motorcycle mamma

I went out for a bike ride today, which is something in itself, as I haven’t really been on my motorbike since before an operation in late September last year.

I was in a state of nervous excitement as I donned my jacket and gathered all my implements together for the ride, practically a checklist of motorcycling safety that my husband insists on if I am to battle for some wheel space with the rest of the nutters. The Kevlar reinforced jacket, the steel capped knee-high boots, the padded gloves and of course, the all important helmet.

It was, of course, exhilarating to feel the wind swirling around me as I sped along the highway again. Personally, I’d prefer to have the wind in my hair as well, but the wearing of helmets is compulsory in these parts. I can understand their reasoning. I’d rather lose a limb than part of my grey matter if worse came to worse. As much as I would like to be the complete ‘easy rider’, I’m not completely insane.

Some of my fellow travellers today were obviously not as committed to my personal safety as I was, as I had to dodge two 4wd’s, one truck that ran a red light, a woman who walked into the middle of the road having a conversation on her mobile, and a tradie who lost his load of guttering all over the road in front of me. In the last instance, I was lucky I was not impaled by a 3 metre long piece of guttering fascia flying towards me. I guess it’s reasonably safe to say that I have good reflexes.

All of this doesn’t put me off though. Not all my days are like this. I have some great rides where everything runs smoothly and nobody has my number implanted on their bumper bar. Having said that, even on the good days it always pays to be prepared for anything and remain paranoid.



It’s been a frustrating year. The aforementioned health issue hasn’t helped the situation, and I’m feeling like a cat on a hot tin roof. Therefore, I must assume that I am starting to feel better. Could be worse. At least I’m starting to take an interest in things again. Like my motorbike Lucy.

Lucy was a present from my husband two Christmases ago. He could have bought himself a boat, but he did the honourable thing and bought me Lucy instead. I say honourable with tongue in cheek. My husband is a good man, but he knows that his life would have become a living hell if he’d denied me the object of my desire.

I’d had my eyes on Lucy’s model for a couple of years. I’d read the specs and done the sums, and taken test rides here and there. I thought about a Harley once or twice, but decided against it. At the risk of offending any dedicated Harley riders out there, I could only afford a second-hand Harley, not a new one, and I didn’t want somebody else’s trouble. Made good sense to me. I wanted a new bike anyway. No ghosts or pasts to worry about.

The day I got her I was excited and nervous at the same time. It had been a while since I’d been on a bigger bike. I had been riding around on a 250cc for a couple of years. Ten years before, when I was immortal,  I was the proud owner of a beautiful big road bike. I loved the bike and I loved the attention. There weren’t many women bike riders in my area. It’s amazing what a decent ride and a set of leathers can do for one’s wellbeing.

That all stopped when I was diagnosed with a brain tumour and my world went kind of pear-shaped for a while. It took a long time to recover and resume a semblance of a normal life. I managed to go back to study, and go back to work. What I didn’t manage to do was to get back on a bike again. My balance had been affected, or so they told me. It would be a while before I could prove them wrong.

Anyway, back to Lucy. The ride home was a glorious rush of adrenaline, euphoria and terror all at the same time. I felt like I was stoned when I got home. And it took a long time to come down. I didn’t want to. I was free of the mind-melt of the last few years. I enjoyed many more similar rides until I got to the point where I couldn’t again.

I have spent the last 12 months with a health problem. It’s as simple as that. I won’t go into it here, because it’s not necessary. Suffice it to say that it has been another huge emotional and mental learning curve that I have gone through and come out the other side. Good health is a valuable thing. When you don’t have it, you wish for it, and envy others who can do what they please. But you get over it, because if you don’t you become a miserable ass that nobody listens to anyway.

I’m on the mend. And I’m planning on having a better year in 2012. Here’s to me. And Lucy. My first ride will be a joyous occasion for all concerned. Me, myself and I. And maybe my husband because I may finally stop grumbling and get a life again.

2012 promises to be a good year. I will bounce along the highways once again, with nothing between me and the road but some fresh air and a few prayers. I will finish that course I’m studying and finally get back to work. It’s good to have goals. The world needs more goals and less red tape.

I’m looking forward to being me again. Hope you can come along for the ride.

Closet voyeur

Optical parameters listed on the prism cover p...

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There he is again. A flash of light reflects off sunbronzed skin, moving out beyond the break. I pick up my binoculars and glance around,  feeling a little sleazy.

I take another sip of my morning go juice and lick my lips. I can’t help myself. This man is poetry in motion and as regular as the sunrise. Everyday, his body is a streamlined work of art, sliding in and out of the crystal blue swell beyond the break, well apart from the younger, more supple  surfers that gather there for the best sets of the day. I imagine him as he slides out of his crystal blue sheets in the morning, naked, as he scans the point and plans his session. I see him oil up his body and pull his speedos over his muscular thighs…

I shake my head and adjust my binoculars for better focus.  I can see his face as he lingers momentarily to gulp some air before he turns into the water again. His jaw is hard and his lips are soft and full. I wonder what the lucky recipient of his attention looks like and if she appreciates the delights that he has to offer her. I feel a pang of jealousy and pull back from the binoculars quickly, as a hot flush creeps up my neck, and a tingle runs down my torso.

I shift in my loungechair and bang the binoculars onto the table. This is getting a little creepy. I’m turning into a serial visual stalker. What’s wrong with me?

I blink, as I try to erase an erotic vision of adonis slowly peeling his cherry red speedos down his dripping thighs, and frown at the walking stick – the bain of my existence since the accident, and the gatekeeper of my intention. I have nothing better to do than lurk and limp around on my balcony with my stick, and perv at anything that moves, or more recently…the one thing I like that moves.

