Cold Antler Farm by Jenna Woginrich

Author:Jenna Woginrich
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Shambhala

BLACK LEATHER, SADDLE LEATHER

I HAVE NEVER DRIVEN A MOTORCYCLE. I’ve been on one, once. I’m not sure that time really counts, though, since I wasn’t driving or even sitting behind the driver. I was sitting in a sidecar. I was offered a taxi back to the office from a coworker who owned the bike. The sun was shining, the early summer grass was speckled with wildflowers, and the idea of jaunting along in a little Russian sidecar seemed whimsical. I remember sliding down into the tiny metal egg and getting myself comfortable. It had a small seat and wood-paneled floor, which I thought was a classy touch. Then I asked the driver where the seatbelt was. Through a smile that was actually more of a grimace he explained that if you are in an accident in such an apparatus, the last thing you want to be is trapped in it. I believe the phrase he used was “thrown clean.” That was what you wanted to be. A phrase you don’t expect to hear on your lunch break. The ride turned out to be delightful and easy. And for a brief time afterward I toyed with the idea of getting a motorcycle of my own.

I have a theory that a large portion of motorcyclists are actually equestrians at heart. They strive for the same feelings of joy, speed, escape, meditation, and fellowship any band of trail riders on their quarter horses feel. But since horses seem to carry a burden of high expenses, land, and effort of care and feeding, many folks who would love to feel leather reins in their hands are drawn to motorcycles instead. And the more into their bikes they are, the more I feel it supports my theory. To ride a horse is to control great speed, power, and skill—so is riding a bike. The constant maintenance, oil changes, washing, waxing, coats of paint, meet-ups, riding events, clothing, gas, parts, and so on are probably just as expensive as any trail pony could ever be. And those folks who baby their bikes would lavish the same intense care and feeding on their steeds. No, it’s really not so much about money as it is about commitment. The desire to be a cowboy is contradictory to the freedom of not having to return to the corral every night. A bike doesn’t need to go home. It doesn’t need to go anywhere. Which is exactly the appeal. And unlike a horse, it has no mind of its own with which to decide to bolt, buck, or simply get tired and stop. Motorcycles are still horses, but in a romantic sense. The people who ride them can feel that. It could be a blatant choice, or buried deep in their subconscious, but I stand by my observation that a lot of people in black leather really just yearn for saddle leather.

The only reason I considered owning a motorcyle was because owning a horse seemed impossible. The horse was my dream, and the dream was fueled by childhood books and movies.

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