I went through many phases growing up. As far as my dress code went, my tom-boy adolescence transitioned rather rapidly to gothic once I hit middle school, then skater/punk (in large part due to this boy), then mellowed out quite dramatically into a wild hair, no makeup, tie dye wearing hippy once I was an established high schooler. I was a band geek, an athlete, a skater girl, and often times mistaken for a burnout. But one identity that remained throughout all of my metamorphoses was that I was a motorcycle chick. Continue reading
I’m a second generation motorcycle rider. Growing up my dad always had a motorcycle; at one point he even had 4. Mom and I would take turns riding with him most weekends running errands, visiting family, and sometimes just going out for ice cream. We joined a local motorcycle club when I was 12, so our rides became more frequent. In the organization, we were Chapter Z or by those who knew us, the Zaniacs. We would ride out to other chapter meetings, go on poker runs to raise money for local charities, ride in parades… It was an amazing feeling to belong to this amazing group of people who loved riding just as much as we did.