I twist myself around my stick and hobble inside, pressing myself against the wall for balance. Little spikes of frustration stabb at my innards. No point in looking if you can’t touch. I try to justify him, and myself, by rubbing him up against an equally hot looking number at the local gay bar down the road, but something tells me  he’s strictly hetero and hot for it.  

I think I’m getting a little toey. I  haven’t slowed down this much since the last accident. I guess this is what you get when you prefer a fast motorbike throbbing between your legs. Nothing like giving in to the beast on the open road, and getting a little dirty with a well oiled machine. No man has ever given me that kind of  satisfaction.

I relax and turn the television on. Nothing wrong with me that a good ride wouldn’t fix. My body just doesn’t recognise the kind of ride it wants. While a hot bike is a no contest, flexing my motorcycle muscles around that hot, well oiled adonis – and watching him purr – was more than tempting.

I flick through the channels, but there’s nothing on. I sigh and look down at the mottley cast that covers half of my best assets. Nice legs, when you can see them. I scrub up well in a set of tight leathers too- but let’s face it – I won’t be getting any satisfaction from man or machine while I’m wearing a plaster mood inhibitor that starts at my groin and doestn’t end until it reaches my ankle..


I run my hands around the smooth body and lick my lips.  I trace my finger around the speedometre, and feel a surge of excitement so profound I’m lightheaded. I grab the throttle in my hand as I swing myself over the object of my desire, and ease myself into the seat. Nice fit. I flex my quads around the tank and pull my right leg over the peg to test the brake. No problem – weeks of physio and frustration has paid off,  – I was revved and ready to go. ‘When can I have it?’ I eye the sales guy underneath my lashes, and lean forward for effect.

‘Tomorrow.’ He  pushes his pen around in his pocket with one hand, and tries to adjust himself with the other. ‘Easy. Pick her up at 3 o’clock. Everything will be done.’ He’s drooling by the time I bend over to adjust my boots. Mission accomplished.

4 o’clock tomorrow finds me cooling my heels on the customer courtesy lounge at the dealership. I’m  impatient to get this show on the road and go for my maiden ride, and things aren’t going according to plan. Months of hanging out on my balcony, entertaining thoughts of what I would do to Adonis if I ever got hold of him, have mangled my brain. I need a fix and I need it fast, or I’m going to blow.

I watch every move the salesguy makes, and when he finally walks towards me with the keys at 4.30pm, he’s as nervous as a cat on a hot tin roof, ‘Sorry ’bout that, we had to get another order out with yours.’

I feel a surge of anger towards the recipient of the other order. I can’t help it, my whole being is centred around getting on my machine and getting out of here. I start to say something sarcastic, but stop mid-stream as I  catch the back-end of Adonis through the side door with a helmet in his hand. He’s  sporting a set of leathers that gives me a hot flush. I’d know that butt anywhere, and it looks better today than it did in the speedos last week.

The salesguy follows my gaze and hones in on me, a sly grin enhancing the pockmarks of pimples on his pubescent cheeks. ‘That’s the boss, Matty…he’s the man. Hot rider.’

I flush again. I’m sure he is.

I shake my head and grasp at the keys jingling in the salesguy’s hands. He takes a step back and sizes me up for a moment, probably not really sure which team I’m batting for after all. ‘Ok, paperwork’s done. Here’s the papers and out there is your new ride.’ He points in Adonis’ general direction and tries to not to smirk.  I don’t take the bait, but I feel annoyed that he would presume to have me pegged. I leave him floundering in my jetstream as I straighten up and stride towards my quarry. By the time he catches up with me, I’m shoving the key into the ignition and pulling the clutch in.

‘Hey, hang on. You need to see that guy over there before you go.’ The smirk has gone and he dances around me, waving his arms about and trying to mouth above the din I’m making to drown him out. I rev it a bit more, and he points and dances a little more, just in case I’m thinking of making a run for it. I dropped the clutch and plant my foot on the floor, rev it again, and put my other foot on the brake. There’s enough drag to move towards him and give him a tap.

‘Sorry. Got a little carried away.’  I smirk at him while he straightens his trousers and looks around him. The workshop has gone quiet, and anyone within earshot has stopped to listen. I remove my helmet and flick my hair down my back. I’m feeling better already.  And I’m in control again.

‘That’s fine. Over there.’  He points towards the big guy in the corner, standing next to Adonis, and flounces off in the other direction, no doubt to reinstate his authority over the sales girls in the showroom.

I head towards them, suck in some air for courage and sway my hips subtly. I’m in control, even as Adonis leans up against the back wall and puts his hands in his pockets. He eases his hips forward and smiles, and I see flashes of grinding hips around me in cherry red speedos. I’m almost lost as my head begins to buzz and my lower stomach takes a nose dive into my groin.


Me and my motorbike

I went for a ride today. Not a dramatic announcement to some, but to me its an understatement. I haven’t been able to ride for a few weeks due to illness – and lack of balance from an ear infection. It’s amazing what a bit of vertigo can do to my born-to-be-wild bravado.

Fifteen years ago it would have been a different story. I was immortal, and indifferent to the hazards of hairpin bends and late-night no-sleep red-eye runs. One brain tumour later, and I have a new perspective and appreciation for the little things that would have otherwise eluded me. I went back to university and nurtured a neglected intellect, gaining insights into myself that I never knew existed. When I climbed back onto a bike three years ago, it was with full leathers and an upgraded life insurance plan.

The bottom line is, riding still makes me feel good. And I’m not inclined to be giving it up in the near future. I like the rumble and the road underneath me, the sky above and the wind rushing around my head. It’s not for everyone, but it still suits the illogical eccentric that lurks beneath the surface, even if it’s older and a little over-educated.