A Motorcycle Built For Two

"You will fall into a pattern of self-destructive behavior this week when you discover how much fun that sort of thing is. "

It's curious how you can stumble upon a random contraption of metal, grease and leather and suddenly wonder how in the world you existed without it. Especially when that same contraption is somehow stunning and tough at the same time. I had always admired motorcycles from afar, taking great delight in the unique ways people would customize them as a sort of living, purring work of art. I took even greater delight in the unique characters riding them.




Many years ago, I had read Hunter S. Thompson's book on the Hell's Angels (titled the very same) with a furious degree of intrigue. Despite a vivid, brutal and often horrifying picture being painted, I couldn't help but find a level of romance between the lines. The sheer freedom of the open road - the power, authority and ominous presence of these aggressive, dirty beasts. Untamed by humanity or laws. Violent and misunderstood all at once. Gypsies.


Perhaps this counter-culture is a manifestation of everything I believe the darkest parts of my own self are compiled of. It was never a fascination of money, status or brand. No, it was something far more raw and haunting than that. The reality is that I'm still unsure where I fit in or what defines me from one moment to the next. That which inspires me is greatly varied, and my experiences tell me that none of these inspirations were ever destined to mesh. As each of my puzzle pieces is dissected, one can find a niche, of sorts, that celebrates each. Yet beneath that group is the bubbling decay of exclusiveness and clique-caliber membership. One must be a "purist" to call oneself a fan. Knowledge and demonstration of every defining detail down to the smallest level must be achieved or you face ultimate rejection. It seems the rules of High School spill shamelessly over into adulthood.


I make no apologies for the fact that I cannot be pinned down to one style, interest or genre. I cannot change my unpredictability nor would I necessarily want to. A potpourri of personalities and passions. Bits and pieces of comprehension or insight...simply never enough to experience a sense of belonging. I even face daily fluctuations of sensitivity towards so much as a desire to belong. My guess is that this sensitivity is borne of always viewing the world from outside that window. The loneliness that can often accompany it.

Last night, we welcomed the addition of a motorcycle to our simple family. With that, an overwhelming motivation to study, create and absorb all it has to offer. I will never fit into the world of bikers and mechanics. I have no desire to suddenly pop in on rallies or exhibitions. I don't look like a pinup, nor would I fit in with the bleach blond tanned Mamas of North Dakota. Merely a simple gal with a sparkle in her eye and a deep level of respect for the danger this beast is capable of. The road ahead beckons both literally and figuratively.


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Kitty

Wednesday, May 11, 2011

A Motorcycle Built For Two

"You will fall into a pattern of self-destructive behavior this week when you discover how much fun that sort of thing is. "

It's curious how you can stumble upon a random contraption of metal, grease and leather and suddenly wonder how in the world you existed without it. Especially when that same contraption is somehow stunning and tough at the same time. I had always admired motorcycles from afar, taking great delight in the unique ways people would customize them as a sort of living, purring work of art. I took even greater delight in the unique characters riding them.




Many years ago, I had read Hunter S. Thompson's book on the Hell's Angels (titled the very same) with a furious degree of intrigue. Despite a vivid, brutal and often horrifying picture being painted, I couldn't help but find a level of romance between the lines. The sheer freedom of the open road - the power, authority and ominous presence of these aggressive, dirty beasts. Untamed by humanity or laws. Violent and misunderstood all at once. Gypsies.


Perhaps this counter-culture is a manifestation of everything I believe the darkest parts of my own self are compiled of. It was never a fascination of money, status or brand. No, it was something far more raw and haunting than that. The reality is that I'm still unsure where I fit in or what defines me from one moment to the next. That which inspires me is greatly varied, and my experiences tell me that none of these inspirations were ever destined to mesh. As each of my puzzle pieces is dissected, one can find a niche, of sorts, that celebrates each. Yet beneath that group is the bubbling decay of exclusiveness and clique-caliber membership. One must be a "purist" to call oneself a fan. Knowledge and demonstration of every defining detail down to the smallest level must be achieved or you face ultimate rejection. It seems the rules of High School spill shamelessly over into adulthood.


I make no apologies for the fact that I cannot be pinned down to one style, interest or genre. I cannot change my unpredictability nor would I necessarily want to. A potpourri of personalities and passions. Bits and pieces of comprehension or insight...simply never enough to experience a sense of belonging. I even face daily fluctuations of sensitivity towards so much as a desire to belong. My guess is that this sensitivity is borne of always viewing the world from outside that window. The loneliness that can often accompany it.

Last night, we welcomed the addition of a motorcycle to our simple family. With that, an overwhelming motivation to study, create and absorb all it has to offer. I will never fit into the world of bikers and mechanics. I have no desire to suddenly pop in on rallies or exhibitions. I don't look like a pinup, nor would I fit in with the bleach blond tanned Mamas of North Dakota. Merely a simple gal with a sparkle in her eye and a deep level of respect for the danger this beast is capable of. The road ahead beckons both literally and figuratively.


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