Sunday, October 28, 2012

Stop

Before my parents divorced when I was age 5, I was untouchable. Daddy took care of me. If my older siblings hurt me, teased me or tortured me, they had to deal with the long arm of Daddy, and Daddy made everyone quake in their boots.

My Dad wasn't just intimidating to us, but was a well regarded member of the crowd of bikers he accompanied. We had a houseful, most of the time, of bikers and their old ladies. My Dad worked from home, you could say, providing much needed "support" to his MC friends, so our house was like Grand Central Station. But I felt safe there, because in our home, no one would ever dare harm me. I flitted about, an innocent, happy child who knew no other life. Dangerous bikers lurked in and out, but no one, not even the toughest ex-con to darken our doorstep, would ever cross my Dad.

When my mother left my father, pregnant with another man's child, I was devastated. The abuse began there by not only my mother, but my worthless stepfather and my angry, hateful siblings. As the years went on my mother allowed countless others to abuse me with no regard for my well being. I carry bitterness within me from that, but in my life today it has it's proper place.

"Stop it Tina," was the chant from my family. Whether I was talking, laughing, complaining, or crying, the only message I ever heard was "Stop it." My siblings constantly complained that I was embarrassing them. My mother complained because I wanted to talk; talk about feelings, ask questions she didn't want to answer, or seek attention and validation.

"Stop babbling Tina!" my mother would snap. "You always want to talk! No one cares what you have to say! So shut up!"

But she was wrong. My father cared. But he was far away, as was the safety of his embrace. When he held me, I had very little to say. Everything I needed or wanted was wrapped up in him. Being so close to him I felt complete. Riding on his motorcycle with him was the pinnacle of freedom and happiness. I didn't worry about where we were going, nor did I care. If I was with Daddy, I was safe.

I've come full circle now. Being in Highway's embrace fills me with that childlike serenity and joy. Being accepted for who I am gives me the freedom to live without reservations. Knowing I'm a loving, generous person at heart, I needn't second guess myself and my motives, as long as I'm genuine.

My Daddy has been gone from this life a long time, but his spirit lives inside me. I've found what I was missing all of these years out on that open road. Every day I ride and clear my mind, open my heart, and listen with my soul, I'm fed beyond expectation.

No one can stop me now.

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Tuesday, October 23, 2012

Don't Be a Booger

This is certainly a matter of personal preference, but I would never, ever wear a jacket like this. I would rather get run over by a semi ~ no shit. I know what some of you are thinking. . . "If you don't wear bright colors you're more likely to get hit."

I don't know if you're right or not. I've seen studies that show it both ways. But I do know that if I put this jacket or any other booger-colored gear on, I would be in mortal danger. That would be because I would be sobbing with shame and drive off of a cliff.

Again, we all have our own personal styles. I'm kind of a fashion buff, less trendy and more about classic style. Nowhere in my joie de vivre is there a place for booger gear. Give me leather, suede, mink, fox, and cashmere. I love hot pink, black, fishnet stockings, short skirts, high heels, long scarves, velvet gloves and fur lined jackets.

Next some crybaby is going to sick PETA on me.


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Saturday, October 6, 2012

Get Outta My Way

Attention Motorists of Vehicles with 4 or more Wheels,

Let's start at the beginning and tell it like it is, shall we? I fucking hate you. If you can't get the fuck outta my way, then I just have to hate you. I'm going to assume that most of you have a god damned drivers license, so why don't you know the rules of the road? I see you assholes out there every time we're on the bike, you Driving-Miss-Daisy-Slow-Ass-Motherfuckers. While I realize you must have nowhere better to go, perhaps some of us do. All I can think, over and over again is get outta my fucking way.
Now, on to you assfuckers driving those monstrous horizontal monoliths you call motorhomes. Get that cocksucking vulgar display of excess out of my path. Why don't you realize that going 20 mph on the highway, holding up 25 cars while you pick your damned nose, pisses the rest of us off? Use the damn turnouts! When you pass those turnouts, like you don't have time to keep pulling off for us, it seems you value your time more than ours. Don't you think we want to get where we're going too? We chose swifter vehicles so we could get there in a timely manner. Why should we all move like dying turtles just because you wanted to pack your entire house to take on fucking vacation? Get a clue you stupid bastards and get the fuck outta my way.

