The Wild Ones Undone
Stubborn Hollywood stereotypes depict motorcycle enthusiasts as apelike hooligans, wiling away their aimless lives playing psycho knife games, drinking themselves senseless and, on occasional Sundays, hiding behind old billboards on lonely desert roads waiting to ambush the next church-going family in a wood-paneled station wagon, going Mad Max on their sweater-vest wearing, smiley asses—or otherwise marauding, pillaging and spreading general mischief and mayhem. Nothing could be farther from the truth
Although some enthusiasts embrace the bad-boy image, wearing it on weekends like a familiar coat, most cringe when we’re portrayed as furry, raw-meat-eating Neanderthals. When Peter Fonda says to the local police chief in the pre-Easy Rider biker flick The Wild Angels: “We want the right to get loaded, ride our ’cycles and not get hassled by ‘The Man,’ ” it was a nice sentiment, but it made real motorcyclists guffaw.
We hardly ever plunder, and I personally haven’t had a good maraud in months. Contrary to colorful fictions, motorcyclists are more prone to be math teachers than pelt-clad, Huns. Well, yes, we do wear leather, but in a good way. There’s a primal sensuality to animal hides pressing against naked flesh.
Motorcyclists are romantic as hell. They ride, not to fulfill a death wish, but to feel more alive. Flying through the wind is wild fun, and fun is a turn-on. Often expressive, sometimes poetic, motorcyclists see life differently. There is a rapture to the road, a street spirituality that makes bikers feel more connected to their surroundings, and each other. Sex is our copilot; it rides with us, pushing us to the next intense, sensuous, pleasurable moment.
Although some enthusiasts embrace the bad-boy image, wearing it on weekends like a familiar coat, most cringe when we’re portrayed as furry, raw-meat-eating Neanderthals. When Peter Fonda says to the local police chief in the pre-Easy Rider biker flick The Wild Angels: “We want the right to get loaded, ride our ’cycles and not get hassled by ‘The Man,’ ” it was a nice sentiment, but it made real motorcyclists guffaw.
We hardly ever plunder, and I personally haven’t had a good maraud in months. Contrary to colorful fictions, motorcyclists are more prone to be math teachers than pelt-clad, Huns. Well, yes, we do wear leather, but in a good way. There’s a primal sensuality to animal hides pressing against naked flesh.
Motorcyclists are romantic as hell. They ride, not to fulfill a death wish, but to feel more alive. Flying through the wind is wild fun, and fun is a turn-on. Often expressive, sometimes poetic, motorcyclists see life differently. There is a rapture to the road, a street spirituality that makes bikers feel more connected to their surroundings, and each other. Sex is our copilot; it rides with us, pushing us to the next intense, sensuous, pleasurable moment.
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