S a s h a M u l l i n s
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Caution: cheeky story, indeed! It's high noon in midtown Manhattan and I'm in a mood for a challenge. So, I sashay fifteen blocks to the parking garage where my beloved Sportster, Tigerlily, awaits me. Born to be wild, we just love a thrill. Like two good girls getting' down and dirty, I mount her, pump the throttle and start my Evo-Twin. She roars to life. Ecstasy for the two of us. Curious onlookers can't help but share in our rapture. My patriotic license plates featuring Miss Liberty read "Soulo," hence my riding preference. I rip out of the garage and wave adios to the grinning attendant. I gun the pipes creating an echo that blasts through the garage and at the Mercedes behind me. Dynamite! The black sheepskin seat cover feels great against my bare inner thighs. This is the first time I've been able to wear my Daisy Duke shorts and chaps since burning some very delicate skin on the red-hot oil tank. Now the fur covers the scorching steel. Today I choose to wear my white skull bucket with my name painted in violet across the back. Sometimes I'll ride incognito and wear a bandanna around my face. Fellow bikers wonder if I'm outlaw, but it's really to save my lungs from the city exhaust. My blue eyes are shaded with matching blue spectacles. Like my friend Amanda entitled her one woman off-Broadway show ."I Am My Own Cheap Thrill." I chew gum all the time when I ride. It relaxes my brain from sensory overload and occupies my jaw so I don't grit my teeth during intense riding moments. New York City is like a constant switchback--equivalent to Needles Highway, though much more unforgiving. But instead of the towering Black Hills, bounteous sky and stone faces of South Dakota, we've got towering concrete and steel edifices, a.k.a. "the canyons", sky sliced into tiny geometric patterns shadowing sunshine into second-hand light, and, well, stone faces too. Riding the "Canyons" at night is a surreal experience. There's not as much traffic and there's an interesting excitement riding after dark surrounded by lights and action. One feels like a star hero(ine) on a Batman movie set. Chrome sparkles and mirrors the reeling nightlife images. With the evening streets empty compared to day, thunder created by drag pipes echoes off the towering canyons, setting off building security and car alarms. New York City scenery embraces the good, the bad, and the ugly with the rich and poor. Today, I choose to ride the deep interior: down Broadway through Lincoln Center, Times Square, the Fashion District, through Greenwich Village and then to Wall Street. This is the most challenging and interesting route especially at mid-day. Traffic is not as gridlock as rush hour, but it's enough to create some great switchbacks. Releasing my gold and chestnut locks from the usual braids, my waist-length hair flows freely behind my back. Riding in town you're lucky to hang in third gear for over 30 seconds. It's usually a dance between 2nd and 3rd with an abrupt stomp to 1st or get away flip to 4th ever looming. At least, my hair is safe from the aggravating tangles I'd get at highway speeds. As soon as I emerge from the garage, I'm greeted with a crawling bus' ass-end. Taxis jut in and out liked trapped yellow jackets as they jockey for a get-away spot from the bottleneck. I rev and roll left between the bus and an irate cabby, then tuck into the right lane occasionally swaying left to avoid delivery trucks sitting pretty. The fringe on my black leather jacket tickles my legs as I sway left and right in swerving patterns to avoid typical city obstacles, potholes, manholes, peoples and car pools, and the "sting" of a yellow-jacket prick. To think I had trained alone as a beginner rider in this chaos. Thank God for Gasper Trama's motorcycle safety course. I get to the next light glowing amber. I could sail through before the fiery red stares me down, but a booming P.A. voice and siren wail stops me. "Hey lady slow down!" I stop and turn around, gut in throat, only to see that it's Officer Scott from the neighborhood. He's hysterically belly laughing while waving his tattooed arm out the window at me. "Goootttcha Sash," he says slapping the steering wheel. "Whoa, lookin' good there lady, maybe I oughta arrest ya," he laughs. I shake my head with a smile and shout as I speed away, "only if you can catch me, office sir." Lincoln Center traffic dumps into Columbus Circle's round-robin tar slabs that split into three opposite directions. There's no pick a lane and stay in it here. City natives no longer see the white dotted lines, and frightened tourists cling to the steering wheel watching only the dots. I merge left into oncoming uptown traffic travelling broadside at my right and downtown traffic swimming furiously at my left trying to make a right handed merge in front of me. Riding is all about rhythm, like many things in life. And riding in New York is one big free flowing chaos and the only way to survive is to groove to its rhythm. A rhythm akin to legendary jazz saxophonist, John Coltrane's "Interstellar Space." As I approach Disneyland, (the new, shiny Times Square), heads turn and fingers point at me. Ten blocks of funhouse lights and billboards resemble the inside of a traffic pinball machine. MTV fans line up the sidewalk outside the famous second floor studios overlooking the arcade atmosphere. As I sit in traffic heads turn and stare at me like a circus act; a brazen side-show attraction sitting in the middle of noontime traffic on a Harley, her leg inches from a Fed Ex truck and a cab, with a bike messenger kissing the back fender. A few thumbs-up sail the air as I ride by pedestrians. Worldwide folk eyeball me through their camera lenses. I remain either stoic or flash a cheesy grin for them depending upon traffic karma. The Seventh Avenue fashion district presents its own unique hazard--clothing racks loaded down with the latest designer creations. Usually a short fellow who can't see a damn thing is charged with maneuvering the hazard into oncoming traffic. Pedestrians rebel against traffic lights while chewing on sidewalk hotdogs. Delivery trucks double park taking up two full lanes, strangling downtown traffic. Horns scream in protest, sirens whine in desperation and homeless folks beg to be noticed, and no one even bothers to