On riding the bike.

February 12, 2020

In an odd way, riding my motorcycle around the City used to be a subtle source of dysphoria for me.

I would feel the need to wear bright lipstick, or heeled riding boots, or ride without gloves to show my painted nails because I felt self-conscious that my broad shoulders or narrow hips would mean that other drivers or riders would read me as male. I’m not sure why it was so important to me to be gendered correctly on the roads, but it probably has something to do with my pride in coming from a family of badass moto-women.

Both my mother and Aunt Joyce rode Harley Davidson motorcycles for much of their 20s and 30s, and as a kid I thought they looked so cool in their old school film photos at Friday the 13th rallies or on long road trips (I hope they don’t hold the Triumph thing against me…)

My sharp corners have softened considerably after almost 19 months on hrt , and I’ve picked up some more flattering riding gear over that time. Now that I’m almost always properly gendered, I get to experience the less awesome side of being a woman-rider.

Little things like men being “surprised” when they see my bike because of how powerful it is (1200cc); or men pulling really reckless and stupid shit on the highway trying to show off on their 250cc Ninjas or in their suped up Honda Civics, putting everyone at risk. Men constantly stopping to bother me about the helmet I carry around, or men making me late to things by engaging me in riveting conversation while I’m trying to park, mansplaining the finer points of how my engine works.

As trans women, I’m proud of the fact that we get to defy expectations on a daily basis. But on some days, we just want the freedom to ride.