She Rides

"Expanded version"

She Rides

My Harley breathes through a carburetor,
old-school lungs,
fuel and air telling the truth.
A red Softail Deluxe,
white-walled tires rolling history,
chrome catching the sun
like it remembers where it’s been.

There is also the Fat Boy—
850 pounds of intention,
metal that does not negotiate
its presence.

At 138 pounds,
people like to count me first.
They do the math out loud,
look for a reason
this shouldn’t work.

But machines respond to knowing,
not doubt.

My ginger braid comes loose in the wind,
a copper line trailing behind me,
and when I pass,
helmets turn twice—

Wait—
that’s a girl—

No, sir.
I am a woman.

A woman who knows the clutch,
the low idle growl,
the way torque answers respect.
I ride not to be noticed,
but because the road listens.

Sometimes I ride with others.
Sometimes I ride alone.

Both are chosen.
Both are freedom.

The bike does not question me.
The engine does not hesitate.
The road does not argue.

It opens.

I don’t borrow power.
I ride it.