A woman got on the bus dressed entirely in denim. Her too-big jacket was denim, her skirt that swept all the way to her ankles was denim. She even wore a stiff denim scarf. I couldn’t tell how old she was, but she seemed too tired and old for her face. Her eyes (dark blue like denim, of course) were sunk into her sockets, loose skin around them sagged over her cheekbones. “This lady,” I thought, “Is really weird.”
Another lady got on the bus, even older and more tired than the first. She walked with a cane, and her hands fluttered as she gave the bus driver her fare. She shuffled next to me, and I could see foundation caked on her face, fushia lipstick, and dark brown eyebrows penciled with a shaky hand. Underneath the mountain of cosmetics, I could still see her river-like wrinkles, spreading out in hundreds of estuaries across her face. “This lady,” I thought, “Is frail and sad.”
The two ladies began to talk to a college student on the bus. He told them about how he was taking off of school to bike across the United States, from Boston to Portland. The woman in Denim spoke up, “I know about the body’s need for a wilderness exploration,” she said. “I canoed from Chile to California. I needed adventure, so I did it.” I looked up from the floor, sat erect to listen to everything the woman in denim was saying.
“The biggest adventure was Skydiving. I always landed in cornfields in Illinois.”
The college student asked her if she had sky-dived more than once.
“About five times,” she said. “Each time I went a little higher up, you know, one thousand feet, then fifteen hundred, then a mile. The last time was the best, because I had so far to fall. It was just me, flying by myself in the sky.”
The frail woman spoke up, “I’ve always wanted to sky dive,” she said. “My whole life. I haven’t done it… yet. All I’ve done is hang-gliding.”
All this to say that people surprise me all the time. People defy my labels, my judgement, my expectations. My dad once told me a story about sitting at a gas station listening to classical radio while his tires filled with air. A burly motorcyclist began to make his way to my dad’s car. The biker had leather chaps, no shirt over his big, hairy belly save a leather vest. Tattoos covered his arms, his neck. His long beard had been knotted into two twisting braids that hung from his chin. As he approached my father, my father felt nervous. My father’s hands tightened on the wheel; he looked for an escape. The motorcyclist stuck his head in the window and said, “Is that Rachmaninoff playing? I love this piece.” Like I said, people defy expectations.
My conception of most motorcyclists is like that of the man I described: Big, hairy, tatted up, and very scary. When I was in Korea, I was shocked to find everyone rode motorcycles. Businessmen would ride to work on their motorcycles, dressed up in three-piece suits. Crazy ajummas rode motorcycles with furniture on tied perilously on the back (remember that Seoul is built on the mountains—imagine having a motorcycle with a couch tied to the back barreling down the mountainside path you walk to your dorm at!). Every young, barely pubescent pizza delivery boy rode a motorcycle. Every biker challenged my preconceived notion of what a “biker” is or should be.
Speaking of, I rode my first motorcycle last week. My brother Josiah (who’s huge, somewhat hairy, and awesomely tattooed) took me to a restaurant in the Loop on the back of his motorcycle. I was dressed up like a little kid, in a neon-pink shirt with golden lace trim and an oversized sweater. When we got to the restaurant, I skipped in and said to my waiter, “Guess what? I just rode on a motorcycle. It was my first time ever! I was riding on a motorcycle! It was awesome! Isn’t that cool? A Motorcycle.” Other people in the restaurant began to glance over at me, beaming and babbling about riding a motorcycle. And you know what? Maybe I defied their expectations of what a biker should be.
The two ladies began to talk to a college student on the bus. He told them about how he was taking off of school to bike across the United States, from Boston to Portland. The woman in Denim spoke up, “I know about the body’s need for a wilderness exploration,” she said. “I canoed from Chile to California. I needed adventure, so I did it.” I looked up from the floor, sat erect to listen to everything the woman in denim was saying.
“The biggest adventure was Skydiving. I always landed in cornfields in Illinois.”
The college student asked her if she had sky-dived more than once.
“About five times,” she said. “Each time I went a little higher up, you know, one thousand feet, then fifteen hundred, then a mile. The last time was the best, because I had so far to fall. It was just me, flying by myself in the sky.”
The frail woman spoke up, “I’ve always wanted to sky dive,” she said. “My whole life. I haven’t done it… yet. All I’ve done is hang-gliding.”
All this to say that people surprise me all the time. People defy my labels, my judgement, my expectations. My dad once told me a story about sitting at a gas station listening to classical radio while his tires filled with air. A burly motorcyclist began to make his way to my dad’s car. The biker had leather chaps, no shirt over his big, hairy belly save a leather vest. Tattoos covered his arms, his neck. His long beard had been knotted into two twisting braids that hung from his chin. As he approached my father, my father felt nervous. My father’s hands tightened on the wheel; he looked for an escape. The motorcyclist stuck his head in the window and said, “Is that Rachmaninoff playing? I love this piece.” Like I said, people defy expectations.
My conception of most motorcyclists is like that of the man I described: Big, hairy, tatted up, and very scary. When I was in Korea, I was shocked to find everyone rode motorcycles. Businessmen would ride to work on their motorcycles, dressed up in three-piece suits. Crazy ajummas rode motorcycles with furniture on tied perilously on the back (remember that Seoul is built on the mountains—imagine having a motorcycle with a couch tied to the back barreling down the mountainside path you walk to your dorm at!). Every young, barely pubescent pizza delivery boy rode a motorcycle. Every biker challenged my preconceived notion of what a “biker” is or should be.
Speaking of, I rode my first motorcycle last week. My brother Josiah (who’s huge, somewhat hairy, and awesomely tattooed) took me to a restaurant in the Loop on the back of his motorcycle. I was dressed up like a little kid, in a neon-pink shirt with golden lace trim and an oversized sweater. When we got to the restaurant, I skipped in and said to my waiter, “Guess what? I just rode on a motorcycle. It was my first time ever! I was riding on a motorcycle! It was awesome! Isn’t that cool? A Motorcycle.” Other people in the restaurant began to glance over at me, beaming and babbling about riding a motorcycle. And you know what? Maybe I defied their expectations of what a biker should be.
Renee, I find it a little amusing that this was the sentence that surprised me the most in this post. "My brother Josiah (who’s huge, somewhat hairy, and awesomely tattooed) took me to a restaurant in the Loop on the back of his motorcycle." It blows my mind that Josiah has a motorcycle. I guess we've all grown up a lot since I first met you guys.
ReplyDeleteMotorcycles are AWESOME. Common knowledge. And I am really jealous that you got to ride on one so recently - I did just once, years ago, and it was the best. I think the only thing stopping me from wanting to own one is the near-certainty of breaking a limb sooner or later...
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