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25/03/2010
One summer, quite a few years ago…
Carol and I were the only nurses at the hospital where we worked to own motorcycles. I had a small 125 cc Honda; in contrast, her machine was a classic British BSA 500.
In the main, we tended to avoid male bikers, most of whom seemed to be under the asinine impression that we rode our vehicles wearing our nurses’ uniforms. For that matter, we never went down the tight-fitting leather route either; we couldn’t afford that kind of clothing on nurse’s wages and, anyway, our protective jackets and jeans were far more practical and comfortable.
Cosmetics- especially nail varnish- were banned on hygiene grounds for hospital workers like us. (And quite rightly. Imagine the amount of germs that could hide behind painted finger- and toe-nails. Yuk!) So, while we weren’t particularly overweight or unattractive, we were nothing like the “glamour girl” stereotype beloved by the media.
One sunny Sunday we went for a fifty-mile ride to one of our favourite beauty spots. As we parked our bikes, a girl on a sporty little 200 cc Yamaha whizzed up. As female motorcyclists ourselves, we ended up in conversation with her.
Her name was Mandy. She was about our age (19-20 years old) and, by coincidence, she came from our home town. The three of us ended up riding back together. Carol and Mandy handled their machines very skilfully, and had to slow down on occasions to allow me and my petite Honda to catch up! We stopped at the edge of our town to exchange telephone numbers and addresses before we went our separate ways to our homes.
At the hospital a few days later, Carol told me that she’d received a call from Mandy inviting us to her home on the following Saturday. She’d sorted through a pile of motorcycle literature in her attic and unearthed owners’ manuals for both the Honda 125 and the BSA 500. These weren’t cheap items when bought from a motorcycle store, but, Carol said, Mandy was willing to give them to us.
The weather was hot on Saturday afternoon when we rode to Mandy’s home, which was (to our mild surprise) located in a fairly wealthy area of town. Mandy answered the door barefoot and in a black silk dressing gown- I remember thinking at the time that it was a bit late in the day for her to have just rolled out of bed! She told us to leave our helmets in the hall before leading us into the sumptuous main room of the house.
Then she invited us to take our bike jackets off before removing her dressing gown and standing before us completely naked.
Carol and I were the only nurses at the hospital where we worked to own motorcycles. I had a small 125 cc Honda; in contrast, her machine was a classic British BSA 500.
In the main, we tended to avoid male bikers, most of whom seemed to be under the asinine impression that we rode our vehicles wearing our nurses’ uniforms. For that matter, we never went down the tight-fitting leather route either; we couldn’t afford that kind of clothing on nurse’s wages and, anyway, our protective jackets and jeans were far more practical and comfortable.
Cosmetics- especially nail varnish- were banned on hygiene grounds for hospital workers like us. (And quite rightly. Imagine the amount of germs that could hide behind painted finger- and toe-nails. Yuk!) So, while we weren’t particularly overweight or unattractive, we were nothing like the “glamour girl” stereotype beloved by the media.
One sunny Sunday we went for a fifty-mile ride to one of our favourite beauty spots. As we parked our bikes, a girl on a sporty little 200 cc Yamaha whizzed up. As female motorcyclists ourselves, we ended up in conversation with her.
Her name was Mandy. She was about our age (19-20 years old) and, by coincidence, she came from our home town. The three of us ended up riding back together. Carol and Mandy handled their machines very skilfully, and had to slow down on occasions to allow me and my petite Honda to catch up! We stopped at the edge of our town to exchange telephone numbers and addresses before we went our separate ways to our homes.
At the hospital a few days later, Carol told me that she’d received a call from Mandy inviting us to her home on the following Saturday. She’d sorted through a pile of motorcycle literature in her attic and unearthed owners’ manuals for both the Honda 125 and the BSA 500. These weren’t cheap items when bought from a motorcycle store, but, Carol said, Mandy was willing to give them to us.
The weather was hot on Saturday afternoon when we rode to Mandy’s home, which was (to our mild surprise) located in a fairly wealthy area of town. Mandy answered the door barefoot and in a black silk dressing gown- I remember thinking at the time that it was a bit late in the day for her to have just rolled out of bed! She told us to leave our helmets in the hall before leading us into the sumptuous main room of the house.
Then she invited us to take our bike jackets off before removing her dressing gown and standing before us completely naked.
Poster:
Tracy H