SOCIETY, GENDER, FAMILY AND IDENTITY
The inter-relationships between Bikers and biking groups bear witness to their own emancipation. Bikers have been accused of racial and sexual discrimination. Their society, like any other, has its innocent and guilty parties. Within biking, there are fewer organisations based on racial or other minorities, because genuine Bikers have learned not to discriminate in any way, if they themselves wish to be accepted.
Many believe that findings from the couch are based in myth. They can however, be used to identify something of the biking life. A cultural group has its own psychology, which is as unique from group to group as the individuals that compose them. Their similarities, as we have seen throughout the evolution of Biker culture, are the tenuous yet vital links that, despite any other differences, create a greater whole. Within that context, something called cultural competence allows us to interpret people, films, books and other media appropriately. Seemingly without any effort, we become able to create mind maps and pictures that help us navigate through life. Just working on a bike is alleged to be responsible for personal development. It lead to the writing of a book called: Zen and the art of motorcycle maintenance. The aims of author Robert Pirsig were to show that: “Motorcycle maintenance is really a miniature study of rationality.” And that working on bikes can help to: “Achieve an inner peace of mind.” As a sweeping ideal this is true, once you have become philosophical about the seemingly deliberate defiance of some bikes to be repaired.
Psychologists often use childhood as a tool to analyse the adult. Some of their theorising has been a good source of humour, but retrospective thought often colours people’s behaviour. Young ideals are later quashed by a seemingly inevitable cynicism. The vagaries of life are often blamed, however the vulgarity of some people is largely responsible for an element of decay in our destinies. Every generation seems to submit to something less wholesome, and their spirit is weakened or crushed. But imagine for a moment that you refuse to let your principles go under. Then, you join the fight, and are viewed as anarchistic. In the creation of identity, some people, rightly or wrongly, follow their will. The term anarchist has become associated with outrage, violence, racism and other antisocialisms. As a form of anarchy, Bikerdom did go through an angry phase, but it has never seen fit to impose itself as superior. Living life by principles exacts a price. It is a conscious effort to maintain an identity.
In a lighter vein, there are people who ride motorcycles that will corner other riders, with stories about great rides through the mist at dawn. Others will ask what bike you have, then nail you to the scenery while they tell you how wonderful theirs is. Another imposition onto others comes via the bike. When a bike is started, there is a kind of etiquette between bike and rider, almost like the unconscious “Just checking I’m still here” cough. A blip of the throttle, like a clearing of the bike’s throat, seems to answer the rider’s mental question. It’s like you’ve said: “Hello bike” and the bike is answering “Let’s get going.” At biking events, while everyone is tucked away wafting their tents with snores, is when the phantom revver strikes. Maybe they just love the sound of their bike. Maybe they’re having an in-depth debate with it about Proust or socio-economics. Those who are woken quietly pray that the engine will blow, while others shout insults. There are biking anoraks, extremists and nutters, but in some cultures, such people are venerated. In certain circumstances, they have a place in Biker culture, like those who spend months and years building specials. Compared to people you might meet in a bus queue, most Bikers are pretty well adjusted.
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The gendered conditioning of 20th century people is split between Victorian values and emancipation. It can lead to confusion between chivalry and sexism. This confusion is perhaps less frequent among Bikers because of their instinctive attitudes towards one another. What is crucial to the issue of gender in biking, is that Biker is a non-gender-specific term. But there is still some friction. From outside the biking world, the image of Biker females is no less stereotypical than that of Bikers per se. Their involvement with biking and wearing leathers is often attributed to a masculine streak, and can attract sexual innuendo. It’s a sad old joke that won’t go away, like when a helmet is removed to reveal a female rider. High heels, short leather skirts and other erotica might be titillating, but most women who ride know how utterly useless they are in a 70mph gale. Excepting a few who load up the bike luggage with vanity cases and the like, the hand-bag is a rare item among biking female possessions. The leather jacket stands in, containing cash and other personal items.
Some males condone women on bikes, some find it disquieting if not threatening. In most Western countries, female riders are a smaller percentage, however by the end of the 20th century their numbers were growing. The select areas of macho domains are being eroded, and the constant pounding of new generations on the beach of machismo are reshaping attitudes. Feminists remain assertive, yet many women seem happily adjusted without the need to impose. Some sexual equilibrium in the private sphere has been achieved, but the system of mass-society is still clogged with the same old effluent.
It doesn’t help when news values are equal to outmoded gender values. Some bike media respond to mass rather than minority audiences, doing throw-away articles on women Bikers, the angle being their gender not the activity. If somebody has the same faculties as another (excluding genitalia), why is it so surprising when they make the same achievements? Because something in their conditioning causes some men to be patronizing, and because some women can’t or won’t rise above it.
