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Lady Bikers

My gang

HELP!   I’m writing this note, on the back of a grimy petrol receipt, to explain my mysterious disappearance.

You must understand that I have been kidnapped and forced to accompany a notorious female motorcycle gang. They have been insisting I ride around the Scottish countryside, eating cake and assertively pointing-and-squealing at the wildlife.

Only a few weeks ago, I was pootling around, a bit lost, when they started goading me about my lack of cornering skill and utter absence of badassery. I was just an innocent blogger when they kidnapped me and made me their bike serf (actually unofficial mascot, but that doesn’t sound as dignified). Next thing I know, I’m bungied to my GS and made to ride in something called a drop-off system. (I admit this is more enjoyable than my previously habitual fall-off system). I’ve since been humiliated by my failure to keep up and being completely confused by counter-steering.

My compulsory duties now involve acting as ACF monkey, finding parts of Scotland deemed flat enough to camp on and remembering to put the seat down.

The brain washing is the worst. I’ve had to learn stuff like the names of all the 459 sacred women that have now ridden around the world solo, as well as universally accepted facts like how hard it is when you lack pockets, the scandal of VAT on tampons and why bike saddles are all too f’ing high.

The most infamous members of this sordid sorority are as follows:

Secret handle: Clairol Queen
Distinguishing features: Chameleon hair, crammed topbox
Superpower: Understands something called Linux

Secret handle: Smokin’ Babe
Distinguishing features: Outswims orcas
Superpower: Drives a six-tonne fire engine

Secret handle: Track Daysy
Distinguishing features: Vintage red leather racesuit, dragon tattoo (I imagine)
Superpower: Not scared by quadratic equations

For these are the scandalous Beavers and no-one is safe from being offered some cake.

They don’t seem to go in for all that male-style initiation and sexist stuff. No excessive drinking games or boasting about their lap times on The Island (- Mull?) I am made to wear a jacket with PROPERTY OF THE BEAVERS MCC in studs on the back, although it’s never been suggested that I have to put on makeup and high heels (that was all my idea).

My main fear (obviously aside from not being seen merely as a sex object) is that I’m now succumbing to Stockholm (or is that Stock Engine?) syndrome – I’m actually beginning to sympathise with their sordid, lawless, double-X mindset. It is nice that I don’t have to worry my pretty little head about lots of things now though… like navigation, servicing my own forks, programming the microwave and pretending to understand the offside rule. I’ve even started to glimpse why some people don’t get the fun of being mansplained to.

On second thoughts, if they do decide to demand a ransom for me, there’s no need to hurry to break a tenner and make that payment.

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