annemarie Newman 7/23
Laura Joiner 8/14
Bob Harris 8/29

Article Submission Deadline for the September Issue is September 15th.

For Sale
Ride Schedule
Technical Corner

2010 Issues

Newsletter Archives

January 2010
February 2010
March 2010
April & May 2010

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I have a confession to make:
I am a motorcyclist.

My friend Teresa, when introducing me, always says “And she rides a motorcycle!”

I asked her one time why she doesn’t introduce me as a friend she plays poker with, or a librarian or a past president of my alumni association, all of which is true.

She said the reason is that of all the things I might be, I didn’t look like a motorcyclist.

Leaving aside the argument of just what does a motorcyclist look like, I have to say there is something in me that bristles against being defined by my occupation, or what I drive, or what I do in my spare time.

But here’s the reality.

I am a librarian, a Catholic, a bleeding heart liberal.

And a motorcyclist.

Nothing drove this home more than recent events.

After a winter where I don’t think I took my bike out but once or twice after October, I really was looking forward to spring. And spring didn’t disappoint. Unlike last year with its wet and cold weather, spring came early to Jersey, and stayed for a while. There were many days in April where one could saddle up and ride without the “electrics.” This year promised a long and wonderful riding season full of interesting rides, dinner meetings and bike nights.

Then my bike broke down and was never fixed properly. Since April 24, I have only ridden my bike three times, and each time, my bike wound up being brought back to the shop.

At first I wondered if this was a sign that maybe I shouldn’t be riding. Then that distilled down to maybe I shouldn’t be riding a Harley. And the thought to trade in the Harley on a different breed took root and flourished.

But what stuck with me was the longing to ride. The snapping of the head in the direction of the sound of a motorcycle engine winding out. The ache in the heart when my peripheral vision would pick up a bike heading down the opposite side of the highway. The sigh of longing that escaped my lips when I would look out my front door and not see my bike parked in the street, waiting for me.
Long after I have sold any bike(s) I may own, gotten rid of my leathers and given away any motorcycle-related paraphernalia, I will still be a motorcyclist.

It’s not just something I do, it’s something I am.

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