Culture

I enter the bar. Every head swivels to check me out. They are silently watching me walk in. TVs tuned to football and hunting shows. As I watch an elephant is shot, falling to the ground like the world trade center. I hoist my helmet onto the bar and everyone relaxes, smiling at me. “Hey, how’s the ride today?” Biking stories start to fly, I hear about injuries, bike recommendations (any Harley), hunting stories. I’m part of the group (do I want to be?) as never before. I order my burger and Diet Coke and the group calms down.

I pull the bike into the hardware store parking lot and this big hairy biker pulls up behind me, “doin some wrenchin?” Oh sure I was wrenching. I was doing some yard work and didn’t want to drive the car to get some grass seed. I hire guys to do my wrenching. Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance my butt. I didn’t want to get greasy. I checked my oil once and my hands got dirty, who needs that? I tried to put on a windshield one afternoon. Took me hours to figure out I couldn’t figure it out.

Then there is the biker greeting. As you drive by a biker going the other way, you’re supposed to take your left hand off the handgrip and hold it extended at about knee level as they pass, two fingers extended in the peace sign. I haven’t been able to take my hand off the handlebar, so I hope they can see me nod at least, acknowledging their rebellion.


I’m now a part of a serious fraternity. Bikers are a band of brothers no matter what your gender. There are implied values among bikers, manly independence the most important. You are a rebel leaving behind the ordinary, that gives the right to join this group. Hell’s Angels, Sons of Anarchy and me.