It turned out my new boyfriend, Yves, rode a motorcycle.
“Nope. No way. I’m nearly forty-five and not up for the ‘biker-bitch’ role,” I asserted. “Been there, done that, got the T-shirt, and it no longer fits,” I grumbled as I applied for Motorcycle Safety lessons. This decision was sure to take me outside my comfort zone. I had no experience with anything mechanical.
Class One, the first day: “Monica, this is where you insert the key,” said Jeff, the teacher, sensing my level of expertise. Then, “The right hand operates the gas and front brake. The left hand works the clutch. The right foot controls the rear brake and stays on the peg at stops. The left foot shifts gears and, at a stop, stays on the ground.” (I learned that the hard way.)
As usual, I was a hardworking, attentive, diligent student. In short order, I was having fun and excited by all the highways and byways I imagined in my future.
On the final day of classes, after the written and practical exams, the teacher asked, “Anyone feeling unsure about anything we’ve learned in the last six weeks?
My hand shot up. “Stopping on an incline!
“Okay, let’s ride!” Jeff intoned, as he always did when we left the airport tarmac for the real world beyond.
We paraded like ducks on a pond, nose to tail, wearing fluorescent yellow jackets on 250 cc Hondas. We followed him towards Spanish Banks along NW Marine Drive. I followed Jeff, and six riders were behind me when he signalled left and downshifted to ascend a very steep hill. Midway, he suddenly stopped. I stopped and froze. I couldn’t remember what my hands and feet were supposed to do and knew that if I fell backwards, the bikes behind me would topple like dominoes. Jeff parked and ran towards me.
“Breathe,” he said steadily. “Right hand gas, right foot brake, left hand clutch, left toe kick down into first.” I was terrified and registered his words but seemed unable to think for myself.
“Okay, now rev the gas and slowly release the clutch and brake.” I followed his directions without adding my thoughts and reached the top of the hill. I stopped, turned off the key, and put the bike on its stand. Then I lay down on the boulevard grass, shaking. Then I vomited. There must have been a lesson here.
My first bike was a second-hand, cherry-red Honda VLX named Ruby. She had a 600 cc motor that scared the hell out of me. When I felt she was out of my control, I abandoned her and jumped off to safety. She went into one ditch, and I jumped into the other.
I dropped her on a gravel road when she skittered, and I tipped her over on her side when I lost my balance after running out of gas on the Second Narrows Bridge at rush hour—I forgot about the reserve tank. Sweet Ruby taught me a lot, and I’m afraid I banged her up quite a bit.
Bike number two was a brand-new, burgundy, 750 cc Honda Shadow. I had learned to hold on tight, grit my teeth, and never go down.
I vowed to keep her scar-free. I changed her pipes to straight cobras, and her guttural, low-pitched roar followed me everywhere.
I felt indecently wonderful, having been raised in a convent to be quiet and keep my knees together. I bought custom-made leather chaps with long fringes, big biker boots, and a leather jacket with studs. I wove leather strips into the braid that hung down my back. My helmet was sleek and black, and I bought a big silver ring shaped like a skull for my index finger.
Flying through tunnels, I would shriek, “Lara Croft…Tomb Raider!” and crank the throttle to a thunderous roar! My gaze was steely, razor-sharp. My body leaned forward in its form-fitting leathers—one hand on the magnum strapped to my thigh. I now saw the circle of light that would bring me to the successful end of my mission.
Get your motor runnin’. Gassed up, chrome gleaming, full leathers, dark shades, and red lipstick! Two by two, a long convoy of friends, we headed out on the highway, from BC into Washington, along curvaceous Chuckanut Drive to Anacortes for our yearly “Show and Shine” weekend. We would join 10,000 to 20,000 bikers in what was called the “Oyster Run” and descend upon the small town, parking like two sides of a zipper, side by side on both sides of the street, block after block
My posse arrived early for bacon, eggs, and grits and to watch as the action flowed in. The bikes cracked and screamed as they burned rubber. Loud! Hells Angels, Bandidos, Mongrels, and Outlaws were all there, as well as Bikers for Jesus (mostly ex-addicts) and the 69ers (older riders from Seattle).
As far as I could see—facial hair, tattooed skin, protruding bellies, and worn leather. Some, like us, looked shiny and new, chaps and boots oiled. A motley gathering, there to check out the bikes and each other, to drink beer and down oysters: raw, smoked, baked, roasted, steamed, and broiled. Many would party till dawn, all accommodations booked a year in advance.
