November 2005

Sex and The Art Of Motorcycle Mechanics: Motorcycles as Personal

Kris Slawinski

“I yam what I yam and that’s all that I yam!”
--Popeye the Sailor Man

Motorcycles are vehicles of personal freedom and expression; they reek of sex; they convey charisma and cachet, while feeding the Everyperson’s ego and firing the imagination of the general public. But initially they capture the heart of the child in us.

I had my first ride on a bike at the age of twelve, and knew immediately I would own one when I grew up. I had fetishized horses early on because of the power and independence implicit in riding one, yet I intuited the practicality and convenience of a motorcycle, which could be kept in my garage in the inner city of Chicago.

Eight years later, after much bragging about my destiny as a motorcyclist, and knowing nothing about bikes, I bought a 1972 Honda K2 750. After years of anticipating this moment I realized I had not thought past the initial purchase, which now sat in my back yard. Providence appeared in the guise of a neighbor who, being a rider, suggested we go for a spin. When I informed him I didn’t know how to ride, he shook his head and told me to sell the bike. But he softened enough to have me push it into the alley, where he showed me the brake, the clutch, the throttle. He had me ride it up and down the alley a couple times before he washed his hands of the situation. It took me two weeks before I rode it out of the alley and around the block.

Usually women are urged into riding by a boyfriend or husband, sometimes a brother. I rode for two years without any kind of support system, but I bought bike magazines from the newsstands to figure out where I fit in. The more technical magazines spoke of forks, swingarms and carbs, mysterious things I knew nothing about. Intimidated, I opted for the more accessible bike “reading” material. These typically offered American “big twin” (i.e., Harley-Davidson or H-D) lifestyle photo spreads of men on bikes, with the women on the back, wearing suede fringed halter tops, or nothing at all, engaged in happy activities like the “weenie bite,” or giving the finger to the camera. These were not encouraging images, but something told me to hang in there.

But I knew I had to focus on the mechanical end of things. Not knowing how to put air in the tires or do an oil change, I bought a shop manual, and tackled easy things like changing fork oil, experiencing little mishaps in my trial-and-error fashion. On a trip to the local Honda shop I got into an argument with the parts manager over the cost of a nut and bolt, and somehow wound up with a job in the parts department. My initial elation faded when I realized I’d be the only woman there. At first, the guys didn’t know what to make of me and tip-toed around; the boisterousness at the rear parts counter, where the mechanics got their parts orders filled, would halt the moment I appeared.

The one exception was an auto mechanic named Riley, who badgered me with unwanted attention, mostly in the form of promises of exceptional sexual satisfaction if I were to go out with him. These days it’s called “sexual harassment”; back then it was a pain in the ass. I put up with it for two weeks, while I schemed up a retaliatory plan that would shut Riley down and not alienate the rest of the male work force. Finally, I thought I had it. The next time Riley blithely blah-blahed about how good he was, how I’d never have better, I cut him off with the statement that I didn’t date a guy unless he could touch his tongue to his forehead. I exited for my lunch break, leaving a stunned silence behind. When I returned the mechanics were lined up at the parts counter, elbowing each other and whispering while observing my approach. As I walked by they reached into their mouths with two fingers and began tugging, trying to stretch their tongues out and upward. We all collapsed in laughter, and I was “in like Flynn” after that.

The first day I rode my beloved 1972 Honda K2 750 to the job, the guys came out to inspect it. “Yeah, that’s a bike all right,” they said, and then they quietly but persistently began suggesting changes. It took me a while to understand that many of the features added by the previous owner—the ape-hanger handlebars, the 13-inch rear wheel kit with radial Volkswagen tire, open velocity stacks and sissy bar—were not only impractical and possibly dangerous, but aesthetically ugly.

Eventually the apehangers were traded for café bars, which responded better to steering. The rear wheel assembly was replaced with a 750 K1 wheel and a motorcycle tire. The sissy bar and the velocity stacks were tossed, and the carbs were covered with individual cone-shaped foam filters.

The previous owner had attempted a ”chopper” look, a style made popular by the movie Easy Rider, in which Peter Fonda’s “Captain America” rides the ultimate chopper, an example of customizing to the extent the bike as vehicle becomes obsolete. Bikers like to think you are what you ride, and Fonda stated recently that he deliberately designed the impossibly extended front end as a phallic symbol. He also admitted that at the end of the days of shooting the riding scenes his arms were rigid from the unnatural position of the handlebars.

In an attempt to identify with the romantically tragic characters in the movie, kids across the country acquired apehanger handlebars, sissy bars, over-stock-length fork tubes and exotic paint jobs to express themselves through their vehicles. Thus the “chopper” of the ’70s evolved into a uniquely U.S.-born style.

As a motorcycle journalist and co-founder, producer, and host of a motorcycle talk radio show, I have covered all manner of events, news and people in the industry. With each story I cover I learn something new, and I realize how much more there is out there I don’t know about. One thing that constantly amazes me is the “people factor,” or diversity within the motorcycling community.