stop eating to see what the hubbub is all about; confirming that New Yorkers can evolve into human "doings" not "beings." But when the rumble of a Harley-Davidson pierces through the insanity, all heads turn perhaps alerting the "being" inside and the desire to be "free". Today, a clothing rack decides to muscle it's way into traffic purely viewing Tigerlily's front end as something to kiss. I intercede the oncoming intimacy with a saddle bump and grind left. Driving gets extremely challenging on Broadway through Herald Square and the flower district of Chelsea because streets are narrower. I continue to plan my escape routes ahead, at the same time watch for death-defying dares around me. At a light, a beautiful Jamaican lady with dreadlocks piled high atop her head, steps into the crosswalk and spots me. She lowers her sunglasses and grabs her friend's arm pointing, "Oooh, look at dat little sistah, she ridin' her own mow-toe-see-cull." Pearl white teeth flash and the ladies step closer. She puts one hand on her hip while the other hand sails the air in a circling pattern, bracelets jangling, "You go sistah, and you jest show dem boyz dat a girl kin ride too." The two ladies walk away giggling. A huge grin stretches clear around my face. Machisma overcomes me so I blow a huge attitude bubble and snap it down at the same time the light releases me from sitting idle. I guess that is a major reason why I choose to live in New York. I don't like to be idle. But the definition of idle is changing for me. Now, I feel idle riding in New York and long to be both spiritually and emotionally occupied on the open road. The narrow, cobblestone streets transport me out of midtown mayhem into Greenwich Village's artistic pandemonium and eye-candy scenery. Interesting folks roam the streets and fill the parks. Students and artists stroll into traffic against the "don't walk" sign. I blast my horn at their unconsciousness, and am greeted with an "eff you." The Village's charm doesn't apply to its road surface--hands down the worst in the city. Potholes are left unfinished; blacktop is poured over irregular surfaces, and metal plate edges overlap to cover mysterious holes. My hips are the guiding force to circumnavigating the obstacles as I gyrate side to side like a belly dancer, the bike imitating my lead. On Bleeker Street I end up behind a double-decker tourist bus. Immediately heads turn to see who has loudly descended. Cameras start snapping and video cameras roll as the bus load of people get up and run to the back of the bus to view this fanciful petite rider on her equally petite Harley. It's my Andy Warhol flash of fame. I can't maintain the stoic face so I bust out laughing and offer a Barbie-doll wave. Wall Street's financial district is mobbed with tourists and suits. Cigarettes dangle out of the mouths of brokers and secretaries getting their nicotine fix. Tourists line up for a view of the exchange insanity on the famous floor. Vendors dot the sidewalks selling everything from children's books to Gyros. I stop at a traffic jam and a large, middle-aged fellow with a cigar bouncing as he authoritatively waddles over to me. "Eh," he says, "Nice bike. I got a Road King out in Joysee (Jersey). Won't ride here, too many nuts " The light changes and he taps my handlebar and points at me, "Be careful." I thank him and take off wondering if I, too, am one of the nuts. I head uptown on the FDR drive and cut across the East Side along 86th street to Fifth Avenue and Central Park's Westside transverse. Without warning, Fifth Avenue turns into one of the worst milled roads I've ever ridden on. The bike is badly wavering so I take her down to 20 mph to keep balance. Taxis blast their horns at me and now the lane is down to one. I only have four blocks more to travel. The noise is deafening between the construction equipment and the honking. Horns get steadier and a cabby leans on his the entire four blocks. "Yo, knock it off," yells a construction worker. My revenge: I'm in the lead. Finally, I turn onto the transverse and head west under the tree canopied mini-parkway. For three full minutes I can ride free and pretend that I'm in the country. I arrive home. Every cell is maxed as adrenaline pulses through me from ride rush. Parking on my block is usually not a problem although I can't park overnight, lest I awake to find only an oil spot where my bike should have been. There's a perfect space in front of the building facing my apartment so I tuck her there. I'm not home 15 minutes when I hear commotion outside. I look out the window and there's a neighbor trying to parallel park into a spot clearly half the car size. Her bumper is inches from the engine guard and two people are coaching her from the sidewalk, "You've almost got it." My eyes get moon size wide in horror. I fly out the door. "Looks like you reaallllly want to park there, huh?" I yell from my stoop. "I could get in here if ." Frustrated, she blows a hair from her twisted face. "Do you know who owns this motorcycle?" I nod my head, "Yep, I sure do." "Can you tell him to move it, please?" I cross my arms and stroll over to her. "There is no HIM. It's my bike." "Oh" she says looking me up and down. "Well, then, can you move it. Please." Her tone is curt and annoyingly nasal. "And, um, where would you like me to park it?" I reply biting each word with a smile. "You can stick it between those two cars right over there, see?" She points to a narrow space about as narrow-minded as her trying to psyche me out. The bike stays where it is. Decisions are made on the fly, so split-second, an eye can't blink as fast. Extreme defensive driving becomes second nature. All senses are wildly engaged to watch, listen, and scream, if necessary. And, of course, exceptional intuition is key to survival. There's an undeniable energy, an aliveness in every moment, a constant reminder that we are so vulnerable, yet invincible too. My feminine instinct for passionate living roars louder than the pipe's thunder, uniting my ride and me as both a tiger and a lily on the streets of New York City. If I can ride here, I can ride the wind anywhere. BY: Sasha Mullins Nov 2000 Published in Easyriders Magazine Photos of Sasha are available for review in the gallery section under stage resume. |
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it. Revised: 01/17/2007 |