At one time, motorcycle manufacturers tried to cater for a female market, albeit in a biased way, with light machines defined as ladies types. The differentiation of address was purely to catch the attention of a potential market. By the 1920s, bikes were being sold to women on the same merits that attracted male custom. Later bike promotions have tended to use bikini-clad females who’re not necessarily Bikers, freezing their soft naked bits against the bike’s metal surfaces as the camera stares unashamedly. Do blokes really believe they’ll have relationships with females if they buy that bike? It depends why they’re buying a bike in the first place. It’s just as insulting to men, who, according to the subliminal messages in ads using sex, aren’t even capable of getting into a relationship without the recommended consumer goods. Some bike media have more balanced views, but it still seems hard for them to get away from flippant, even demeaning female appearances.
Besides the slender things that squirm in feigned ecstasy in the bike equivalent of mass-media, there are other realist portraits of reader’s wives, in more off-beat magazines. Unpolished pouting and out-of-condition died hair make regular appearances, as do figures outside of fashionable remits (e.g. skinny). They are there on their own merit, not as sales implements. Whether or not they are satisfied with their image or public exposure depends on their own circumstance. It is purported by men who put them there that all women are lovable, not just the glamorous. Men whose partners are thus portrayed receive compliments on their women from men with the same outlook. Others see them as embarrassing fiascoes, the responsibility resting on the beer-bellies of the men who cajoled them into posing; them, and the males who buy bike magazines in search of tits and anything else they might glimpse. It is such publications that caused news vendors to put bike mags on the porn shelf. Like prostitution, a degrading use of the female image has been around a long time, and will continue as long as young men reach puberty. It’s the old question of where art ends and masturbation - even abuse, begins. What most motorcycle enthusiasts want is periodicals about biking. But the media seem to think that sex still sells, despite letters of protest in many bike mags.
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Females are the most common pillion passenger. There are men who unthinkingly and ritualistically install their (in?)significant other on the pillion. Some of them gravitate towards certain marques and types of bike, others belong to particular organisations. It is arguable that their passengers are content with this seemingly inferior position, with no desire to ride their own bike. But many are enduring a gagged demeaning, either influenced by their up-bringing or by dominant partners. Male pillions are often involuntary; there is usually some reason (like their own bike is out of commission) for them not driving themselves, and they feel justified. Whoever is back there, they have to trust the person holding the bars, and people discuss who they’d ride with and their position as pillion. There is a responsibility for the passenger to go with how the bike is ridden (which affects balance), and as navigator. Just as Bikers speak with light or nods across the roads, pillions develop a tactile language with riders. Their status as a person is respected because they’re more a crew-member than a passenger, regardless of gender.
When women acquire bikes for themselves, there is often misguided and unnecessary fuss. Despite the fact that some women are tall, some men insist on recommending a bike with a low seat for the female rider. Bikes with smaller engine capacities are also regarded by some to be: for the girlies. It may also be true that men are often physically stronger. But as far as most Bikers are concerned, the choice of engine size rests primarily in the required performance for the rider’s style or needs. In any case, the capabilities of recent smaller engined bikes make size-upmanship a silliness. Men who are able to, will spend time and money on getting the right bike, or the bike right, for the woman (including female friends) in their life: A treatment that male friends with less bike knowledge are also given.
Eradicating negative attitudes may never be absolute. Whilst the Biker in the street is more altruistic, there are for example, regulations in the US against women taking part in racing. The efforts of women in motorcycle sport were viewed as a bit of fun in the past. As in other sports, women have had to formulate their own competitions. There is an air of expectancy among some, that awaits some female to participate, if not succeed in mainstream competition. They have already begun the participation...
There are male and female preserves among some of the biking clubs that exist. The Chopper Club (founded in the UK), is completely male, while the Women in the Wind (a US founded club) has female-only members. Members from any such enclave naturally have relationships outside of them, and this usually occurs without difficulty. Bikers have learned the values of reciprocal respect. In the case of the Chopper Club, it was simply how the club evolved that gave it masculine leanings. Women in the Wind however, is a deliberately female entity. It was made out of the female need for something of their own; which is an indicator of their own particular social climate, if not biking as a whole. Many of the various female clubs’ members feel that their clubs are a vehicle towards equality, rather than seclusion.
Women share in the camaraderie of biking, at least at street-level. They have the same (biking) ambitions as men, but while men can do whatever they choose, women often have to fight repression before they can get on with their lives. Throughout biking history, not every woman has been satisfied to appear while men act. While some men act out of traditional masculine values, expecting women to appear gorgeous for them, women tend to have a purer enthusiasm. There are fewer, if any ulterior motives among women Bikers. It’s been argued that they don’t pursue mechanical knowledge as far as men might, but there are exceptions to any rule. There are plenty of male riders who leave the fixing to mechanics - and plenty of female mechanics.
