(Not so)Bad to the Bone: Image vs. Identity

I was 25 years old when I bought my first motorcycle. It was a metallic blue, 1986 250cc Rebel – a beginner bike for all you non-riders, and it was(at the time) probably the most beautiful bike I’d ever seen. I learned how to ride it in a parking lot by my house, but when I was confident enough, I zipped up and down the roads in my neighborhood, waving at strangers. I was thrilled with the hint of anxiety I felt as I learned how to properly use the clutch, but humbled by the small engine and its reluctance to move the machine that housed it over 60mph on the highway. Still, that little bike gave me the greatest feeling of “cool” I had ever experienced at that point in my life, and I reveled in the wonder of being noticed if for no other reason than for being the chunky girl on a little blue motorcycle.

I loathed to part with that wonderful machine and so it wasn’t very much longer until I purchased my second bike, a maroon, 1997 750cc Yamaha Virago. This machine was an entirely different experience. It was heavy. I felt the responsibility of balancing it carefully lest it fall and I not be able to pick it up, because dropping a bike is one of the most humiliating things you can do. I’ll admit I was never a speed demon. I always felt like I was just shy of getting my sea legs on the thing, but it did move fast! And it was so dang comfy. I felt like a true biker on that motorcycle and I rode it proudly until the day I sold it to pay income tax.

Still, I remember how it felt to glide down the road with the wind in my face and the bugs in my teeth. I remember waving at the other bikers–not the goofy wave I give people on my Jamis hybrid(that’s a bicycle, y’all) but a real biker wave. It’s what I call the salty salute most riders give as they pass by–a kind of universal mantra for the biker that is reserved for the road. Only bikers give it to each other(I’ve tried it from my Jamis but I’m sadly ignored), and if you’re not a biker, there is no amount of waving or finger-wagging that will get another biker to give it back. I forfeited the cool club when I stopped riding and I’ve lusted after another bike ever since.

You see, for me, riding a bike was always about image. Sure, I loved to ride, but more importantly, I wanted to look cool. Maybe it’s the outcast in me that craved attention, or maybe I simply longed to be accepted because I knew I was a total nerd at heart. Whatever the case may be, I wanted to be a part of the motorcycle club, and for a while, I was.

But image is not the same thing as identity. And this disparity tugged at my heartstrings as my family pressured me to let go of the biker lifestyle. You see, while I was trying so hard to fit into that biker culture, I was also trying to raise two little boys. They loved to ride on the motorbike with me but the “responsible” adults in my immediate vicinity were certain that two-wheeled contraption was going to kill me. As much as it pains me to admit now, the statistics for motorcycle deaths aren’t very cheerful, and in the end my family won. In many ways I’ve never really recovered. Every Spring I get a little pang in my heart when people break out the bikes and race past me on the road.

And so it happened the other morning that I was riding my Jamis before work when I encountered an older fellow on a beauty of a white motorcycle at a stop light. I guess I was feeling nostalgic as I pulled up beside him at the light and complimented his ride. He informed me that it was a police bike that had been refurbished and his crusty-proud grin reminded me just how much I miss riding and showing off my wheels. I told him I used to ride but that “my husband made me sell my bike” and he gave me that mournful look most bikers give me when I tell them that. But before we could say anything else, the light turned green. He revved his engine and glided around the corner while I pedaled hard in my cycling shorts and light blue bicycle helmet–ever the almighty nerd.

The chance encounter caused me to think about who I am today compared to who I used to want to be. I used to feel like I didn’t belong–like nobody really liked me for who I was–and that I needed a motorcycle to get people’s attention. I used to believe that the black leather jacket and cowboy boots were a sort of magic costume that made me appealing, and so I wore them sort of like Cinderella wore her beautiful white evening gown. I braided my hair, and pulled on my black helmet, and I sped around the region doling out “the biker salute”. I felt like I was a part of something, even though riding a bike didn’t afford me any kind of special privilege. To be honest, I felt very invisible in my everyday life and so riding a motorcycle gave me visibility. I suppose in the end, being a biker chick was really nothing more than a fanciful mirage.

But today I am not the same person that I was. I don’t need a motorcycle to boost my self-esteem. I don’t need the boots or the black leather jacket. I don’t even need the fringes on the handles because my self-worth is so much more than the dirt and grit on my cheeks from riding on a Saturday night(not that it wasn’t wonderful!). Today I am confident and comfortable in my own skin(stretch-marks and all). I am content to live in the shadows, to pedal like a nerd on the sidelines, and to take pride in the gray hairs that line my temples(which is a beautiful indicator of graceful longevity). I suppose in some respects I still like to live dangerously(if you call digging out stumps and hauling truck loads of rock dangerous work). But I am relieved that I no longer need to chase image like it’s some kind of miraculous trophy. I can rest easy in the love of my children. I can relax in the bemused gaze of my husband as he explains one more time that my chicken-cutting technique is a little sloppy. And I can laugh at myself as I pump my fists in the air while I march around my neighborhood and endure the confused looks of drivers who wonder “what in the world is that woman doing?” Because I’ve come to realize that my true identity is bound up in the love of my God and my family, and not in the vacuous image of being a “cool biker chick”.

Today at work I had a conversation with a friend who is trying so hard to live a healthy lifestyle while working full-time and raising her children. She expressed to me her dismay at losing her hair(that happens after one gives birth) and also her frustration at the sleepless nights she is experiencing with a newborn. She told me what a struggle it is to make healthy choices when she is just dead-dog tired, and I just listened, and remembered, and smiled. And then I told her what I have learned in my journey over these past few years… I told her that image is just that–a picture, but identity is who we actually are. Our faces and our bodies do not define us, because the people that know and love us don’t care about bald spots on our heads or rolls of fat around our bellies. Our identity is so much more than perfect skin or knobby knees. We are the affection we shower on our babies and the sacrifices we make to ensure their bellies are full. We are stamina at 2:04 a.m. when someone is throwing up and joy in the unprovoked giggles that ring out of tiny little lungs. We are patience and losing our temper and crying because our nerves just can’t take any more. We are worried when the diagnosis of our child makes us wonder how many days or hours we have left, and we are laughter when we consider the hairstyle they are leaving the house with for prom. So long as our identity is bound up in something true, and real, and lasting, I honestly don’t see why worrying over the imperfections in my body should have any place in my consciousness. And if you are reading this, neither should you.

I watched my friend smile and walk away as if a burden had been lifted from her shoulders. And in that moment she was so lovely. I wish I could have taken a picture. But of course a picture is just another image after all, and I got something more precious from our encounter…. I got a glimpse of the wonder, majesty and beauty of a unique human heart.

On June 17, 2016   /   The Journey   /   2 Comments