Happy Butt Is Born

Most of my riding years were spent on the back of a motorcycle. Frankly, I didn't have a problem with that. There was nothing that I enjoyed more than taking off on a ride through the mountains, kicking back against the back rest of my ex-husband's bike (if you could call that six-inch pad a back rest). When the warm sunshine and the breeze smothered me, I could literally doze off. I know that sounds crazy, but that is how comfortable I was riding with Ed. The vibration and sound of the machine was soothing as well. It is truly a beautiful feeling. As long as I was able to go for a ride, I was a happy camper.

Toward the end of our marriage, Ed stopped taking me for rides. I would literally beg him to fix whatever was wrong with the bike so he could take me to the coast. There are a couple things wrong with this scenario. First, why is the bike not running? In my opinion, the bike should always be ready to go. It is sort of like getting dressed in the morning. If a button comes off your shirt, you sew it back on. So, if the clutch cable breaks on the bike, you fix it and get back in the wind.

Next question.. Why on earth was I having to beg to go for a ride at all? Why didn't I just learn to ride solo? Actually, he laughed at the idea and told me I would not be learning on his bike. Ed told me he would start me off on a mini-bike, which never happened. I felt beaten down and did not pursue it. It used to make me ill when I would think of this beautiful Harley Davidson Softail Custom just sitting in our garage, neglected. Furthermore, I was neglected. Riding was and still is a huge passion of mine.

Lastly, every time I asked if we could ride to the coast, I would get the same response, "It's too cold on the coast." He just didn't get it, and he did not care to understand. How Ed did not understand my need to ride is beyond me. He's been riding since he was a small boy. His whole family had dirt bikes and used to take them all out when they went camping. Furthermore, he was named after his great uncle, Ed "Iron Man" Kretz, Sr., who was a motorcycle racing legend, and a Motorcycle Hall of Fame Inductee.

Ed took the bike with him when we divorced. I should have fought for it! Oh well...

It did not take me long to hunt down a biker to go riding with. This was the real deal. "Word" was a Prospect for a local chapter of the Viet Nam Vets M/C. We met in an online chat room, and before I knew it, he was wining and dining me (so to speak), introducing me to the club brothers, referring to me as his 'good girl', and inviting me on rides. Riding in a pack of bikes just does something to me. Being among the clubs felt like returning home. It was so comfortable and so real. The hardest thing for me was adhering to the role of a submissive little lady. That's because I would rather hang out with the boys. I was that way even as a young girl. I never did like the 'bros before hoes' mentality, and that usually did create a bit of a problem for me.



One Saturday morning, I was expecting Word to pick me up. He'd invited me to go on a Valentine's Day Sweetheart Run. When we spoke that morning, he told me to be ready to go at 10:00. Now mind you, he was a Prospect. For those of you who do not understand exactly what that means, Prospects have not yet earned the privilege to wear the club colors. Prospects are at the mercy of all the club brothers who are "Patch Holders"

I am only bringing this up because as I waited and waited for Word to come riding up to my front door, I realized he was not going to show up at all. I was pissed.

"What the hell am I doing waiting for a ride anyway? I'm tired of waiting all the time for these assholes! That's it, I'm getting my own damn bike!"

Let's see - That was in mid-February. I had my new Sportster by March 1st! The bummer was my girlfriend, Leslie, had to ride it home from the dealership for me. You know what I absolutely loved about sitting there in the Harley dealership as I signed papers? The most appropriate song played in the store - "No Time" by the Guess Who - I just smiled.

No time left for you
On my way to better things
No time left for you
I found myself some wings
No time left for you
Distant roads are calling me
No time left for you.

No time for a summer friend
No time for the love you send
Seasons change and so did I
You need not wonder why
You need not wonder why
There’s no time left for you
No time left for you.

A couple brothers helped me out over the next couple of weeks, coaching me how to ride my new bike. After an episode in the Light Rail parking lot, I had no choice but to lower the bike. Suddenly, I was learning how to change shocks and install a lowering kit. To make it fit even better, we switched out the stock bars and pipes with drag bars and pipes. Oh yeah, I got rid of the stock two-passenger seat and put on a solo seat.

All the while, I would take her out after work every single day. After gaining confidence from my mid-intersection stalls (and very close calls), I began riding into the foothills for my daily rider training. I was feelin it! Freedom! Freedom from EVER having to ask another guy to take me for a ride. Now, I could just Go! My bike became my sole source of transportation, so I was no fair-weather-rider. If it was pouring rain, I was riding.

When I showed up at the VNVMC's Memorial Day run at the local VFW, I was given the roadname, "Happy Butt", because my butt was always so happy when I was riding. Riding on the back will never be the same....but like I said, as long as I'm riding, I am a happy camper!