There are women who see the whole leather/bike thing as an expression of sexuality, but so do many males. The allegation that some women might glean some sexual gratification or arousal from engine vibration may be true. But it’s more often a by-product of biking, not the reason for it. What advantage it may give a prospective male, whose genitalia disappear even in the mildest riding conditions, is questionable. It’s a subject of perverse interest, as men describe their tactics for avoiding damp hosiery during a post-ride piddle. Why do women ride? Usually because they’re motorcycle enthusiasts. And by riding, we don’t mean put-putting around the high street when the sun’s out.
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Many people’s lives are too busy for families or domestication. Marriage and biking have many different pulls. There are those who have to relinquish their biking when marriage occurs, however there are others who use the seat of a bike as an altar, and a repair manual as a bible. Because of some people’s enthusiasm for bikes, it is often a case of love me, love my bike. If biking is your life, and if you’re lucky enough to have a partner who feels the same, it’s no big deal when a crank case lurks in the oven. If that does create mayhem, the bike, like the penis, can become another personality about whom rows can erupt.
When children enter the picture, the biking life can change. It depends on how much either partner wants either life; bike or kids; bike and kids; bike, kids, then bike again. There are those that leave their family behind when biking, others who will find some way to get their kids to biking events and yet others, who quit. Despite the difficulties, many families do attend bike events. Seldom will biking parents push their off-spring into it; the kids just enjoy the atmosphere. At UK rallies, some young entrepreneurs gather empty beer bottles, and collect the deposit from the beer tent. If they spot a receptacle near to an adult, they don’t just filch it. They ask politely if they may have it. They are human beings with real entities, not like the lard-arsed townies of Western civilisation, who’s life would expire if they had to get up off the sofa.
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Ethnic minorities, gays and lesbians have their own biking associations, out of the needs imposed by mass-society and the requiting of personal wishes, rather than any bad attitudes within biking. It is a case of like-types seeking out their own, within a greater context. Some Bikers have jaded racial and sexual attitudes. But many don’t notice or don’t care - in the sense of having any opinion. Many people, who live outside of mainstream society’s values have a penchant for being eccentric. Like the insanity of Bikers, it’s probably the one thing that helps them survive in the rest of the world. It also means that, as eccentric nutters, they fit in with biking society. It’s all fuel for campfire discussion, that eventually ends with comments like: “What does it matter, if someone’s a black, gay vegetarian. It’s their biking that counts.” The term Biker is also unspecific in terms of race, or sexual preference.
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Older people who’ve been involved with biking will often approach riders and tell stories. Rather than make any excuses, I actively encouraged them, to provide material for this book. An elderly lady proudly showed off her Isle of Man broach: “I got it for my mum, and when she died, she bequeathed it back to me. My husband used to wear black leathers, just like you, and I quite fancied him in that gear. We’d go to the Island to watch the racing, and took a camera.” She’d gone there nearly every year since the 1920s, and told of the best places to stay, and where to watch the racing.
Others provided books, like (yet another) Eddie, who used to ride with his cat sat in his lap. The cat enjoyed it so much, it would sit on the bike waiting to go for a ride. He also told of bikes with hand-pumps fitted for getting oil into the engine. Whilst bikes were left parked up, curious passers-by would fiddle with various controls, including a shove on the oil plunger. When you came to start the engine, great clouds of oily smoke darkened the street. Eddie and his pals used to go to watch the racing. He remembers a commotion while he was taking a leak at the Silverstone races, as the police tried to catch riders with prostitutes in the toilets.
There are countless stories outlining biking lifestyles that were untouched by the unrest of youth. This day-to-day biking identity is largely unrecorded because it‘s less sensational than the antics of the rebels. Whilst the travels and other exploits of post-war motorcyclists are often recalled through photographs and personal memorabilia, the souvenir market provided more clues. Little triangular stickers and pennants from various holiday resorts decorated sidecars. Key-fobs depicting the Esso man (a plastic figure in white over-alls with a teardrop blob of yellow oil for a head) were attached to jacket zips. The fluffy tiger-tails that Esso gave away were meant to be placed near the petrol filler-cap, to support the slogan: Put a tiger in your tank, but they ended up on jackets and helmets. Ashtrays and other trinkets like those made around Mssr. Bibendum, the Michelin Man, who was made of tyres, found their way into people’s lives. Enamel badges depicting various bike makes adorned jackets, and clustered amid the non-biking but crazy paraphernalia.
