Okay.  I admit it.  I can be really stupid.  Okay, maybe not stupid.  Stubborn would be a better way to describe it.  Really stubborn.  Stupidly stubborn…I wouldn’t normally admit to this.  No way.  So, don’t hold me to it because I’ll fiercely deny saying so, but I do have my moments.  Many have called me obstinate or tenacious.   Maybe even irrationally independent.  Tempestuous…I like that one.  Anyhow, I’m going off on a tangent here.  This behavior, this delightful side of my personality can be simply summed up in three words…The Motorgirl Way.

Sigh. The Motorgirl Way.   I have to chuckle to myself as others would chuckle, too.  That Motorgirl Way has a way all right…a way of getting me into trouble.  As I put on my bra, I’m reminded of one such time.  Trust me…the bra thing will make sense later in the story. 

Wait for it.

It was a clear autumn day.  A day like most autumn days.  Lovely, poetic with the sweet smell of motorcycle exhaust filling the air.  Ah yes, the dirt bike was out of the garage and like most autumn days, perfect for heading out on those mountain trails.  The cool air off the glacier waved the leaves around my helmet like butterflies.  I was up near Birkenhead, B.C. about an hour past Whistler and home to the best turf for riding trials bikes.  Somehow I knew deep down inside that today was going to be a day I wouldn’t forget.  Uh-huh.  Famous last words.

Now dirt biking and I have an interesting history.  I rode dirt bikes when I was kid in the Okanagan but later when I decided to hit the street, the deal I made with my stepfather, Brian was that I would start on trials bikes.  For one, they’re a great bike to learn on.  Low powerful gears excellent for developing technical skills and balance.  Balance is actually the key to riding these bikes, since you don’t ever sit on the bike; you ride standing up and navigating this way.   He told me if I could ride a trials bike well than a street bike would be a piece of piss - and I quote.

So, after weeks of practicing around my parents cabin at Birkenhead, I was getting ready to learn some technical skills.  And of course me being the submissive type – NOT! I decided that I would teach myself.  It was an easy request.  Yesssssssss, easy request.  I just wanted to be able to go over logs.  That’s not much to ask, is it?  Riding in the mountains, you see all shapes and sizes of logs.  I had conquered the river rocks and obstacle course of the dried up river beds but logs were still a challenge.  After my first few wipeouts, I decided to just go around them, and the trees, and the shrubs and most of the forest floor…  Well!  You can imagine.  A simple ride through the woods turned into an exhausting obstacle course.

However, I was still determined to do this by myself.  On my own.  Just me, myself and I.  Sound familiar?  Uh-huh.  So, the Motorgirl Way went to work on this log mounting experiment.  I didn’t want to be a kamikaze girl.  I knew my limitations on this bike.  I was not one of those trials riders who could jump into trees, ride along the tops of fences or jump over cars.  I just wanted to get over logs…medium sized logs.  Simple right? 

Okay, so off I go.  I head towards an area where there are fields of rotting logs and freshly fallen trees.  Beautiful.  Perfection.  The first time I attempt one, I barely get my front tire over it and I get my two wheels lodged on the wood like a teeter-totter.  My bike stalls out and I’m already pissed.  I take a few deep breaths, pull my bike off the log and thank the gods for my boots and jeans.  They have already taken a bit of a beating.  My shinbone is throbbing a bit.  Dead tree one.  Motorgirl zero.

I kick-start the bike and head towards another tree.  I came to the conclusion that that particular log was unlucky. This other one is much better.  I aim the bike directly at the goal in sight, give myself a bit more throttle and voila!  Crash.  This time it was a bit more painful.  I get thrown over to the side and land on a bunch of nasty branches.  My arms are now bleeding and I’ve really slammed my shin.  The bike made it over the log.  Important detail, though – it lost its passenger in the process.  I try to kick start the bike but to no avail.   The flight of the bike must have fucked with something.  Well, this is my theory.  My stubborn, irrational theory.  No mechanical logic here.   Something is just fucked…plain and simple.  After kick-start number nine the bike fires up.  I’m out of breath.  Bleeding.  My shin is throbbing worse than ever and flies have started to hover over my bleeding limbs.  Great.

Goddamn log.  I’m on a mission now. 

Situations like this just make me more determined.  Unfortunately, not necessarily wiser. 
I don’t like this log.  It really hurt me.  This also makes me more determined to conquer it.  So, I head back towards the dead mass.  This game is getting more and more personal.  Slam.  Down I go again.  This time I crash with the bike.  My leg is pinned under most of chassis and a near-by branch has stabbed my shoulder.  My bare arms are whining for protection.  Guess I wasn’t thinking.  Boots, heavy jeans, helmet, gloves but just a small tank top protecting my torso.  Hmmmmm…next time I’ll wear my stepfather’s hockey gear.  Kick-start number six and the bike is ready to go.  I’m out of breath but even more focused or irrational depending on how you look at it.  A light bulb suddenly goes off in myhelmet.  Maybe I should try to wheelie over the log?  Yeah, that’s it…a wheelie.

Uh-huh.  Blame it on blood loss. 

So, here she goes again.  Our Motorgirl.  Faster this time.  Riding high over her non-existent trial’s seat, knees bent like well-coiled shocks, blood dripping into her gloves and twigs sticking out of her hair.  I give a little more throttle, drop my body weight to the back of the bike, pop the clutch and heave the handle bar aiming to get the front tire up in a wheelie position.  Not only is the forest floor uneven, the fact that you don’t sit on a trials bike, plus I twisted way too much throttle and that I’m suffering from stupidity…this was not a good idea.  The bike almost flew over my head.  Endorphins are powerful stuff.  I didn’t know my own strength and used way too much force on the handlebars.  I guess this would be fine if my child was pinned under a vehicle but this was just a 200 some odd pound motorcycle and I had about 2,000 pounds of force flinging it skyward.  Awwww…my poor little Beta!

Well, this time the bike didn’t want to start at all.   Around kick-start number eleven, my body weight fell on the handle bar.  This really, really hurt.  The handle bar more or less impaled my left breast.  Okay.  That was it.  I was beyond angry.  Beyond pain.  Plus, I was approximately 10 km from home.  I was soaked with blood and sweat…tears were not going to be an option.  I grabbed my poor little bike and pushed it back through the foliage.  I don’t know how long I pushed for…maybe five kilometers, but eventually the blood stopped flowing, my heart rate went back to normal and my shin and breast stopped throbbing.  I looked down at my sweet ride and kick started her once again.  First time.  Yessssssss!  I jumped on the bike and thanked the forest gods for the cool autumn air.  The logging roads would be my way home – no bush whacking for me – I was done like dinner.

I rode right into the cabin perimeters.  Dizzy with fatigue and frustration.  My mom and stepfather were sitting on the back porch sipping their beers.  They looked my way, hearing the buzz of the bike but then continued their conversation.  I knew my mother would freak out from the sight of me.  Even though I had been living on my own for years, mothers always worry about their children.  Especially if those children are operating motorcycles and bleeding.  I decided to head around the back.  As I neared the back gate I saw it.  A log.  Not a big log, not even a medium log just a simple root half under the soil half emerged.  Before I could even think I was over it.  Me AND my motorcycle - we made it over the log!  Oh my god.

I licked my salty lips.  Smiled huge and rode towards my parents.  Screw it.  Yes, I was bleeding, bruised and missing a breast but dammit I made it over that goddamn log!

I deserved a beer.