I was wandering around the Toronto International Motorcycle SuperShow soaking up the sights and getting a kick out of the custom iron when I saw it. I suppose it had to happen sooner or later. There it sat, glistening like a flesh-toned dewdrop in the summer sun. A bike that employed the naked female form as the main body of the bike. A well endowed frame, too. I stood and looked at it, them, it. Ya… it, I think; although there was a lot of them to look at. Quite honestly it baffled me and I’m kind of an artsy-fartsy type. Go figure.

I couldn’t help but imagine what it would be like to ride this thing; you know, omit the coast-to-coast, Garmin equipped, auxiliary fuel tank, long haul biz and just take this she-bike for a whirl down to the local Timmy’s. I zone out under the bright show lights and stare at this bike. This imaginary little trip will be even more unique for me because I live in eastern Ontario, better known as United Empire Loyalist territory. Victoria’s Secret catalogues are still banned between Cobourg and Napanee, all things stop at three for tea and only of late has the word ‘condom’ been allowed in public. We are not as near liberated as Wawa or God forbid, Vancouver.

Come with me on my imaginary ride. Oh yeah, this oughta be fun.

Okay, I sit right here, um, behind her and I grab hold of the bars which are made to look like real long pony tails. Ooh, this is gonna be more embarrassing than the day I was rescued by a bunch of Hog riders. Do you mind if I just ponder things for a moment, cause this is quite a landscape I’m looking at. Can I wear my full face? Thanks. It has a dark visor so I’ll just be another deranged ‘cycle-geek’ from the Beaches – riding a naked shesickle. Okay, hit the start switch and we’re off, hey, why are my buddies hangin’ back? Someone must have a low tire or something.

First set of lights downtown. I catch a red. People coming out of the local Sobeys are stopping to look, a blue hair drops a carton of eggs and points in my direction. A minivan is stopped beside me, the kids have their faces pressed up against the glass, Dad’s staring and Mom’s wagging an animated finger at the back of his head and at the wide-eyed kids. Finally, green. I take off and the van just sits there, my buddies breeze past and Dad’s still ‘getting it.’ I can just picture a therapy session comin’ up for them. ‘She,’ meanwhile, is hanging onto my front wheel very well, it’s pretty cool out but She seems to be quite content, although I’d be more than happy to offer a blanket or something. Anything. Out of all the things to imagine, why did I imagine this? Destiny or stupidity I guess. Hey, it’s a fine line.

I head to Trenton, the gateway to the Trent Severn waterway, the same place the BMW owners had their Land-O-Loon International Rally of which there was nary a boob outta place. I settle into a happy ninety-kilometre thump and all seems good. Her back muscles are firm and taut almost looking for the next bump in the road, her ponytails are starting to flap in the breeze. I can’t help but wonder what other parts are flappin’. “Grow up,” I say in my full face, “you’re a grown man, riding a custom chopper, a work of art…that just happens to look like a naked woman…a really, really naked woman.” I hope my Rotary folks don’t see me. Can you be kicked out of Rotary for riding a naked shesickle? Hope not. All these questions are swirling around inside my Nolan. My buddies are still a hundred car lengths behind me, jerks, all of ‘em. I catch a few green lights and finally end up at a Timmy’s. There’s a bunch of bikes parked out front with two-wheeled types yakking with each other. All eyes zero in on her as I pull into an open space. The guys and gals wander over, not saying much, just looking. I pop my helmet off and one of the locals who knows me, gives me this ‘you gotta be joking’ look and says: “Trade yer Beemer?” “Nope,” I say, “this is my imaginary ride.” He takes a closer look “where’s the fuel go?” he asks. I scratch my head, “Not sure, as a matter of fact I don’t really want to know; besides, imaginary rides don’t use much fuel.” “That’s good,” he says, “sure wouldn’t want to run out of fuel on that, but I suppose those auxiliary fuel tanks hold a fair amount.” By this time my buddies have all pulled in and parked on the other side of the lot. The gals are all starting to wonder who the old pervert is.

Okay. Enough already. Stop it! I stand there and look at the naked shesickle and decide to ditch my imaginary ride and opt for a regular gender-neutral motorcycle. Although… No. Definitely no. Maybe. MMM

Ride Safe. Ride Far!

Stu