Tin badges depicting animals, musicians (pop and rock and roll), and cartoon characters like Dennis The Menace are examples of the daft element. People were beginning to display the identities of things they appreciated in written and pictorial forms, on their favourite clothes and bikes. This fascination carried on from the earlier imagery used by past riders. Within the biking community, images were borrowed and modified by fringe groups, then re-assumed into the greater body.
Product stickers from oil and other component companies began to appear on competition machines, and then paraded on the street. This intermingling and free interpretation of artifacts marks the use of pastiche. It is the physical manifestation of the postmodern concept. Pastiche is made of borrowed cultural artifacts, used like quotations from other cultures, in this case amongst the recognisable biking items. Of these, academics claim that many items are novelty with no constant value, for example pop heroes or advertising paraphernalia. They say that through this, a transient, even false image is projected. This is associated more with youth culture than Biker culture itself, because each generation brings its own music and other heroes into the limelight, along with their associated paraphernalia.
The academics are right about false images, in that some items are not always intended to speak of crucial matters. Yet the central core of biking is more constant, as is the associated imagery, like the Triumph, Harley-Davidson and later Japanese logos. The values underlying Bikerdom are more akin to the greater humanitarian values of civilisation than petty foibles.
The cartoon character of Dennis the Menace has now been joined by Thomas the Tank Engine and the Teletubbys; the latter being adopted by one club as their insignia. There is no covert concept to this. It merely demonstrates further that most motorcyclists are a bunch of softies who enjoy a daft joke. There is some sarcasm, if not irony, when kid’s cartoon characters emblazon the bikes or clothing of those whom are deemed by society to be dangerous. It is often merely the humour of the artist that takes it further. Like those who designed the T-shirt of Rupert the Bear with an erection, and the sticker showing Bart Simpson getting felated.
Academic interpretation of Biker semiology - the signs and signals created by motorcycling and other imagery used by motorcyclists - looked for something that wasn’t there. It is the preferred language of subculture, not some arty ideal, that makes their signs exclusive, private. There was a distinct effort among youth not so much to make it difficult for outsiders to interpret their images, but to establish their own order. A similar thing is constantly happening within Bikerdom, but Bikers in general aren’t fussy about being obscure. They have been misunderstood and misjudged plenty without seeking Masonic status.
Motorcyclists understand the meanings of their own imagery, and that is all that is important. When a rider paints their machine black, or buys a black machine, it is not (as some analysts might infer) necessarily a statement about death. It is because they like black, or because that model should be black (as many of them are). The juxtaposed images have their own separate meanings, and added up to nothing more than a random over-all view. A Triumph badge plus Dennis the Menace could mean a nutter on a Triumph, but even so, it is tongue-in-cheek.
Another angle on identities is the trained ear that recognises certain bikes. Some made it into an art form, and were able to recognise not just any type, but who the bike belonged to and what (if anything) was wrong with the engine. Being able to appreciate a finely tuned engine is rather like the ability to distinguish between any old fiddle and a Stradivarius. A well-sorted bike would sing as it was ridden. There are extremists, especially those into vintage or classic bikes, who might nit-pick if 1930s tyres have got 1940s air in them, but bike recognition is a game many riders play, even take bets on.
During the late 1960s, I took a Saturday job at a local bike shop. Round the back was a workshop, occupied by heaps of bikes undergoing various stages of repair (or not, as such detritus accumulates in such places), and one old mechanic called (yet another other) Eddie. He wore a worn-shiny jacket and cap, drank tea from the blackest mug I’d ever seen, and always had a cigarette perched in his mouth. He knew the habits of the contemporary riders so well, he could name their machine just by glancing at them.
A bloke in an overcoat, flat cap, gauntlets and a string scarf walked in. “BSA combo.” said Eddie. Another in a tweed jacket, sleeveless pullover, waterproof trousers (on a hot, dry day) and peaked helmet tapped at the open door. “Francis Barnet.” was Eddie’s accurate diagnosis. Maybe they were existing customers he already knew. Maybe, just maybe he had heard them pull up outside and he was able to identify the sounds of their bikes. But some arrived silently having shoved their broken machine or parked at a distance. Like the bloke in a white peaked helmet, white rubberised overcoat, and patent leather shoes, who Eddie correctly presumed to ride a scooter combo.
My dad had developed my ear, and I was proud of my ability to recognise different bike engines. But this game of Eddie’s was new. Whatever our identities, his playfulness had made me aware from an early age how we send out signals about who we are, deliberate or otherwise. Coif, studded jacket, white silk scarf and Cuban heeled boots; “Triton.” I guessed, and against the odds of it being any of a number of other bikes, I was right. Eddie just grinned. He knew I’d heard the distinct sound of a tuned Triumph twin, and the way the bloke was clutching his back had given away the use of clip-on handlebars.