Rollin' with the Boozefighters

Upon exiting the Nago Pineapple Park, we notice a gang of American Harley motorcyclists and found this decidedly odd, as we are living in Japan. But no, that's right: we live in Okinawa. This place was occupied by the US from 1952-1972. The dollar was the only currency, and Okinawans needed a passport to travel to mainland Japan! Currently, 55,000 American military reside in Okinawa. Why should I be surprised that enough of them belong to the famous Boozefighters Motorcycle Club to form the Far East Asia branch? As we walked down the street, they roar up behind us, and we stop to turn and watch them go by. A few wave to us, we wave back, and so begins another adventure in Okinawa. Three Boozefighters pull over to the side of the road and offer us a short ride around the block. Christina, who has a long history of Harleys, doesn't hesitate. I blink and she's gone. As you might imagine, in America Joyce (I have adopted the Okinawan habit of referring to myself in the third person) would not be tempted to do any such thing with any such strangers. But come on, this is Okinawa! Live a little, right. Motorcycles, yeah, I should do this! I'm thinking. The only thing holding me back is:

1. The large and cumbersome bag of recently purchased pineapple products on my arm
2. The short skirt I happen to have donned for our stroll in the sunny Okinawa breeze

Ah, but this stops me for a mere moment. I heap my purchases into Amy's arms and hop on board behind a fellow North Carolinian, who is wearing a confederate flag skullcap, a worn leather jacket, and some very offensive stickers on his helmet. Here, put this on! He grins and hands me a helmet that is about 5 times larger than my head. I am in the midst of attempting to tighten the strap under my chin (safety first, children!) when with a mighty rev of the engine and the fear of God in at least one of our hearts, we screech away from the sidewalk, burning rubber and riding like the devil is on our heels. I hang on for dear life, already regretting my decision to live a little. Where did that every get anyone, really?
Now, I don't know how many of you have ever ridden a motorcycle, or if so, a giant Harley with a Boozefighter-maniac at its wheel. Handles. Whatever. Well, I have. Let me say that this was my first time on a motorcycle.

Completely terrifying, and yet utterly exhilarating.

My fellow Carolinian roared and raced me around Nago City for a good 10 minutes, whizzing and winding in and out of traffic lanes and taking precarious curves at breakneck speed (from my point of view). The moment we had started up, my ill-suited helmet had slipped off my head from behind and was now hanging around my neck by the ill-adjusted strap, choking me and flying behind me in the wind as I screamed and saw death flash before my eyes. Death was moving fast, baby.

But as it turns out I lived on to tell the tale. We all met up at Family Mart, and chatted with our new biker friends. We soon discover that they are part of a motorcycle club called the Boozefighters. Which we should clearly have already been familiar with. Shame on us. This is the oldest bike club in America, founded by WWII vets in 1946. In fact, we are told, Marlon Brando starred in a film about the Boozefighters, which we have undoubtedly seen. Hmm. Not my generation, buddies, I'm thinking at the middle-aged biker dudes. But I don't let on. Oh, Marlon Brando, yes, we nod enthusiastically as if we`ve all seen the film. Where's mom with her bizarre knowledge of 50-60s movies' hotties when you need her? Probably drinking tea on a dojo floor with a group anti-nuclear weapons Buddhist priests on their way to a large non-violent rally somewhere on another billion mile Peace Walk in the American South, I muse.

I blink my way back to the here and now. Tonight, the Boozies tell us, only about 25 of them are riding. Shucks, we`ve never ridden motorcycles?! We can join them!!! Sweeeet! An evening of Harley riding with the famous Boozefighters (who are all very nice and not at all scary fellows, some young newbies but many middle-aged expats who married while in the military on Okinawa and never left). The next step: Big Daddy himself is called over to Family Mart to supervise/approve our joining the group. Now, Big Daddy is the leader of the pack, and fully awe-inspiring. A giant, booming, bronzed biker in his 60s, with a wild white beard and the biggest, shiniest Harley I've ever seen. I believe that "The Original Wild Ones" was written across his leather jacket.

Big Daddy decides we`re an ok lot, and after a short detour to a mountain race track, we continued on with them to Kin, a city surrounded by military bases. You would never know you weren't in America, if it weren't for the Taco Rice stand up the street. Kin is basically the American South incarnate. What made the journey from mountain race-track to Kin really exciting was that it was now night, and we had to cut across the mountain top to get to the highway. The path was about 3 feet wide and lined with high brush. Our entourage of 25 Harleys wound and zigzagged their way along the jungle route, like a multi-culti drunken midnight safari that got lost at sea, but was washed up on an Okinawan mountain.


Previous to our departure, I had changed drivers to ride with Smurf: a small, wiry fellow who had been riding for 35 years and who I judged to be a safer bet than Hot Wheels from NC, if I wanted to come out of this adventure alive. I was right. Unfortunately, I did not remember to pee before we left, and I almost popped a leak on the very long journey to follow. Our arrival in Kin was without exception magnificent: Smurf rode his Harley right into a pool bar blaring country music and filled with good southern boys, and got all of their attention with a final rev of the engine. Following up on the spectacular entrance, I performed a stunning dismount. My dismount was a mix between falling (due to my watery leg muscles, which had been clenched in terror for the last half hour of light-speed travel on the highway) and jumping (the idea being that the fast I got off, the less time there would be for anyone to glimpse my underwear since I was wearing the cursed skirt). Recovering from a shaky landing, I sway back and forth, searching for my land legs. I blink out at the crowd from under the rim of my over-large helmet and my bushel of wind-blown hair, which is thrusting wildly in every direction known to man. Keep in mind, I am wearing Hot Wheels` oversized leather jacket, which hangs about 4 inches past each hand, and is so long that it pretty much covers my skirt, giving me the appearance of a bare-legged biker chick from Hell.

Bladder a-bursting, I skip the introductions and totter for the toilet.

Thanks for the rides, Jason, Smurf, and Chris! Perhaps someday, I'll ride again with the Boozefighters!