This is the story of how I went from being a scooter girl in a miniskirt to an All the Gear, All the Time motorcycle rider. Don’t worry, there’s very little blood involved. It’s more about the psychology difference between the two camps, and how we can bridge the gap and protect more riders who may be put off by the Power Ranger look- specifically, scooter riders, since they often wear the least amount protective gear.

Why do people want to look a certain way in the first place? Clothing is our primary expression of identity. This is true at every level of every culture in the world. In America, the way we dress shows others our profession and the social groups we gravitate toward. I know you’re thinking this doesn’t apply to you, cause you “just throw on whatever“, but it does. If you’re reading this wearing a casual button-down and jeans with stylish sneakers, most people will correctly assume you work in software. If you have a wallet chain somewhere on your person, we’re pretty sure you’ve got a bit of hipster in you, whether you’d admit it or not. If you’re wearing a polo and loafers, you’re from the East Coast, possibly Boston. Manpris? You’re from Europe. This isn’t stereotyping; they’re just some examples of the often unconscious signals we send with what we wear.

Think also of some things you wouldn’t be caught dead in- perhaps a studded belt, sweats in public, shiny shoes… or perhaps motorcycle gear or full face helmet when you ride your scooter. But what if you could keep your personal style and still protect yourself?

Some answers to that question will be offered in part two of this post. Part one, below, is the story of my personal reconciliation of fashion and safety on two wheels.

Part I: God damn it, I want to look like Bat Girl!

San Francisco is a two-wheel town. Lots of motorcycles, lots of scooters. Most motorcyclists wear at least a minimal level of protective gear- jacket, gloves, full face helmet. Some, like my neighbor girl who sprints her horsey enduro up Leavenworth in a dress and heels, get by with nothing but the legally mandated helmet. Seeing her dodge and weave through traffic with her purse swinging from her elbow makes me cringe. It calls to mind the way I used to dress on my Aprilia Scarabeo: to-die-for cute, and utterly vulnerable to mishap. Perched on my sparkly white ride in a Betsy Johnson minidress, Via Spiga pumps resting on the floorboard, I’d twist the all-or-nothing throttle with my goatskin ladyglove-clad hands, feeling completely confident in my pretend cloud of invincibility. Perhaps completely confident is not precise… I was lying to myself by avoiding the safety aspect altogether, and I knew it. But it was just a scooter; it couldn’t go that fast. And besides, I am a good driver.

Even as I lay stunned and numb, sprawled on the hot pavement of the intersection after getting clipped by a van taking a very ballsy right turn from the left lane of a 4-lane, one way street, I thought… “Hey, at least I look good in my new dress. And grandma was right- I’m so glad I’m wearing my nice matching bra and panties… cause that paramedic is smokin’! …Ow, my back. Oh, look, bloody knees. Okay, now things are starting to hurt. Actually, I don’t feel very good at all, now that I’m strapped to this board.”

I was whisked away in an ambulance, patched up and sent home on the back of my friend’s Ducati in the same stupid dress and heels I’d come to the hospital in. Leaning forward as one does riding pillion, I couldn’t yet feel the real pain of my broken tailbone. (Sidebar: This is one broken bone you don’t get a cast for. I reminded the ER doctor that Bart Simpson had broken his tailbone skateboarding and HE got a fanny cast, but sadly, I was not afforded the same treatment.)

Not long after, I got a “real bike” as my friend said, the oft-mentioned in this blog Hawk GT. With it I purchased a custom made, fully armoured jacket from Johnson Leathers, top of the line Shoei helmet, kangaroo and carbon fiber Racer gloves, Oxtar boots, and plenty of IceBreaker merino wool shirts, because I wasn’t going to let January cold stop me from terrorizing myself on my awesome new discovery for even a day.

With all that gear on, I felt like the Michelin Man. I could barely move. And I thought I looked like a tiny… dude. Don’t get me wrong; I spent six years as a metalworker, so hanging with the boys and getting my hands dirty doesn’t bother me. But I also love to dress up, and my inner fashion plate sorely longed for the days of scooter outfits- even though they cost me six weeks of sitting on a donut in the office. Couldn’t I have speed and style both? I was not satisfied, and decided to do something about it.

Back to Johnson Leathers, this time for something more feminine, something more me. At the time, there were women’s options on the market, but the industry seemed mostly in the “shrink it and pink it” stage of women’s wear. Pink Alpinestar is a fine look for some girls, but I didn’t want cute, and I sure as hell didn’t want it day in and day out. And I didn’t want less protection than they put in men’s gear. I wanted sexy with substance.

I tried on a non-riding women’s jacket of incredibly soft lambskin. It had front and back princess seams to shape the body. The sleeves were narrow. Could Johnson make me something like this? And I needed pants. But not the kind that go up to your waist, bag out in the seat and flare at the ankles. I wanted them to fit like tight jeans. With that, Mr Johnson set to work on the design.

I returned for five fittings for my new outfit, which would be made of shiny black kangaroo and fully T-Pro armoured. Kangaroo is much lighter than cow, yet far more abrasion resistant. It’s what most racing suits are made of. T-Pro is the best armour available. My pants were fitted while I was sitting on the bike in riding position. The T-Pro pads were trimmed to fit my small frame- this also meant using elbow pads for my little knees and the child-size back protector. ”Tighter!” I kept saying to Mr Johnson as he adjusted and pinned the muslin test garment. “God damn it, I want to look like Bat Girl!”

Over the next several weeks, while Mr Johnson transformed the muslin test garment to leather, I got a wild hair to put a few thousand blood red Swarovski crystals on my grey helmet. By then my leathers were ready at the shop. I put on my new body glove of a riding outfit, strapped on my glittering masterpiece, and rode off into the sunset via Highway 36 like Bat Girl with a flaming crystal helmet, feeling, finally, that I was dressed like my genuine self. My at-oneness with the bike was complete, and it felt totally f*ing awesome.

Tune in next time for an exploration of options that increase your safety without compromising your personal style.