People outside the sport tend to assume that the motorcycling community is homogeneous, harmonious and cohesive. Yet for as many people who ride bikes there are as many reasons why they ride. For some it is a gateway to adulthood, and the promise of privileges and experiences that come with the territory. For others it is an attempt to regain their youth: so many newcomers to the sport are empty-nesters with disposable incomes, looking for fun and relaxation. For those in between it is a stress-reliever; or it lends sexual cachet; or it is the call of the wild, the wind, the tribe.

There are scores of bike manufacturers, numerous riding styles, and countless forms of racing. We identify ourselves by the bike we ride, the club we ride with, the gear we wear or go without, and where we ride (or, in some cases, trailer) to. Yet whether we call ourselves riders, bikers, motorcycle enthusiasts, RUBs (rich urban bikers), or wannabes, we’ve all been seduced by a machine for which we will defy our parents, spouses, checkbooks, common sense, and society at large to swing a leg over and rumble off down the road, rubber side down.
Often when I tell non-riders that I ride, the response is, “Oh, you have a Harley.” I don’t own a Harley, just like I’m not a motorcycle “mama.” I don’t belong to a gang and I don’t engage in unlawful activities as a lifestyle. Not that those all go hand in hand, but they fit the stereotype. I’m into café-racer and sport-bike styling which is at the other end of the spectrum from the Harley/cruiser thing. I hang around with people who ride antique British Vincents, a magnificent bike whose mythology is stronger than fact. I happen to own Hondas, but I lust for Italian machines.

If I had a dollar for every time someone told me I didn’t look like a biker, I’d have enough to buy a new bike. I assume this is because I don’t sport any tattoos, and I don’t wear a suede-fringed, beaded and feathered halter top, preferring instead the anonymity and safety of black leather jacket, pants, and boots and helmet. But tattooing is another medium which the general public, eagerly clutching its stereotyped notion of motorcyclists, expects us to be heavily invested in. Tattooing and its sister fetish, body piercing, have undergone a renaissance over the past twenty-five years and have been appropriated first by the punk movement, then Gen-Xers, art students, musicians, actors, and celebrities, along with regular folks like your neighbors, the mailman, and your kids’ school teachers.

But a great many riders do have tattoos, and view them as part of the lifestyle. I am especially intrigued by people who become walking billboards for the bike of their choice. This used to mean Harley-Davidson riders exclusively, both men and women, who pay to have the motor company’s winged logo and name transposed permanently onto their bodies. But while attending the annual Chicago rally sponsored by The Second to Last Scooter Club in 1997, I observed body piercings, ear lobe plugs, and a rider with “Vespa” and “Lambretta” tattooed on either side of his neck. The vehicles themselves were customized with animal-print seat covers, multiple mirrors à la the “mod” look as seen in the movie Quadrophenia, and cut-out wheel wells and chopped fenders, to lighten them. Invisible modifications included punched out motors to increase horsepower, following trends in Europe, where scooter racing is a big deal.

While on the surface scooters seem to have little in common with motorcycles, there are a great many parallels in the two cultures, illustrating the huge diversity in riders of motorized two-wheeled vehicles. There are Harley riders who will ride nothing else, many of whom identify themselves with cowboys of the Wild West or as members of a “tribe,” costuming themselves in duster coats, conchas, cowboy boots, feathers and snakeskin. Those who eschew that fantasy look dress in black leather, with head bandanas, sleeveless leather vests, and everything displaying the orange and black H-D winged logo. There are ex-Harley riders who feel the motor company sold them out. There are the Gold Wing riders, or “Wing Dings,” often retirees seeing the country by road, whose bikes resemble chromed and marquee-lit couches on wheels. There are the antique British bike riders, many of whom confess to being gluttons for punishment, riding bikes guaranteed to break down frequently, and known to vibrate a sane person to distraction. There are the Italian bike riders, Gen-Xers with new money looking for the two-wheeled Ferrari. There are the Japanese bike riders, who want something affordable, reliable, and fast, and are eager to own the latest, fastest, and most supercalifragilistic factory bike. There are the café racers, who will modify any bike for that British sporty, sleek, racy look. Then there is the BMW rider, probably an accountant, or doctor, or lawyer, and usually conservative and stodgy. And all of these, of course, are stereotypes within the culture, which many riders will maintain are fairly accurate.

One trend I’d like to see reversed is the growing number of women riders on cruiser bikes. The New World needs more women on café racers and sport bikes, but to accomplish this women need to grow taller, or manufacturers need to design these bikes for a shorter inseam. The Italians seem to be keyed into this issue, and I look forward to the time when they commit to making motorcycles for profit, and better organize their sales effort here in the U.S. But there are enough makes and models out there to satisfy anyone’s need for self-expression.

