How Riding A Harley Davidson Saved My Midlife Crisis

For years, I felt like I was stuck in neutral. The minivan, the PTA meetings, the beige walls that seemed to be closing in – it all blurred together into a monotonous beige existence. I was Stephanie, the fifty-something wife, mother, and volunteer, a perfectly serviceable role but one that left my soul feeling dusty and unused.

Then, on a whim, I turned on the TV and there it was: a gleaming chrome Harley Davidson roaring down a sun-drenched highway.

It was a cliché, I know. But in that moment, it wasn’t about the middle-aged biker stereotype. It was about the wind whipping through hair, the feeling of freedom, of being in control. That night, I dreamt of asphalt instead of carpools.

The next day, I found a motorcycle training course. My husband, bless his patient soul, thought it was a phase. My kids, well, they were just mortified by the idea of their mom in leathers. But there I was, the only woman in a class of burly men, perched nervously on a (surprisingly heavy) motorcycle.

Learning to ride was a humbling experience. The roar of the engine was intimidating at first, the clutch control finicky. But with every wobble and stall, a tiny spark of defiance ignited within me. I was Stephanie, the minivan driver, yes, but I was also Stephanie, the motorcycle student, the one who wasn’t afraid to take a chance.

The moment I finally mastered that tricky left turn, the world seemed to open up. The wind wasn’t just whipping through my hair, it was blowing away the cobwebs of self-doubt. On my first solo ride, I felt a sense of exhilaration I hadn’t experienced in years. Every twist of the throttle, every purr of the engine, was a reminder that I was still alive, that I was capable of growth and adventure.

Of course, there were challenges. There were dropped bikes (thankfully at low speeds!), disapproving stares from some (mostly older) folks, and the occasional sunburn. But there were also triumphs, like conquering a long highway ride, or the camaraderie I found with a local women’s motorcycle club.

Today, when I look back at that beige station wagon, I barely recognize the woman behind the wheel. My Harley Davidson may not be the most practical vehicle, but it’s a symbol of my newfound freedom. It’s a reminder that it’s never too late to take the wheel of your own life, to break out of your comfort zone and chase the wind. So, if you see a middle-aged woman in leathers cruising down the highway, don’t judge. Just smile and wave – you might just be seeing someone in the midst of saving their own midlife crisis.

Like this post? Support Us or Sign up to our newsletter to get more articles like this delivered straight to your inbox!