The other day my mother in law phoned me and asked me about the book I wrote in the late 2000s. More specifically, she asked me about the theme of this book- a collection of stories from women and what riding motorcycles mean to these women. And the whole focus of the book was “Passion”. She asked what motorcycling meant to me. And that got me to thinking…….
Why do I love motorcycling?
Let us bypass the heartwarming “early” stuff. I grew up an in
Ultra conservative household where “good” girls were expected to serve the church. The only voices we are meant to hear is the one which calls us to prayer. I was never going to be one of those fluffy voices type people . In fact, most of those people who talk about hearing things, I laugh at. Not the ” behind-the-hand” kind of thing. I’m more honest. I’ll laugh in your face. I’ll laugh out loud and tell you that you need to either drink more or spend more time with people.
It was on one of the first long trips I’d taken with my husband. We were on a side road – specifically the old Red Coat Trail in southern Saskatchewan, Canada. We had just come over a rise with the ribbon of asphalt in front of me. My husband, on his Vulcan in front of me, a red tailed hawk had launched into the air over the ditch on my left side – hovering and keeping pace – the prairie laid out in a patchwork quilt of lemon yellow, pale lilac, mint green, rapeseed brilliant yellow and mid green, and rays of strong reaching beams of light from the sun lit everything on the horizon in front of me. And I heard it. I heard a voice. I’d have laughed at you and mocked if any of you had told me you heard voices before this had happened to me.
It echoed through my bones. It started with an exhalation of a single breathe saying ” Yeeeeesssssssss”. Along with three other words. ” You. Are. Enough. ”
As women, we drive ourselves crazy with what we think of ourselves or what we imagine others think of us. We criticize. We dissect. We micro-examine. We look into everything we do and say in microscopic detail. We second guess. We second second guess. We expect to fail.
But here……here, on a back road. On a motorcycle with no one else but me to witness, I heard what I thought I felt every woman needs to hear.
I. Was. Enough.
No more. No less.