Let's talk SUV's, ok? These are not Ferraris you dumb fucks. The highway was not meant for your Loser Cruiser to weave in and out of traffic at 75 mph, cutting the rest of us off, like you're Mario Fucking Andretti. If you choose to drive a god damned marshmallow, then drive it like it was intended; doing the speed limit in the cocksucking slow lane, ok? For Chrissake, get out of my fucking way!

I hate you fuckers who ease over the line when we are lane splitting, which is NOT illegal where we live. When you move in to close the gap, I have fantasies of tying you down to the hood of your sled and shoving a 12 inch dildo up your ass until you're bleeding rectally. I hate you fuckers who flick your STD-ridden cigarette butts out of your motherfucking car windows with no regard for anyone but yourselves. I hate you fuckers who don't know how to turn your bloated heads and look over your shoulder when you change lanes. Shit! We're lucky that half of you know how to work your fucking turn signals! And, I hate you fuckers who drive on the motherfucking shoulder and spray rocks at us. Think of your windshield taking a rock, you ignorant cocksucker. Now remember, that's my god damned face.

So now that we have the record straight, if any of you have something you'd like to say to me, just let me know when and where. I have a size 7 1/2 Doc Marten that I would love to shove up your ass.

My name is Sash. I'm not fucking hiding. You want a shot at the title? I'm ready, you Bitch, anytime you think you're man enough. Let's roll. But until then, get outta my fucking way.

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Tuesday, October 2, 2012

How Would It Feel to Hit The Pavement?

"Oh my God!" she mouthed, as she reached over to her boyfriend in the driver's seat. With a look of fear in her face, she grabbed his arm, I assumed, to make him stop the white Dodge Dart. I suppose she didn't want him to run me over.

It was then that I realized I was sitting in the road.

The blue Yamaha 650 had been swiftly cruising up the twisty, heavily traveled strip running along the winter run off creek. Enjoying the lovely summer day, I was relieved to get out of the house after my appendectomy only three weeks prior. For a 16-year-old girl, being stuck in the house during summer vacation, when my boyfriend wanted to ride his motorcycle, was like a prison sentence.

While driving up the city's main drag to reach the hills, I looked down at the pavement while letting my mind wander. My father had been in a terrible accident when I was very young, and on this day I was thinking about him strongly.

"I wonder how it would feel to hit the pavement?" I thought.

My mind lingered on the thought for a few minutes, until I realized I was scaring myself. Within a few minutes, we reached Lytle Creek Road and started the curvy climb.

I saw the turn ahead that my boyfriend didn't. Before I realized he missed it, the unthinkable happened.

30 years later I clung to Blackbird as Highway pulled the throttle back through the sharp turns of the Ortega Highway. Laughter bellowed from my guts as the thrill titillated me beyond composure. Remembering the day in Lytle Creek for a brief moment, it seemed the screaming wind was cleansing my heart of the lingering fear.

"Faster, faster, faster!" I shouted to Highway.

Every passing moment peeled away another layer of regret I carried all of these years. Now it seemed so clear. The accident was merely thread in the fabric of my destiny; another day, another experience, with every one no more or less significant than any other.

I still limp now and then from a broken spine of the accident in '81. My appendectomy scar, which had torn open on impact, is now a grotesque blob across my abdomen. The flesh grew back on my shoulder and hand, fortunately without much scarring. Actually today, all of the scars left on that 16-year-old girl, even the ones that didn't show, are healing now.

There is no room for fear on a motorcycle, for the rider or the passenger. In my life today I feel more freedom than ever, leaving less and less room for fear, regret, sorrow and misery. While every day scars of past are being purged from my heart, this one in particular is now are left behind along that mountain road.

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About Sash


People call me "Sash" because I'm a former beauty queen in my old home town. My father used to ride in an MC which got me interested in the culture. After my last divorce I said "goodbye" to Susie Homemaker and became the rude biker chick I always felt inside. (Read more...)