I seemed to have developed a stalker who runs around after me on the internet, completely positive I am secretly plotting to destroy the motorcycle club I have become associated with. I almost never write any motorcycle club specific articles, but nonetheless, he is terrified I will one day and runs around crying the sky is falling to anyone who will listen.
Personally, I’m kind of perversely honored that he thinks I possess that kind of power. Every time it comes to my attention, my ego gets a big kick out of it.
However, I can assure you all, I am not planning anything of the sort. Relax, dude.
Periodically, someone brings up the motorcycle club that my ex was once a part of and what my feelings are about them now, after so much has happened. Would I ever be writing a book about being around one-percenters? My ex and I spent years in that culture, so surely, I should capitalize on it, right?
I’ll be the first to admit it, outlaw biker stuff is easy to sell these days.
I really enjoyed being a part of that outlaw culture, and no. I won’t be writing a book about any of it. I had toyed with an idea once about writing a generalized piece about being a girl in such a masculine culture, but frankly, it bored me to death. I have no shocking stories of misconduct, terror, or otherwise that would make anything I wrote even mildly interesting, and I don’t make up stories for entertainment value at the expense of real people’s lives. While I feel I have been given a rare front row seat into seeing how a real secret society works, I feel absolutely no desire to shine a light on it for the rest of the world to see. In short, I like being one of the few who knows what so many people only dream of experiencing.
There are some things in life that I get pleasure from that are as fragile as butterfly wings and are more important to me than money. If I were to expose them, touch them, or handle those memories in any way, they would lose their magical ability to fly in my imagination. Even worse, they would not be able to soar in other people’s minds either. I firmly believe humans should be careful to protect some mysteries from being exposed and not be in such a rush to cash in on modern-day fairy tales.
I love that the United States of America is the place where legendary biker culture was born and bred. That social cultural mystery has spread like wild-fire across the earth. It is one of the rare truly American offerings we’ve ever spawned. As with anything else, there are good things about it and there are bad things about it. But only referring in the most abstract of ways, the secretive culture of the American outlaw motorcycle clubs gives some people something to be intrigued by, others to aim for, and for the elect few, something to be dedicated to. And none of those things belong solely to me to decide what to do with.
I love many people still in that club, and while I am effectively no longer a part of it, the part of me that remains loyal to them would never capitalize on wrecking something they hold dear. I am a better friend than that.