A Not So Thankful Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving is one of my favorite holidays, particularly because I absolutely love to cook. Mom's family is filled with incredible cooks, and that gene was passed on to me. The holiday was always my sister's favorite, now that I think about it. She loved the mashed potatoes and gravy. We seemed to celebrate Thanksgiving at our grandparent's house most every year when I was a kid. I recall making several stops to make sure we saw relatives from both sides of the family. I imagine it was exhausting for my mother, as she could never really relax at any of our visits along the way. Most everyone knows what this is like. You stay for awhile at one place and do not eat too much or stay too long so you can then move on to the next place to eat again. Usually, that time is cut short in order to get the kids home and put to bed.

Thanksgiving was always hectic for my mother. If it was not due to the hopping from place to place, it was due to the alcoholic flare ups from my Grandma Mary. A day meant to give thanks for God''s provision and for our loved ones always seemed to end in turmoil or violence.

One year, Mom decided to change things up and prepare a Thanksgiving feast for us at home. I completely understand. After years of running around, bringing a prepared dish to contribute to dinner, it is very special to prepare the entire meal for others to come and enjoy. Not only that, but we could relax and be comfortable after we filled our tummies. Jami and I were excited to have our own Thanksgiving, seated at our very own kitchen table! My step dad, Van, seemed to be his regular self, but happy. This Thanksgiving was one every one of us was looking forward to. My little sister and I were six and eight years old this particular year.

Mom began cooking the day before and was in the kitchen most of Thanksgiving Day. Jami and I always loved to help crack and peel the hard boiled eggs. Today, we were so eager to taste all the goodies Mom cooked up, that we kept running to her to sample her creations. This Thanksgiving dinner was very traditional. There was a huge stuffed turkey, mashed potatoes, yams candied with melted marshmallows, potato salad, green beans, and cranberry sauce. Our mother told us, "No more picking! You'll ruin your dinner!" Munching on raw potatoes was also always a treat, for some reason.

Van kept away from the kitchen, from what I remember. He really did not do much around the house at all, except hang out with the dogs in the backyard. That was only when he was not beating on or teasing us girls. Mom usually kept us clear of him when she could. Today he was calm and also in the Thanksgiving spirit.

We could not sit down to the dinner table fast enough. Mom had the table decorated with a table cloth and covered it with bowls and platters of everything she had worked so hard to prepare for us. Our table was small and oval, with enough seating for six. When we all sat down to eat, our parents would be seated at each end of the table, while my sister and I sat across from each other. Today, Van chose to sit next to me instead of at the end of the table.

When you cook a meal like this, the biggest joy comes from watching your family enjoy every bit of it. I also get that from my mother. I tend to wait to dig into my own plate so I can see how the family likes everything. Of course, we always started out our dinner by saying grace. "God is great. God is good. Let us thank him for our food. Amen."

As my mother began serving up our plates, I felt my step dad poke at the side of my right leg with his finger. He liked to tease us as much as possible in order to get a rise out of us. I remember trying to ignore him while holding my plate up while Mom served my dinner helping. As I set my plate down, he poked my bare leg with his fork. The instant reaction I had was to push his hand away. I also remembered whincing, "Stop it."

It was in that split second of pushing his hand away and telling him to stop when he grabbed me by my throat, lifting me out of my chair, then slamming me against the kitchen wall. He was squeezing my neck and shaking me as he held me up there, nearly three feet off the ground. My sister started screaming. Mom came at him, pounding on his back as she screamed for him to let go. My sister and mother were both frightened for my life and crying hysterically.

I fell to the floor as he let go, while my mom tried to comfort me and check my neck. While I was crying and gasping to breathe, Mom kept yelling at Van, "Why?" I remember him saying something about my table manners.

The attack certainly did not end with me. All of us were so shaken that we could not think of eating. My recollection is that my mother nearly threw all the food out the front door. Van continued his rage, directing it at Mom, while we hid in our bedroom. It was not until later that evening that Mom ended up bringing our dinner to us, and tried to smoothe over the wounds.

Needless to say, Van was successful in stealing our very first Thanksgiving in our own home; the only one I actually remember.

And here we are, approaching Thanksgiving again, more than thirty-five years later. Reflecting on this day has not been easy. When you write something like this, you relive it. Memories and visions surface that were once buried in time. However, it does remind me of so many things I am thankful for, including the fact this monster is no longer in any of our lives. What is most important is that God is always good.

