Volume 7, Issue 1: Spring 2011
Riding
Half-Naked (Or The Conversion of a Safety Nazi)
Wendy Moon
In late September, I flew
from Los Angeles to El Paso, Texas to spend a long weekend with my friend and
co-academic Revvv. Because he was picking me up at the airport on his Harley
Sportster, I brought my T-bag and that meant there was no room for my full-face
helmet. He, of course, didn’t wear one, as both New Mexico and Texas are free
states. But Revvv said not to worry as he had an old one I could borrow.
Now this was a concession
on his part. We’d been having heated debates over helmets and helmet laws ever
since we started working on a project about women and motorcycling. Helmets had
nothing to do with it, yet they kept cropping up in our conversations. He
quoted studies and I quoted others. “It’s about freedom,” he declared. “No one
has the right to tell me what to do.”
“Freedom!” I said. “It’s just what you say to get
your own way. Freedom is in the ride, not what’s on your head.” I thought his views were reactionary,
unreasonable and too passionate, and that’s what he thought about mine. After
several arguments, we realized it was hopeless and tried to avoid the
subject—with frequent relapses. So, that he would, without comment, offer
me a helmet was very generous of him.
And I needed that promise
of a helmet. Too used to piloting my own Sportster, I was nervous enough about
riding behind Revvv, and, besides, that spring, I had been riding behind a
gentleman on a Kawasaki Ninja when he had gone down in a low-speed low-side in
a corner and I had hit my head on the curb. The gentleman had a tiny scrape on
his knee. I had a concussion. I couldn’t bear the thought of riding pillion
without a helmet. At least, that’s what I thought when I got there on a
Wednesday night. I had no clue the weekend was going to open my mind about
helmets and leathers and freedom.
It was cool and dark when
I arrived. As he had promised, there was the full-face and his beanie. “I
wasn’t sure which would fit better,” he said, “so I brought both.” A beanie, I
well knew, was just for show—it had no protective value except from hail
so I put on my chaps and his full-face as Revvv fastened my T-bag onto his
sissy bar. The helmet was too
large, and I joked about his having a big head even as I worried that it
wouldn’t be any more effective in an accident than the beanie. I tightened the
strap to the point of strangulation, nervously got on back and we took off.
As we rode down nearly
deserted streets, I realized the visor was so scarred that all the lights
looked like miniature star bursts. I opened the face-shield and it was better.
He took the dark, lonely Trans-Mountain Road and headed towards the New Mexico
border. Revvv, unlike my Ninja rider, clearly had a great deal of practice
carrying a passenger and I relaxed and enjoyed the scenery.
The next day, he had a
meeting at the University of Texas, El Paso, and I planned to tag along. I
looked at my chaps and decided I didn’t want to have to wear them all afternoon
or tote them around. Denim jeans and a jacket would have to do. Then I looked
at the useless full-face helmet. “When in Rome…” came to mind. I would dare to ride on the other side of the issue. Just for research, mind
you.
Nervously, I got on behind
him, feeling vulnerable and extremely conscious of every movement the bike made
as he pulled out of the parking lot and onto the road. Revvv lives a
quarter-mile from Texas in the green band along the Rio Grande, and we passed
horse farms as my hair whipped around my ears. When we rode down Mesa Street
through El Paso, I relaxed. This wasn’t so bad. It even felt daring,
adventurous, but I was still nervous. After the meeting, Revvv suggested we go
up to Las Cruces on Highway 28 and so we did. And in that ride, I began to see
why people were so passionate about riding without a helmet.
Perhaps it was the clouds.
We don’t get many in Southern California and I had forgotten how beautiful
masses of thunderheads could be. Perhaps it was the lovely fields of Egyptian
cotton or chilies and the green shadowed stillness of the pecan orchards we
rode through. Perhaps it was just that I trusted he was a safe rider. But I
began to revel in the journey. Of course, I always do—I am a biker—but this was different.
For one thing, I could see.
