Beautiful Bikers

A 5 to 8 minute read

My high school days weren’t particularly happy ones, as I’m sure they aren’t for a great many children. I wasn’t so entirely awkward, or fat, or thin, or speccy to belong in the bottom-feeding group of outcasts that were constantly being tripped up, punched, and ridiculed to the point of tears. And I certainly wasn’t one of the confident, beautiful, strutting elite who ruled the corridors and playing fields and who would leave school to sign on as soon as they were legally able. I was one of the nondescript middlers, bobbing along trying not to be seen. Feeling like one of the outcasts, but smart enough to be useful, or at least amusing, to the elites.

So of course when a kid of about fifteen joined the school, a complete outsider with a funny face and an alien accent, he and I hit it off immediately. He was quiet, and had a confidence about him that made the bullies wary of getting involved, but he was at heart a bit lost, having moved through several different schools in his life. He was short and a bit of an odd shape, but also mysterious and enigmatic, and he lived in a part of town that was both quite posh, but also had a reputation as a biker hangout.

Quick interlude here, to make absolutely sure we both understand what a biker is. A man who rides a motorbike is not a biker, he is a man who rides a motorbike. Being a biker entails a lot more than merely owning and riding a motorbike. It is an attitude, a way of life. It is a way of dressing, a way of talking, a way of walking, a way of being. It certainly involves motorbikes, but it is also greasy, smelly, obnoxious, loud, and very very macho. Also, bikers weren’t welcome pretty much everywhere and “No Bikers” was a common sign outside pubs across the country. They had a reputation, some of it deserved, as a nasty, aggressive, violent bunch you’d do well to keep well away from.

Now we are clear, let’s get back to the story. My new friend lived in a massive house, in a posh part of town, with his mum, dad, and big brother. Mum was just adorable; free spirited, generous with her time and her food, and seemed to have no motherly instincts whatsoever. Dad was never there, spending months at a time overseeing rubber extraction in plantations and jungles across the globe. Big brother was a biker, and had taken advantage of his mum’s generous and spiritual nature, to operate an open house policy for any other biker or Hells Angel who needed somewhere to crash. The house was always full of menacing looking blokes with long hair and beards, and the gardens were always full of motorbikes, either parked up or being worked on.

All of which came as a shock to me the first time I went back there after school one day. Slightly awkward, spectacle wearing, tall and skinny, socially inept, immature for my age, absolutely petrified at everything in life. It was a shock, and it was fucking terrifying! What was my friend thinking?! Why had he brought me here? Was this a trap? Was he tricking me with his friendship all along? Most importantly, where the fuck was he?

Somehow I’d ended up in the massive kitchen, feeling very much alone and scared and surrounded by massive men in dirty denim and leathers. I was an injured baby deer watching the pack of slobbering wolves surround me before ripping me apart. I could feel my whole body vibrate with fear, and I desperately wanted to look down to see if I’d wet myself.

“Cup of tea mate? I’ve just put the kettle on!”

Huh? What?

“Cup of tea? Or would you prefer some cordial?”

Erm, yes, thank you. Err, tea. I meant tea. Tea please, thank you. Two sugars. Thank you.

And so began the most wonderful of awakenings. Of realisations. This crowd of scary dudes, who admittedly could do some unspeakably violent and disgusting things, were nothing but polite and gracious to this quivering wreck of a child. They made me feel welcome. They didn’t mock me. They didn’t judge me. They said please and thank you and told me to fuck off in a way that didn’t feel in any way threatening. Don’t get me wrong, I was in no way a part of their gang, their world. But in their company I felt safe, protected, and accepted. They made me feel like I was okay, that they’d look after me.

It had taken fifteen years, but I felt like I had finally found my people.