LSD and The Magic Carpet Ride

My mother was quite the artist. Her far out creativity was all over our house, the car, and our clothes. We lived in a modest three bedroom house, which my mother and father purchased with my dad's V.A. loan, when they were married. The most memorable area of the house was our hallway. Sounds strange, doesn't it? All my friends would report back to their parents about our black walls. Nobody had black walls in their house, except us. Better yet, the entire hallway was painted and decorated like it's own party room.

I wish I had an actual picture of it. When you entered the hallway from the living room, you walked through a panel of floor-length beads, which hung from the ceiling. Yes, the walls were black, but they were also decorated with wild psychedelic paintings and drawings in flourescent colors. Even the ceiling was splashed with flourescent paint. Blacklights hung from the ceiling at each end of the hallway.

There were lots of flourescent lime green, hot pink, orange, yellow, and purple flowers everywhere, peace signs, phrases like "sex-drugs-rock-n-roll", and other words I was too young to read. Mom would drop some LSD and just start painting whatever images were flashing through her mind as she was hallucinating.

Our bedroom door was right there, off the hallway. Many nights, when a meeting (church) or party was taking place, they would congregate in the hallway. There was always alot of loud voices and music from outside my bedroom door. I would hear them laughing, using nasty words at each other, and falling against the walls, often falling down. Usually, when someone fell down, they would stay there, tripping on all the colors swirling around the hallway.

Now I know where the song,"Magic Carpet Ride" must have come from. My sister and I sat in our room, hoping nobody would try to come in. We always locked our door. Inevitably, someone would try like hell to open the door. I don't know, maybe they were looking for the bathroom, or just a bed where they could pass out.

Summit of Despair

A run through Hell on deadly curves ~ Afraid of what could be ~
Miles of twisted roads run on inside of me ~
Riding out Hell's Dark Canyon ~ Roads have been so rough ~
Climbing the highest mountain ~ One ride that's made me tough ~
Darkness appears as clouds ~ Loneliness and despair ~
Blinded by hopelessness and fear which lead me there ~
Drowning storms reaching and tearing at my soul ~
Unable to see the light above ~ At times so bitter cold ~
Waiting for the landslide around the curve ahead ~
Hopeful for the Meadow of Peace appearing there instead ~
Deepest valleys with gouging pain ~ Strength only for today ~
Costly tolls for bridges burned ~ Each day a price to pay
Bound with no escape riding circles around this place ~
Studying the pools of water ~ The reflection is not my face ~
The lair of scars runs deep within forming tales I'll one day tell ~
Memories of painful battles along the roads through Hell ~
Thankful to the Angels of Mercy while broke down on the road ~
Don't feel so lost ~ I know now I do not ride alone ~
Twists and turns won't seem so deadly ~ Just a better ride ~
Fear, despair, and anger now released from inside ~
More winds to ride before I rest ~ My Angel guides me now ~
Ridin on, Free from fear ~ I'll make it, I won't go down ~
Ridin higher ~ Lookin ahead to the summit around the bend ~
Losing sight ~ Not believing ~ Won't ride through there again ~
Smoother roads are calling beyond the Summit of Despair ~
Thundering winds calmed to a whisper ~
Faith will get me there ~

copyright Cherie LaLanne 2005

Holy Awesome Biker Suit!

The Dark Knight's Leathers

Leathers sure have come a long way! The suit itself is made from hi-tech components Batman himself would struggle to find. Strong Cordura Mesh Base with Heavy-duty 4 way stretch Spandex inserts, for example. There’s also removable CE-approved body armour on both the jacket and pants. All this combined with a highly detailed, removable lightweight interior lining, form-moulded leather and Kevlar armour sections, make for a suit that’s as tough as it is awesome. The only thing it doesn’t come with is Batman’s mask. I'd wear them!

Every biker takes great pride in their leathers. It really is the only thing between you and the hard surface you may come in contact with when you go down. When it came time to purchase my first set of leathers, I made sure they were high quality. We checked out the gear at the swap meets and at the Easyrider show. You can find a pair of chaps for $20, or you can invest in a $200 pair. The difference is in the thickness of the leather and the stitching, basically. Well, it's worth it in my opinion.

My father, an old school biker, used to call me a preppy wannabe biker. Whatever. I'd show him! My leathers were new. His were worn for years, and lived a long, hard life! You could practically see the miles and the number of times the rubber left the pavement in the wear and tear. I admire an old set of leathers. Especially a cut (vest) decorated with patches and pins. They don't just come that way! So, I had to get riding in order to have a story to tell with my leathers (and to gain a little respect from my dad).

Then there's the chaps. The biker babes are usually the only ones who go so far to decorate their chaps with beads and patches. Mine were fringed, and beaded in red and black. Those are the colors of the Vietnam Vets M/C Club, who still hold a very special place in my heart.

