The sun had begun to soften behind the elegant tops of the Queen
palms, its slick orange glow spreading a hot, translucent haze over the chest-pounding
rumble of a sea of giant Harleys.
For the most part, they rode in pairs: the old
and the young, some mothers; all of them daughters, the working and the unemployed,
professionals and not, their resilient women’s thighs astride their shiny
chromed machines, with a latent energy so fiery sweet I could taste it on my
tongue. Dykes-on-Bikes, I was told by
one who knew them, a magnificent body of female strength - fortified
and made whole - liberated, they would say - by a sisterhood forged in the burning
heart of psychic and physical love.
