Biker Babes, Cycle Sistas, Wheely Wenches and assorted she-devils

I’m from motorcycles, from black leather chaps and gloves, I am from a yellow Savage, big thumper, single stroke Suzuki.

I’m from polished chrome wheels and studded black saddle bags strapped with braid and buckles.

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I’m from wind I’m face, bugs in my teeth, bandit bandanas, fringed black leather gloves, heavy riding boots.

I am from down-shifting for a corner, leaning  far far over, cracking the throttle to pull through the curve, synchronized  perfectly round the arc

From racing speckled pavement under the foot pegs, from weaving through traffic. From the broken-line highway, curvy quiet back roads, and spin city madness.

I am from adrenaline rushes and orgasmic excitement electrifying my body, catapulted forward, the Zen of the road.

I am from biker bashes, Angel Acres and Summer Stomps, from motorcycle shows, greasy oil-smelling swap meets and toy runs in the fall.

From dread of danger, threat of violence and the edge of imminent possibility!

I am from miles of road weary curves, from noise, vibration, numb butt, sore shoulders, aching hips, clenched fists, wobbly neck and ice-cream headache.

From an enduro ride, mesmerized by nightmarish highway lines repeating endlessly in my eyes.

I’m from sweltering, dusty roads, bikini topped beneath a gaping leather jacket, buckles and straps billowing in foreshortened shadow image alongside.

I’m from shimmering heat waves radiating up from melting pavement and my hot idling engine between my knees,

From front brake lever gripped, back brake foot stomped, left leg extended in tripod balance at stop signs, waiting for slow lazy traffic lights.

I am from biker babes, cycle sistas, and wheely wenches. From 1%ers, AFFA, devils and Angels.

skull head bike

Swaying, blasting, cruising, roaring, vibrating down the road on our metal steeds, brothers and sisters, wild and free, riding the edge of excitement!

I’m from late-start road trips, riding a mountain pass at midnight with ghostly deer in the headlights, from cattle guards carefully crossed, swim suits and snacks at hidden, deep blue lakes. From gas stops, and pit stops and roadside diners, stretching tired aching muscles.

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From loosened choking chin straps, helmet squashed hair, from unzipped chaps and heavy leather jackets, wind blown bandanas, and gritty gloves. From wrap around sunglasses concealing racoon eyes over wind-burned cheeks, watering eyes and ringing ears.

I’m from rib cracking handle bars. From front-brake in gravel twisting my wheel, jerking the handle bars hard to the left.  From a bucking metal bronco, tossing me head first into the swirling dust, me and my steed on the ground. Ouch!  Never front brake in gravel, big mistake.

I’m from hot tubs and too much liquor, blasting good fun with my sisters, happy road trips to Whistler, Tofino, Sooke and Cranbrook. Three sistas riding in formation, taking turns in the lead and sharing everything, especially laughter.  Remember the gas station perfume?

From marsh-scented, bug swarming, cool dips in the road.  From eye stabbing chrome reflections, from sensuous starlit night cruises vision narrowed to the headlight halo before me, from crotch rocket café racers at Starbucks,

From shivering though clover-scented fields abuzz with golden bees, from wind-whipped green valleys mysteriously shadowed.  From a herd of hostile cows blocking the highway, warily weaving through the evil looking horns lowered in menace.

I’m from birds startling up under your arm, from bee stings on the cheek,

From rain-soaked boots and gloves, cold fingers and toes. From quilted electric vest bathing my back and chest in glowing, comforting heat.

From soggy bandanas over my face, and from foggy rain-dotted glasses.  From sliding tires on slick pavement, an hour to go before shelter and rest, hang on and pray.

I’m in love with the power between my legs and thighs, caressing my crotch like a giant vibrator.  Riding is the most exciting thing I’ve ever done, aside from making love.

I’m from an elderly man admiring my leather clad figure at a rest stop, and asking, “Can I take you home, dear? You’re my fantasy woman.”

I’m from cold air blasting up my nose, pure fresh oxygen.  It smells of freedom and the open road, all cares left behind.

 

Otis salute

 

 

 

 

 

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Author: lyndaladret

Discovered writing stories and poems through Outlander and encouragement from Sam Heughan's MPC2016 program. My new hobby is photography! check out MPC2017.com to join the #BestGroupEver

2 thoughts on “Biker Babes, Cycle Sistas, Wheely Wenches and assorted she-devils”

  1. Another awesome one Lynda! Always thought you were so brave to get into riding, and what fun with your sisters !

    Like

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