If you can’t find a production bike that does it for you, you can build your own, like “Wild Bill” Gelbke did with his Auto Fours and the Road Dog bike. A rolling piece of folk art, Road Dog is “the largest motorcycle in the world,” according to Buzz Walneck, who acquired the beast from Gelbke’s mother. Road Dog, born in 1965, is 17 feet long and 3,280 pounds, with an “Iron Duke” 4-cylinder 152” Chevy motor, Earles forks, automatic transmission, shaft drive, disc brakes, and hydraulic lifts on either side for uprighting it in case of a spill or for parking. My husband likes to call it the “plumber’s nightmare,” and if you saw it you’d know why. Gelbke would cruise cross country on the bike at speeds in excess of 90 mph, just to get a hamburger at a beer joint five states away from his home in Wisconsin.

While bikes are most often modified for racing, or to reflect the owner’s psyche, I admire owners of those customized to overcome personal limitations. The term “handicapped riders” is not an oxymoron, and contrary to what you might think, a great many of them discover the sport after their accidents. To realize their dream of riding, individuals with disabilities become very creative. Trikes and bikes with sidecars are common solutions, often combined with special hand controls and a wheelchair carrier. A paraplegic rider in Denver invented a hydraulic gearshift controlled by a button switch on the handlebar, which allows him to shift gears with his hand. He has patented the product and is successfully marketing it, liberating other would-be riders who are otherwise wheelchair-bound.

Finding employment or building a business in the motorcycle industry is the ultimate dream of many a rider. After leaving the bike shop I missed it terribly, and eventually began writing for various bike publications. This led to my stint with the motorcycle talk radio show, for which I’ve interviewed such luminaries as Jay Leno, Robbie and Evel Kneivel, famous racers, and VPs of various bike manufacturers. I had a good excuse to attend local and national motorcycling events (“But, honey, it’s my job!”), and became a celebrity of sorts.

One such adventure was an invitation from the Milwaukee Public Library to co-sponsor Biker Poetry Nite as part of the Harley-Davidson 95th anniversary celebration. We sought out a core group of Chicago biker poets, the Word Pirates, who are conceptually articulate, emotionally expressive, intellectually compelling, and screamingly funny. Friends had been routing biker poetry books my way in the past, but this was my first experience with it in the flesh. Though it’s a hard sell to the uninitiated, biker poetry can be tough, sexy, and emotionally kick-ass, and in the course of working on this project it became clear biker poets were no anomaly, as people started crawling out of the woodwork to tout their talent.

My personal favorite was Rob Van Tuyle’s hypothetical response to the tracts distributed by some Christian riding clubs titled “Jesus Would’ve Rode A Harley,” because He was a rebel in His day. Van Tuyle’s playful rhetoric pointed out that, having ridden a lowly donkey into town for the last supper with His disciples, Jesus, if on two wheels, “would’ve rode a humble Vespa.”

Our next venue for personal expression is the club scene. With such diversity within the biking community, there is a proliferation of clubs to satisfy anyone’s urge for socializing and support, some nationwide, some local. As mentioned, there are Christian motorcycle clubs, which are tightly knit and dedicated to serving Jesus, and often consist of riders fighting to maintain sobriety. There are Jewish riding clubs like the Sons of David MC of NYC. There are the outlaw clubs, often referred to as “one percenters,” because they make up less than one percent of the total riding population. There are clubs comprised of law enforcement officials such as the Blue Knights; clubs based on race or ethnicity like the Buffalo Soldiers and Ebony Riders; racing clubs for road, off-road, long-distance, endurance, ice, motocross, antique, et al; family clubs; clubs based on make, model, and style of riding; and gay clubs.

There are women’s clubs, the most venerable being the Motor Maids, founded in 1940. The earliest members were women who served as army couriers and mail carriers on motorcycles during WWII. Group portraits show the Motor Maids outfitted smartly in blue dress shirts with bow ties, a look carried over from wartime dispatch uniforms. The women’s club arena has expanded to include numerous others, such as Women On Wheels, Women in the Wind, and the Rambling Roses, whose spouses are called the “thorns,” and the children “rosebuds.” With women making up 10% of the total riding force, and up to 30% in major metropolitan areas, women’s clubs are enjoying a growth spurt, though all clubs are benefiting from the influx of new women riders.

There are even clubs for political activism, which are called “motorcycle rights organizations” or MROs. United under the umbrella of the Motorcycle Riders Foundation, these groups rally under the battle cry, “Let those who ride decide!” Describing themselves as patriots, theirs is a grassroots movement whose objective is to educate people in the legislative process, including providing leadership, effective lobbying and knowing the issues. Highly organized and very committed, they have effectively reversed helmet laws, “safety” feature enforcement proposals, and challenged discriminatory laws and lawsuits against motorcycles and riders.

The information and observations in this essay are only a sampling based on my own experience and encounters as a rider and as a journalist. To imagine the many faces of motorcycling multiply the above by a googolplex, and don’t discount the possibility that, if you’re not one of us now, you may soon be.