Biker Chick Chronicle: Born to be Mild

I always find it a bit cringe-inducing to revisit my writing months or years after it's published. But at the same time, reading stories about a particular time and place in life is a great way to see how far you've come as both a writer and a person.

Knowing that Phuket Bike Week is set to start on April 10 this year, I opened a file of a story I wrote for a magazine four years ago. This girl, trying to be tough and bold, no longer exists, but I'm glad I managed to capture this strange and somewhat bittersweet time in words.

My experiences in infiltrating the Phuket gay festival remain unwritten, unfortunately!

Below is a shortened version of the original story that appeared in Farang magazine (a publication that no longer exists -- hope I didn't contribute to its downfall!)

***

At 10 am the day is already hot and dusty, and the island of Phuket is still sleeping in a collective hangover from the previous day’s Songkran celebration. It is about to be woken up.

Thundering Harley Davidson motorcycles of all shades and designs slowly fill a football field in Patong Beach. They are ridden by an equally impressive array of people, mostly men, many sporting wild beards and tattoos, leather vests and badges advertising their allegiance – Headhunters, Mad Dogs, Heaven’s Devils, Immortals, War Pigs and other club names expressing a charm and refinement unique to Harley fanatics.

Soon the 80 or so Hogs blast out of the field, taking to the streets in a long, farting line – and I’m riding pillion on a bike at the front of the pack. The brash and unmistakable sound of the famous big bikes announces our approach to all, and we leave behind a gaggle of dropped-jaw expressions as we roar past.

The Phuket Bike Week festival, held every April, attracts hundreds of bikers and hangers on from all over Asia and beyond, many riding in from neighbouring countries.

With visions of Hunter S. Thompson’s groundbreaking book, Hell’s Angels, in my head, I make an attempt to embed myself into the bike fest scene. Thompson spent a year with hard-core bikers before writing his masterpiece of gonzo journalism. I have only a week, but I’m determined to get a story of my own.

At the various parties I crash, the bikers seem to view me with a mix of suspicion and wry amusement. I don’t fit neatly into the categories of girlfriend, fellow rider or easy lay – altogether the wrong kind of pussy. While the majority of these bikers are friendly to outsiders, they form tight-knit groups that are hard to penetrate.

This has its advantages since I’m often ignored as I flit about and observe the action. There are countless scenes of madness, and I catch a memorable one after reaching the upper floor of one of Patong’s finest a-go-go establishments.

A damp, nearly-naked, chubby bald guy is lying on the stage, writhing between the legs of a row of dancers clad in red leather hotpants standing astride him. I’ve just walked in on an initiation rite for the newest member of a Malaysian-based motorcycle club, and apparently it is one of the least humiliating moments of the ceremony. Later, others take to the stage and carry out some exhibitionist fantasies of their own – a confusing flurry of hair, skin and blue-jeans in the cigarette-smoke haze.

No matter how wild the parties get, however, nothing compares with the thrill of the ride. I’ve scammed a ride on the big round-the-island run with the festival’s organizer, having offered to snap photos along the way. Squinting hard in the blazing sun, cheeks shuddering in the wind, I hold on tight as we chew up the roads. Fear and exhilaration jumble about in my rattling body.

The flashing lights of the police escort are just ahead, and when I look back all I can see is a long, shining serpent of chrome trailing up the road. Hunter S. Thompson’s words float into my consciousness … “Like Genghis Khan on an iron horse, a monster steed with fiery anus, flat out through the eye of a beer can and up your daughter’s leg with no quarter asked and none given; show the squares some class, give ’em a whiff of those kicks they’ll never know….”

As the coconut trees streak past, I’m thinking that this is the perfect climax to my week of infiltration into the absurd. What I don’t know, however, is that the denouement is about to sneak up and slap me in the face.

We stop for a brief rest at Nai Thon, a quiet beach at the north end of the island. Then it’s time to go and I wander back towards my ride’s big red Harley, which he’s now starting up with a kick. I’m about three feet away when he suddenly opens the throttle and blasts off, alone. The rest of the pack begins to follow him. I stand in shock for a moment, then realize that I have no ride out, so I try to flag down some bikes as they pass.

No one stops. I watch helplessly as all the riders zoom up over the hill and out of sight.

Standing alone at the roadside, I am immediately forced to confront what I had known all along – that this isn’t about getting a story at all. I’d wanted to be an insider, a club member, part of the action – now it’s clear that I’m not. The party was carrying on but I wasn’t invited. Childhood fears of abandonment laid bare in a swirl of dust.

I am a loser, a reject and utterly uncool.

Not long after, sitting in the air-conditioned blandness of the event co-ordinator’s van that I have managed to catch a ride on, I feel dejected as I wipe grimy sweat from my forehead.

I console myself by thinking that while my attempt at being a biker chick failed miserably, at least I avoided Thompson’s fate – no one’s kicked the crap out of me.