|
What do you think of when you see someone riding a
motorcycle on the highway? Do you think “rebel”?
Have you ever dreamed of owning a bike? Do you ever
think about the gleam of the chrome and the loud roar of
the engine?
The
sound of a motorcycle is distinct to its make and model.
Harley-Davidson, a legend in motorcycles, has built its
reputation around its loud and unique sound. That
thunderous rumble expresses emotion, passion, and
enthusiasm.
If your faith made a recognizable sound, how
would others describe it? Would they think it was bold?
LOUD AND UNIQUE
Like a Harley-Davidson engine, is the sound of your
faith the stuff of legends? Whether you are shy or
outgoing, adventurous or cautious, your faith has a
sound that transcends your personality. Do you turn up
the volume of your faith? Or do you mute it or use it as
background noise?
Does the sound of your faith celebrate you — the unique,
special child of God that you were made to be? Does
your faith make a sound others want to listen to?
follow? replicate? Is it a sound you want others to
hear?
UNCOMMON RIDERS
Like the roar of an engine, America’s motorcycling
cultures have spawned many uncommon rabble-rousers.
There is the perception that motorcycling is a
brotherhood, but without the sisters, it would have
never become a lifestyle.
I
like to ride my bike — a Harley-Davidson Springer Soft
Tail. I know some may look twice at a woman of color
tooling down the road on a bike. Some friends wonder
about the apparent paradox of a woman who writes about
faith “but” rides a motorcycle.
Well, these stereotypes were shattered long before I
rolled onto the scene.
The
late
Bessie “BB” Stringfield was perhaps the most
accomplished motorcyclist of her day.
Unfortunately, outside the world of hardcore motorcycle
history buffs, BB isn’t well known. However, she is
considered one of the 20th century’s “Heroes of
Harley-Davidson.”
Born in Kingston, Jamaica, BB was orphaned at age 5. An
Irish couple in Boston adopted her. They gave her a deep
sense of spirituality. BB often spoke of her faith and
how it enabled her to ride motorcycles. She once told
the Miami Herald that when she got on her motorcycle,
she “put the Man Upstairs on the front.”
At
only four-foot-three-inches tall, BB was an unlikely
biker. However, she decided she wanted a motorcycle when
she was 16. Her parents obliged, buying her a 1928
Indian Scout.
In
BB’s day, motorcycles were tough to operate. Unlike
modern bikes, early motorcycles had to be kick-started,
vibrated badly, broke down frequently, and were tough to
steer. Riders also had to be skilled in adjusting
carburetors and chains.
Once the diminutive BB got the skills down, she had
another obstacle to face: Nice women — especially nice
black women — didn’t ride motorcycles.
BB
disregarded such assertions.
Later dubbed the “Motorcycle Queen of Miami,” BB was a
well-known racer and stunt rider. She once even
disguised herself as a man and won a flat track race.
Later, organizers denied her the prize when she removed
her helmet. During World War II, BB joined the United
States Army as a motorcycle dispatch rider.
BB’s journeys often took her to the segregated South,
where she countered racism with dignity and class.
Sometimes, she could not find a motel that accepted
black guests. BB often said she relied on God to lead
her to blacks who would put her up for a night. When a
friendly family couldn’t be found, she used her jacket
as a pillow and slept on her bike in a gas station
parking lot.
According to the Harley-Davidson Hall of Fame, BB owned
28 motorcycles in her lifetime. She was a woman who
talked openly about motorcycling and of her faith, and
her story is one of many that completely contradicts a
negative stereotype of the typical “biker.”
THE BEAT OF YOUR OWN ENGINE
Regardless of her looks, accent, or stature, BB was
admitted into that unique group that travels to the beat
of its own engine. She had every reason to keep her
voice as small as she was, but she chose to be a loud,
formidable presence. BB was a woman whose faith made
noise. BB was a bold woman.
The
stories of women like BB keep me on the road. These role
models sustain me when I encounter people who believe
faith is a private thing we shouldn’t discuss publicly.
They encourage me to travel to the beat of my own engine
and to find my own sound.
I
was ostensibly different as a child and often felt like
an outsider. When I began riding, I wondered if I would
find the motorcycling culture to be as troublesome as
the groups in high school. Having come to terms with
being “different,” I didn’t want to again worry about
jumping through the hoops of acceptance.
As
I met other riders, I realized they were often okay with
whomever you decided to be. For many, you don’t have to
ride a certain kind of motorcycle to fit in. You don’t
have to wear a certain kind of clothes or talk a certain
way. You just have to enjoy riding. Many of the people
I’ve met along the way want to openly discuss their
spirituality and faith, especially as it relates to
motorcycling.
The
sound of my faith is round and full and as loud as the
wind. Maybe it’s too loud sometimes — but I don’t
apologize. I don’t muffle this sound. I have listened to
and released my sound, and I encourage you to do the
same.
Karris lives in Waterloo, Iowa, with her husband and
daughter. She is a professional writer and speaker and
has ridden motorcycles for more than 10 years.
Go to Coffee Talk
Share this article
|
