It was the summer of 2015 and I had my motorcycle licence for 3 ½ months. I loved to ride but I didn’t see myself as part of the “biker” community and, therefore, I most often road solo. I only knew three other riders, all conservative professionals in their real-lives, and all three had been to the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally (the 75th Anniversary). They would occasionally send me texts and photos from the rally - it looked like a motorcycle version of an Austin Power’s party scene, with a different world of crazy outfits and often scantily dressed adults who appeared to be enjoying an around the clock party. 

I didn’t know how to feel about it or if this motorcycle community was for me. Having never been to a rally I thought I would check out the annual Wasaga Beach rally, less than an hour from my house.   

My most vivid memory of the Wasaga Beach Rally was a woman, obviously in her 70’s, in thigh-high corset boots, short shorts and leopard crop-top. From the outside it appeared like a bunch of adults acting out the adolescent Halloween party their parents would never have allowed. 

As I stood there trying to make sense of whether this was a world I could feel comfortable in, I called one of my buddies and in describing my observations said, “Those people are pretty out there”. His immediate response was, “Those people?   They aren’t those people…they are your people”

…What?

...wait, I thought, and then responded, “No, no, no…These are not my people…These cannot be my people?….Wait, are these my people?!”. My buddy laughed at me and said, “Give it time and you will understand”. 

I went home that day wondering if I was an outlier? Wondering if maybe I had become a biker only to discover I didn’t fit in. 

It was now a year later, August of 2016, and with all the excitement of a child on Christmas morning I pulled into the rally in Sturgis, South Dakota for the first time. There was nothing but motorcycles….tens of thousands of motorcycles, as far as the eye could see. 

The ground shook from the rolling thunder of thousands of bikers – it was electrifying. For a year I had wondered if I fit into the motorcycle community and had decided to reserve judgement until I finished my visit to the mecca of all rallies.

Over the next 6 days spent at and around the rally, I took every opportunity to speak with and meet new people. I was forever fascinated by how intimidating everyone looked (at first sighting), and how sweet everyone was once you got to know them.

The same guy who looked like a 270 lb killer was actually an accountant, the couple who road two up and looked rough and tumble were actually married with three young kids and their own business.

There were people from absolutely every walk of life; doctors, lawyers, mechanics, executives, engineers, bankers, factory workers, teachers, bar tenders, personal trainers, musicians, and the list goes on! So many people I would never otherwise meet and who I would soon call life-long friends. 

I never felt safer than when I was surrounded by motorcyclists. I will tell you something, as a woman, that I want you to remember:

Biker dudes are amongst the most respectful, and the most polite, men you will ever meet. 

I remember speaking with one of the thousands of police officers who are brought in from around the country to work the 10 day rally. This particular officer was from Philadelphia and said that he often worked different events, from marathons to road cycling competitions, around the country. I asked him how the Sturgis crowd compared. To my surprise he said everyone [police officers] wants to work Sturgis because bikers are more respectful, by far(!), than any other group and Sturgis is one of the safest events in the country. 

My perception of “biker gangs” was also shattered. There was the plethora of motorcycle clubs representing every imaginable group and cause from Bikers for Jesus, to The Bling Diva’s (a club of female riders who cover their motorcycles in Swarovski crystals), to Bikers Against Child Abuse, to Black Girls Ride, to Veterans Clubs, etc…all getting along and respecting each other, even if their club’s ideals or missions differed. 

This brought me to another thought: almost any motorcyclist will tell you that riding is a form of therapy for them, myself included. Perhaps we are all working out something from our past. Maybe a person was rejected, abused, suffered a trauma or loss, but it is more or less understood in the motorcycle community that no one is perfect and we all come with baggage that we are working on. 

As I met more motorcyclists, female and male, and made new friends for life, what became evident was that nobody here cared what you did for a living, how much money made or influence you had, if you were popular, who your friends were, what motorcycle you ride, how you dressed or where you were from. Here it seemed you were judged on your character, kindness, ability to embrace the moment and your genuine interest in others - what matters most is that you are a nice person. 

Ultimately, entering the motorcycle community was like arriving at King Moonracer’s Island of Misfit Toys (see the the classic animation “Rudolph the Red Nosed Raindeer” to to understand the reference). It was a safe place where everyone’s uniqueness was accepted and quirkiness was celebrated. I realized I didn’t need to worry if I fit in, I just needed to be myself and embrace others with the same kindness as they did me. I loved that nobody took themselves too seriously and that humour and great costumes were praised - if biker-granny wanted to wear the thigh-high corset boots, not only was it okay but her fellow misfit islanders would applaud her for adding some color to everyone’s experience. 

I am a biker and these are my people!

All photographs on this website are the exclusive property of Giselle Briden and may not be copied or reproduced in any form without her express written consent.