I loved to put on my strut. We all felt the part of us that was indeed born to be wild. We shucked oysters, perused the
merch, met old friends, and made new ones.
I harshly judged the babes in bikinis posing on choppers until they called me over to shoot Jell-O shots with them.
“Biker girls forever!” we screamed above the rock and roll as I became, for a time, part of their gang.
We headed back to Vancouver, tired and wired. Ears ringing, bodies vibrating, thousands of bikes leaving by the only exit.
I crooned into my helmet at full volume to keep awake.
My third bike was a black Victory Vegas 8-Ball, 1800 cc, a silky monster of a machine. He was only content when flat-out on a deserted road. In the city, he lurched impatiently as I fiercely restrained him.
Watching the sun rise, resigned to humming the most recent earworm, electric vest plugged in to ward off the chill. Fully caffeinated. “Yee-ow!” The highway to Osoyoos, in British Columbia’s interior, stretched forever, with giant sweepers (roads with gradual turns that can be taken at high speeds) and minimal traffic. These are the conditions bikers live for.
No traffic-tax collectors, I took it up a notch, exceeded speed limits, and finally 8-Ball would glide into sixth gear, purring.
It was counterintuitive. Approaching a right curve, I pressed my left hip to the left and, with my upper body, pushed into the curve; if I leaned too far, I had to lean further to bring the bike to vertical. I remembered how my brain once rebelled against the illogic of this and noted how it had become second nature.
Trust in yourself and your bike is a big part of riding. If you are parked on the side of the road and must do a U-turn in one lane, you crank the handlebars all the way, lean on the gas, and know you’ll make the turn. There is no room for second-guessing or backing out.
“Keep your handlebars up,” we cheerfully called out to each other in parting. We were all aware of the reality that every biker has or will go down. Yet we rode.
My spills have been relatively minor, and my bike always got the worst of it. As my motorcycle crashed, I developed the knack of flitting like a ballerina to safety. Yves would quickly repair the damage to my bike so the visuals wouldn’t have time to sear into my brain: a patient, smart man.
Motorcycle riding is exhilarating, even though there is a risk of injury and death. For riders, the thrill is worth it.
For a biker, the raison d’être is the road: stunning scenery, perfectly engineered and smoothly paved wide sweepers, repetitive S-curves along oceanside cliffs. There is no past to regret, no future to look forward to, thoughts disappear, and the rider is fully present and free, picking a perfect line at a perfect speed through a perfect curve—biker bliss.
For me, cheap hotels, pubs, and bars were a licence to chow down on all the food I usually bypassed. What self-respecting biker would order a salad and tofu, and what self-respecting biker diner would have these on the menu? We downed bacon and greasy eggs for breakfast, hamburgers and fries for lunch, ice cream at breaks, and beer when the ride was over for the day.
Unexpected parties, opportunities for skinny-dipping, vineyards, and beautiful highway signs saying Winding Highway Use Caution are all part of the ride. You learn to take what comes, to react to the road. The destination is usually irrelevant.
A shiny black Harley Softail Slim was my fourth bike. I was sixty-two years old when I bought it. If not now, then when? Harley and I had a lovely three years together.
I was reluctant to tell Yves that my 750-pound Harley was getting heavy to hold and that the leather gear was stifling when stuck in gridlock on steamy summer days. Finally, I did, and he surprised me by instantly agreeing and telling me his Victory Cross Country Tour, which looked like a Jetsons’ family flying machine, was also feeling a bit much for him.
So, we said addio to our motorcycles and bought 300 cc Vespas. I chose a red-and-white one and named it Cocchinella (ladybug in Italian), and Yves, an olive-green-and-yellow model.
Yves designed logos: a cute bug with eyelashes for Cocchinella and a snorting wild horse for his Italian Stallion. Only later did Yves find out that Sylvester Stallone did one porn movie in his career, called—you guessed it—The Italian Stallion.
Our new machines are manoeuvrable, light, agile, and go like the wind. We explore the back roads, stop for picnics, and smell the wild roses and sage.
I wear red platform shoes, sport a red helmet with a white trailing scarf, and sound like a sewing machine.
Born to be mild…What a ride!
Monica Yuzak has a memoir chronicling her life as a doctor, mother and woman, Never Still, available in Summer 2025.
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