I had argued that the
helmet opening didn’t interfere with sight lines—and it doesn’t. But
Revvv had argued that the weight of the helmet—its presence
alone—changed the ride, changed how one sees, and damned if he wasn’t right. To “feel” the ride with my
head—the wind in my hair, the real temperature on my scalp, was exciting.
I discovered I could lean close enough to him that we could talk. Not much
closer, but far more easily than with inches of plastic and foam between us.
And sitting closer to him led to another discovery.
I had begun riding as a
pillion passenger before graduating to riding my own bike. I enjoyed it, but, I realized as I rode behind him, there had always been
a sense of disconnection, even isolation. The helmet, the leathers imposed
layers that left me, literally, behind—like I was a piece of baggage.
But, as we rode in t-shirts and jeans, I felt him in front of me—his warmth, his solidness, and, for some strange
reason, it made me trust his riding even more. When he shouted back, I heard
him. I could tuck my head behind his for respite from the wind and peek around
with his hair tickling my cheek. It felt good. I was not only content to ride
pillion, I was luxuriating in it because it was a more intense sensory
experience. So, this is what it’s all
about, I thought. This is what they
know and I never suspected.
The next day, we had
meetings down at UTEP again—ones for which I had to dress up and look
professional. Once again, I didn’t want to haul my chaps or my boots around, so
I chose to wear my skirt and heels. And visions of road rash danced through my
head. Fear rose up in a dust storm of anxiety—what if we were in an
accident?
From the first time I had
gotten on a bike, I had been a safety-girl—ankle-high boots, denim if not
leather, leather jacket, gloves, full-face helmet.
After all, riding is dangerous. It only made sense to take precautions, to ride
“as if they’re out to get you,” as if you’re going to fall. But at that moment,
I suddenly realized that fear had motivated my caution. Fear
of falling. Fear of injury, of pain. Perhaps
death. I hadn’t thought I was afraid. I would’ve argued caution was a logical
response to the painful realities of motorcycling. And it is. But as I climbed
on behind Revvv in my skirt and heels, as I looked down and saw my bare legs and
the ground, I realized fear had always been a bigger part of my equation than I
had suspected.
It was chilly that early
in the morning, and I was glad Revvv’s body blocked
more wind. El Paso is in the desert and sand stung my legs on the freeway. That
I could do without, but later, on city streets, it felt good to have the sun on
my legs instead of sweating inside my leathers. I had never realized, before,
how all that gear made me feel as if I was inside a house—or a car. I had
never felt the connection between nature and myself until I rode half-naked. As
we rode along, I realized I wasn’t taking that much more risk that normal.
In one way, it didn’t
matter if I wore in leathers or if my skin was exposed to my thighs or whether
my head was covered. Regardless of that, Revvv was exactly the same rider and
traffic was as crazy or sane as it always was. That part of the risk hadn’t
changed. What had changed was the
likelihood of injury if we fell or were in an accident. But the operative word
was “if.”
In that moment, I saw I
had been basing my entire riding life on “ifs.” I always assumed something bad
would happen and I had to protect myself. Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing.
After all, accidents do happen. That’s reality—but it’s a fairly rare one
when the rider is skilled.
Oh, the Safety Nazi inside
me protested as we zoomed along. It doesn’t matter how rare it is when it does
happen. Road rash is painful. Concussions are horrible. Death is
permanent—and it’s so easy to forestall with a few more layers. The great
unknown could get you, the Safety Nazi whispered.
But that’s just the
point—I really don’t know what will happen or when it will happen. We’re
generally fed statistics that seem to prove an injurious fall is definitely in
our future, so piling on as much safety gear as we can
seems to make sense. But that means riding for an unknown number of miles and
hours—maybe only one, maybe hundreds of thousands—specifically for
those seconds when the accident occurs. It could be years before I’d need the
protection a helmet and gear provided, and, suddenly, it seemed like a bad
trade.
