by Liz Hamill Scott

Angelle Sampey waits her turn to race at the Torco Racing Fuels Route 66 NHRA Nationals in Chicago. She won the first of her three championships in 2000. Photo: Staff Sgt. Jeffrey Duran, www.army.mil.

One thing I love about riding — which is what motorcyclists call what we do — is waving to other riders. Two motorcyclists approaching each other from opposite directions drop their hands briefly off their handlebars to signal each other. It means nothing to the car drivers all around, nor does it mean that the two riders are members of the same biker gang. In fact, they often don’t know each other at all. The wave is a greeting, an acknowledgement of another person who’s bold enough to take to the road on two wheels, with nary a seatbelt nor steel frame to protect him.

Or her. When I take off my helmet, shake out my hair and flash a smile, I don’t look like anyone’s stereotype of a biker.

Neither does my motorcycling heroine, Angelle Sampey. Perhaps the most aggressive and dangerous way to ride a bike is in a National Hot Rod Association drag race. Sampey looks like a model and wins like a woman, with three NHRA Pro Stock Motorcycle championships to her name. Dozens of other women also compete in superbikes, motocross, and other types of motorcycle racing all over the world.

I got my start as a motorcyclist the way so many women do, on the back of my boyfriend’s bike. That lasted about two weeks before I insisted on learning how to drive it. For safety, just in case he somehow became disabled and couldn’t drive us home. Yeah, that was it — safety. Less than a year later I’d purchased a half-interest in my first bike, a used red Honda Nighthawk 250. It steered like a giant marshmallow — this is not a good thing — but it was cheap and it ran on almost no gas at all.

But first, I did something that I believe all proto-bikers should do. I took the Motorcycle Safety Foundation beginner course. This 2 ½-day course starts in a classroom, with “These are the parts of a motorcycle,” and moves on to two grueling days of road training in the safety of an empty parking lot. The proportion of women in my MSF class was high — maybe one-quarter to one-third of the class was female, as opposed to one-tenth of the leathers- clad population of the parking lot of Alice’s Restaurant on Highway 84 at Skyline on an average Saturday afternoon.

As I struggled through the MSF obstacle course on my little 125cc loaner bike, flattening dozens of baby orange traffic cones, I learned humility. It’s not a matter of “if” a motorcyclist screws up and crashes her bike; it’s a matter of “when.” And with little more than a layer of leather between my skin and the asphalt, I realized that riding requires concentration, focus and practice.

© Noonie | Dreamstime.com

I also realized that I don’t need to get into macho engine-size contests with other riders. My 250cc Kawasaki Ninja suits my size, abilities, and riding style perfectly. It’s the smallest highway-legal motorcycle available. But so what? My small frame doesn’t dwarf the bike, which is a blast to ride in the Santa Cruz mountains — quick and easy to steer through steep corners and just fast enough to get out of its own way. It’s a cheap, easy-to-maintain, fun little bike.

And the point of riding a motorcycle is to have fun, to feel the wind buffet my body as I ride out in the open air. There’s a feeling of freedom to riding that defies description. It’s hard work, it’s dangerous, it can be terrifying, and it requires far more concentration and effort than driving a car. And yet, on my bike, I am free.

That freedom doesn’t extend to a perfect freedom from gender prejudice. As in any traditionally male pursuit, some men feel threatened by female riders. Others think it’s fabulous that women are buying their own bikes and actively encourage women to ride. And some guys use “so what do you ride” as a pick-up line at Alice’s every weekend. Perhaps oddly, it doesn’t seem to matter whether a girl goes for a hog or a rice rocket — men in the respective communities are all over the map when it comes to female riders.

When I started riding, I had no idea how cliquish motorcyclists can be. People who ride Harleys won’t talk to people who ride Harley knockoffs, both of these groups sneer at the folks riding sport bikes, the sport bike riders sneer right back, Honda Goldwing owners form clubs solely populated by other Goldwingers, while owners of “standard” motorcycles tend to be loners who avoid gathering in groups. It’s like junior high school all over again, and women can have a hard time breaking into any of the established cliques.

The good news is that I’ve never met a motorcycle that cared whether its rider is male or female. The roads don’t care either, and we’ve got some of the best asphalt in the world right here in San Mateo County. My favorite ride runs over the mountains on Highway 84, hugging the switchbacks above Woodside, then opening up through the wide, sweeping curves of the farm-strewn valleys drawing down towards the coast. I take a left onto Highway 1, then sit back just a little bit to enjoy the dramatic ocean views from Pescadero down towards Santa Cruz. The ocean air smells fresh and clean as it blasts through the vents on my helmet, and if I’m lucky there’s just enough sun to keep my leather- and Kevlar-covered body warm despite the ever-present wind.

If I see you out there on the coast riding toward me, I’ll drop you a wave.

On the Web:

California Motorcycle Safety Program — www.ca-msp.org

Motorcycle Safety Foundation — www.msf-usa.org

If you want to sign up for an MSF course, plan ahead! The program has been a crashing success, and classes often fill up weeks or months in advance.