Dike On A Bike
A motorcycle love story.
I’ve finally reached the buy-a-motorcycle stage of lesbianism. I got a little taste of the open road over the holidays when my girlfriend drove me through Joshua Tree National Park on the back of her Triumph, and now I get it. Motorcycles are meditative.
The engine echoed through my head, and I will never be the same; it was like nature’s free sound bath. I stopped thinking, which is also how I flirt, and I just let myself be. Driving through the park with my arms wrapped tightly around Briana’s rib cage felt so freeing, for me at least. It was the first time I felt free in years. Free, open, and genuinely happy, which I don’t usually say unless I’m lying.
When Briana and I started dating, I wasn’t sure we’d be a good match since she drove motorcycles, and my favorite hobby was being somewhere that’s quiet. I’d had a debilitating crush on Bri since 2018. So when we started dating in 2023, I was convinced she was either pranking me or had an undiagnosed concussion.
Once I was able to make eye contact with her, I realized Briana was more than just hot and funny; she would also be my new bike daddy— the one to introduce me to the world I’d been missing out on.
I even told my therapist I was going to buy a motorcycle, and she didn’t try to talk me out of it. She never talks me out of my ideas, and that’s what keeps her in business.
I also don’t look like someone who rides motorcycles; I look like someone who motions them to slow down in a residential neighborhood. My girlfriend, on the other hand, is undeniably cool. She has tattoos and a shaved head, which is either a sign of confidence or the result of a psychotic episode. Either way, she’s my type. I used to only date writers and nerds. But my last string of relationships have been with thrill seekers. My most recent ex was a professional snowboarder and surfer; the one before her was an internet troll.
Being a passenger on a motorcycle is the most dangerous trust fall you can have on land. It’s right up there with flying. You’re handing your life over to someone and hoping they don’t want to die just as much as you don’t want to die. I also can’t die right now because my dog would be so confused. He gets physically ill anytime I go on vacation, so I can’t imagine the mess he would make if I never came back. Plus, I still haven’t become a billionaire, won an Oscar, or spent time in London.
My only experience with motorcycle culture before this was in Alaska when my Dad drove me to class one morning but ended up in a road rage incident with a biker who looked like a member of ZZ Top instead. We passed the turn-off to my high school and ended up in a high-speed game of, “I’m gonna kill you, motherfucker!” all the way out to the city of North Pole, where it’s Christmas every day. I was an hour late to school, but I didn’t care, fuck that place.
Going forward, Motorcycle Lauren is my new identity. She is daring and lawless, even though she’s a Virgo. She has a sense of adventure and a hunger for defying death on a regular basis. The only downfall to becoming a biker at this stage in life is my bad knee. I have to wait for the feeling to come back before dismounting, and it could use a good spraying of Pam, too. This is why you should never turn forty. Your body starts rejecting fun.
The biking community in California has fully embraced me. Several bikers flashed me the sideways peace sign as we passed each other on the road. I’m cool now, and I’m going to get a cool bike that perfectly matches my cool personality and cool vibe. A perfect day would be a morning ride to Malibu, parking on a cliff overlooking the ocean, and reading a book on my iPad.