Plus, there’s another
problem with statistics—they only reveal part of the picture. Some people
fall more often, some never do. Some people die despite a helmet, some people
would’ve lived had they worn one. Sometimes the safest riders go down while the
fools recklessly ride on. There are no guarantees. Wearing safety gear improved my odds,
sure, but at the cost of personal freedom.
Well, damn, Revvv was
right—it really is about freedom. But it wasn’t the freedom the riders’
rights organizations claim—that nasty governmental interference in our
private lives. Oh, that’s certainly an issue, but, as my hair streamed behind
me and skirt hitched up on my thighs, it wasn’t the main one. There was a clear
difference in how I experienced the freedom without a helmet and gear. As free
as I felt on my own bike, I felt freer still—even though I was riding
bitch. But what I felt, what I understood on the back of Revvv’s bike was more than merely the sensory level, so that wasn’t it either.
No, it was freedom in its
essence. To the degree we live in fear, we must react, not respond, to life. We
who live this way plot, plan, and prepare to prevent an accident that may not
happen. Every time I go for a ride, it takes me a few minutes to gear up. When
I stop, it takes another few minutes to take off the helmet, gloves, jacket and
chaps and stow them, then repeat it all when I mount the bike again. Those
minutes add up. Gear costs money and needs to be replaced by preference or
wear. That adds up, but it’s small compared to the mental effort required to
maintain that protective attitude. I am not free to live in the now because I’m
enslaved to the future “what if.”
Underneath this fear is an
abiding defensive stance in which even offensive actions are to protect ourselves. But that’s America for you. We see this in home
security systems which lock us in as much as they keep
others out. Nationally, we see this in homeland security since 9/11. Internationally, it propels us into
wars. And, I saw, when it comes to riding, my unconscious fear cheats me of the
totality of the experience, steals my present and doesn’t guarantee my future.
And that’s what all these domestic, corporate, national and international
precautions ultimately do.
We live in the land of the
free but we do everything possible to limit the risks that come along with it.
The measures we take sap away ability to live freely—not only in actual
time and money but in a deeper sense. America is
seized by a low-level paranoia; not only are “they” out to get us, but life
itself means to do us in, so nature must be controlled as much as possible. And
this paranoia results in adding on layer after layer of supposed protection to
keep us from some potential harm, no matter how unlikely. So we gradually
distance ourselves from experiencing a full and free life and we don’t even
know it. As a society, we’re like kids so bundled up against the snow we cannot
move at all. Unlike kids, though, we aren’t aware how little fun we’re having.
And this, I think, is what
the protest over helmet laws is really about. It appears to be about the
government dictating our choices, but perhaps it’s about this deeper level. Those who ride without helmets refuse to live their lives by the
“what ifs” that dominate society. They know freedom is risky—it
always has been, always will be. Embracing that risk rejuvenates the soul and
empowers one to live the rest of her life as she wants. To ride without a helmet
helps us remember what life is supposed to be about. What America is supposed
to mean.
There on the Southwestern
highways and byways, I came to see true freedom is an attitude of overwhelming
“Yes!” to all that life may bring. But I couldn’t understand that until I rode
without a helmet. The real issue, though, isn’t the item; it’s the attitude
behind it. The fear others have for us when we don’t wear it, the fear we may
have even when we do—that’s the real tyrant, the real killer. It’s not
just the laws we must fight against, it’s this endemic attitude that risk is
bad and safety precautions will really keep us safe. There are no guarantees
and anyone who promises us that is trying to sell us something or gain power.
I live in California, a
helmet state, and so I put it on when I got back. The first time, though, after
my trip to the Southwest, it felt like a box on my head separating me from the
rest of my body, from everything around me, but it didn’t feel quite so odd on
the way home. It’s that attitude I must hang on to now. I haven’t changed entirely—there
are times when I know I’ll still prefer to wear one. LA traffic is insane and my odds at
becoming a statistic are higher, it’s true. At high-speed in the desert it
keeps me from dehydrating quite so fast; and a helmet is more comfortable in
the rain. But one thing is certain: Revvv and I won’t
be arguing about helmets any more.
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