My brief stint as a biker chick

Published in The Post-Star (G1)
5/4/06

I certainly didn't expect to spend Friday night with my arms around a burly biker named Rocko -- talk about going the extra mile for an assignment.

It started when I called a local motorcycle shop with a few questions and ended up with an invitation to the infamous "Tank," home of The Jury Motorcycle Club in Hudson Falls.

My co-workers raised their eyebrows when I mentioned where I was heading that evening.

"You're going to The Tank?" they asked. "Alone?"

I figured it couldn't be that bad.

Sure, the name of the place referred to an actual tank -- a rusty old steel cylinder the club bought from an oil company in the mid-1970s and converted into a fortress-like headquarters beside the Champlain Canal.

And I knew The Jury had a reputation as a tough-guy biker gang, roaring through town in a pack of black leather and big mustaches and throwing raucous parties every summer.

But the old motorcycle outlined in colored lights and perched on top of the tank added a playful touch to its imposing exterior. I knew that Miss America had survived a visit to The Tank to speak about veterans' rights in 2000. And the club sponsors a Little League team, for Pete's sake. They probably weren't going to attack a visiting journalist.

My confidence was tested when the club's president, who goes only by "Rocko," invited me to hop on the back of his Harley not long after I arrived.

I tried to sound nonchalant: "Sure, why not?"

He handed me a black helmet adorned with a sticker that said "Sex Happens," and asked his blonde wife to lend me her sunglasses. They handled the sun but they didn't block the glare she gave me as Rocko and I rode off into the sunset with a biker named Red.

"Have you ever ridden a motorcycle before?" Red yelled as we paused at a traffic light.

I felt proud for a moment. "Actually, yes, I rode a sport bike around Barcelona --"

He sneered.

"I said, have you ever ridden a motorcycle before?"

The light changed, and we took off at a speed that made my eyes water. I tried to ignore the chilling wind and admire the scenery: a pretty farmhouse; a field of startled goats; an old lady watering the church lawn with one hand on her hip.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the sideview mirror, my hair streaming out behind my helmet, and thought: Hey, I look pretty cool.

By the end of the ride, cool had changed to just plain freezing, since I was wearing only a thin jacket.

But as I returned my borrowed gear and entered The Tank's warm, smoky atmosphere for a drink of water, I realized that I was still alive -- and smiling.
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