When I see someone on a motorcycle, wearing shorts and sandals, it sends shivers down my back. We've all seen it. I've never done it. It was always my practice to wear my leathers whenever on a bike, regardless of the weather. I guess because I've seen the damage even minor contact with the road can do to flesh and bones.

A Biker's Poem

I saw you...
Hug your purse closer to you in the grocery store line.
But, you didn't see me put an extra $10.00 in the collection plate last Sunday.

I saw you...
Pull your child closer when we passed each other on the sidewalk.
But, you didn't see me playing Santa at the local mall.

I saw you...
Change your mind about going into the restaurant.
But, you didn't see me attending a meeting to raise more money for the cyclone relief.

I saw you...
Roll up your window and shake your head when I drove by.
But, you didn't see me driving behind you when you flicked your cigarette butt out the car window.

I saw you...
Frown at me when I smiled at your children.
But, you didn't see me when I took time off from work to run toys to the homeless.

I saw you...
Stare at my long hair.
But, you didn't see me and my friends cut ten inches off for Locks of Love.

I saw you...
Roll your eyes at our leather coats and gloves.
But, you didn't see me and my brothers donate our old coats and gloves to those who had none.

I saw you...
Look in fright and judgment at my tattoos.
But, you didn't see me cry as my children were born and have their names written over and over in my heart.

I saw you...
Change lanes while rushing off to go somewhere.
But, you didn't see me going home to be with my family.

I saw you...
Complain about how loud and noisy our bikes can be.
But, you didn't see me when you were changing the CD and drifted into my lane.

I saw you...
Yelling at your kids in the car.
But, you didn't see me pat my child's hands, knowing he was safe behind me.

I saw you...
Reading the newspaper or map as you drove down the road.
But, you didn't see me squeeze my wife's leg when she told me to take the next turn.

I saw you...
Race down the road in the rain.
But, you didn't see me get soaked to the skin so my son could have the car to go on his date.

I saw you...
Run the yellow light just to save a few minutes of time.
But, you didn't see me trying to turn right.

I saw you...
Cut me off because you needed to be in the lane I was in.
But, you didn't see me leave the road.

I saw you...
Waiting impatiently for my friends to pass.
But, you didn't see me. I wasn't there.

I saw you...
Go home to your family.
But, you didn't see me.
Because, I died that day you cut me off.

I was just a biker...
A person with friends and a family.
But, you didn't see me.

Spaghetti Joe

Don't you just love the name? It actually is the roadname of a biker who used to read children's books to me when I was a little girl. What is a roadname? It is a nickname given to a biker. It is a name he inherits, usually from one of his club brothers. His roadname, if it sticks, is embroidered onto a patch, which he proudly wears on his cut (vest). I'm thinking Spaghetti Joe was Italian.

One of my earliest memories in life is of a night, complete with fear, family, security, and confusion. This vivid memory is one of a collection of memories which planted internal lies, identifying who I thought I was over the next thirty-something years. Picture two little girls, all of about four and five years of age, sitting in a car, right smack in the middle of a biker brawl. Well, it was much more than a biker brawl. It was an all out war.

My sister and I were seated in the back seat of my mother’s car, while a family friend read a story to us. Mom was a wild flower child and drove a baby blue Comet. She was a bit eccentric and pasted large Daisy decals all over the outside of the car. The storyteller was a very dear family friend who reeked of greasy Levi’s, mixed with the earthy scent of his black leather vest. His hair was long and his face, unshaven. The other men from his motorcycle gang called him Spaghetti Joe. I used to giggle at the mention of his name, no matter how often I heard it. I just loved saying it.

His eyes were friendly and his voice low and raspy as he nervously and quickly read through the pages. I recall him distracting Jami and I from peering out the car window at what was going on all around us. It was dark, and we were parked in front of King’s Drive-In. I remember King’s being a popular spot on the strip through downtown San Jose. There were always dozens of motorcycles and loud, fast cars parked in front of the place. We usually stayed in the car with one of Mom’s friends while she was inside grabbing burgers for us, or hanging out with the club.

This night was very different from the others though. We were afraid, as we were told not to pay attention to what was going on outside. Telling a child not to pay attention to something just made us all the more curious to press our faces against the windows. It was fun to fog up the window with the warmth of our breath and the cold of the air. I suppose it was good the windows were fogged.

I heard men yelling and cursing. One man fell onto the back of our car. Spaghetti Joe continued to read to us with more urgency in his voice. I put my arm around Jami and moved in closer to Spaghetti Joe. The car was shaking from the fighting taking place all around us. They were swinging large steel chains and beating each other. At one point, I heard several cars honking their horns on the main drag, then tires screaching. One of the men had thrown someone from the other club out into the traffic!