Bugs in my teeth

Roaring up to our house on his unregistered, single-seat dirt bike, the boy handed me a battered, sweat-stained and smelly helmet so large it swam about wildly on my head. Avoiding authorities, we raced through alleyways back to his family’s home and motorcycle business near the Hardieville neighbourhood in Lethbridge, Alberta, then farther north to what seemed to me like an impossibly steep coulee where the emerging sport of motorcycle hillclimbing events were held.

The wild ride through alleys and watching young riders on the hill was thrilling—right up until I seared the day into both my memory and my calf by leaning against the hot motorcycle muffler. I was a foolish young girl dressed to be seen, not safe, and had worn shorts and sandals—never a stellar decision for any motorcycle rider. The scar remained for years along with a seed of passion that had been planted in my mind.

Growing the passion

My adolescent endorphins raged when at age 13 I threw my leg over a motorcycle seat that first time. A 14-year-old boy I knew from school asked me to go for a ride. Imagine, a boy wanted to spend time with me—I was bursting with anticipation. Thirty years later, it all became campfire teasing when Brian and I were camping with friends in the Kananaskis area of Alberta. My childhood friend, that 14-year-old boy’s wife of 20-odd years, introduced me to her teenage children as their dad’s “first ummm…ahhh…girlfriend." In someone’s stories that single sunny afternoon we spent on the hill had attained girlfriend status but without knowing, the boy had left a lifelong passion for two wheels, speed and independence in my young mind. 

Soon after, Sunday afternoons would find Dad, my brother and I at the hill watching what I considered kamikaze riders with deep-rooted death wishes. From standing still, they would rev up their bikes to ear-splitting levels, then release the brake and clutch, spitting roost (dirt and rocks) five metres back and five metres high. Digging deep and fighting gravity to remain straight, they’d battle up the 60-degree slope hoping to launch over the top—which was a distance of 25 metres.

Spectators perched like crows on the hoods of vehicles crowded together at the brink. Watching the big bikes hurtling over the top, I feared riders would lose control and smash right into us. My brother and I constantly ignored Dad’s warnings not to fight for that coveted viewing position. Balanced on the centre of the truck hood, the winner would tightly grip the hood ornament between their thighs to avoid sliding off the sharp-sloped hood as the losers constantly did. Finally attaining my goal one day, my triumph was short-lived. Grabbing me by both ankles my brother yanked me right off the hood. My scream was audible even over the deafening bikes. Blood streamed from the gash the hood ornament had left and the pain was so distracting I couldn’t even enjoy the scathing tongue-lashing Dad rained down on my brother—and hillclimbing was removed from our Sunday calendar. Stupid brother.

The Harley years

The bike was black, low to the ground and it produced body numbing vibration for the entire 40,000 kilometres we rode on my ex’s '71 Harley Davidson. I rode behind, forced to crane my neck sideways to see or speak (read, yell) but also to avoid breaking my nose and teeth on his helmet as he shifted gears. 

At the time, windshields on Harleys were passé and the only economically viable face protectors were plastic shields that snapped onto helmets, caught wind gusts and tore at neck muscles. Foul insects, bees and grasshoppers spread bitter yellow innards as they felt like rocks exploding on our faces, teeth or helmets. Only on occasion would they fly into a mouth or even the back of a throat creating equally distasteful choices. Choice 1: cough to dislodge and expel critter, possibly triggering involuntary chewing (eeeeuuuuwwww) or choice 2: attempt to swallow as wind-parched throat chokes back rising bile, simultaneously attempting to disregard scrambling feet or wings. Note to self: keep mouth shut.

Getting on the bike was challenging. Lacking saddlebags, for years I carried a backpack crammed full of heavy tools and personal gear. The narrow, lightly padded seat ended with two 16-centimetre-tall chrome sissy-bars (backrests) that often cut my legs when slinging them over the sharp bars. The extra 12 kilos together with constant motor vibration dictated very frequent roadside numb-bum stops but I tried to look at the bright side. Balancing the weight of the pack against wind resistance was an all-day, sit-down abdominal workout, and you could bounce a basketball off my belly.

Making friends on the road

Don’t misunderstand. BC (before children) I loved adventuring through Alberta, B.C., Washington and Montana whenever possible. To me, few things beat exploring new pathways till you run out of day, setting up a tent almost anywhere, then looking for a restaurant with motorcycles parked out front where we would meet other bikers (ages 18 to 80) from across North America and beyond.

Bikers are their own international nationality. Barring snobbish manufacturer loyalties spawning verbal jabs, bikers are extraordinarily non-judgmental. When the need arises, 99 per cent of bikers are quick to provide mechanical assistance, food or shelter—offering friendship and camaraderie without question. Self-proclaimed one per centers are easily identifiable jacket- and patch-wearing gang members. Note to self: be careful who you ask for tent site advice.

Sun-baked hills, much like our coulees in southern Alberta, escort the highway as you enter the bustling village of Cache Creek, B.C. Our bartender hooted with laughter when we told him where on those hills we’d set up—on advice from the young man working at the local gas stop. Choking back giggles he described the multiple sacks of squirming rattlesnakes he’d helped remove from that very same area the day before. Rather enjoying our alarm, he calmly handed us keys to his pickup truck and called over a few nearby bikers who quickly helped us move to a more hospitable site “before your tent fills up with rattlers,” he snickered.

Cruising into the future

Eventually purchasing my own BMW, I confirmed firsthand the intense concentration required to stay alive on two wheels. Strangely, some cage (car) drivers don’t see motorcycles. Perhaps accustomed to watching for other four-wheeled vehicles, some can have a blind spot for bikes. I was once totally dumbfounded when a car driver made direct eye contact with me, then immediately pulled out to turn left, 12 metres in front of my approaching motorcycle.

Unfortunately bikers must drive not only for themselves but for all others on the roads. In a contest between me—then a 54-kilo rider—and a 1,500-kilo vehicle plus all that unforgiving pavement, I would lose badly. Even so when circumstance allows I hope to replace the motorcycle I enjoyed for years. That seed of motorcycle passion planted so long ago still simmers with my desire to explore. From where we live, within just a few hours you can experience prairie, desert, foothill and mountain landscapes. Investing a few hours more, you can reach the West Coast to ride incredible twisting coastal highways with their stunning backdrops. Today’s comfortable helmets and riding gear provide full-face and body protection and with motorcycle windshields now both effective and stylish, experiencing bugs in my teeth is just a fond (!!??!!) memory.