“Women who ride motorcycles are just asking to become statistics,” my boss announced during our Monday safety meeting, looking directly at me. Twenty-three male colleagues nodded along as he pulled up accident data on his PowerPoint.
“Especially young women riding alone. It’s not about skill – it’s about biology. Weaker reflexes, less upper body strength, emotional decision-making. I’m saying this as a father of daughters.”
He clicked to the next slide showing crash statistics. “This is why our company insurance won’t cover female employees who ride to work. Too much liability.”
I sat there in my steel-toed boots and safety vest, the only female construction supervisor in the room, my motorcycle helmet visible through the glass door where I’d left it.
Six months ago, I’d bought my first bike – a Harley Davidson – after saving for two years. Now my boss was telling me I’d have to choose between my job and my freedom to ride.
“Sarah, I know you recently got your license,” he continued, his voice dripping with paternal concern. “But maybe it’s time to reconsider. A nice car would be safer. More… appropriate for someone in your position.”
My name is Sarah Chen, and I learned to ride a motorcycle at twenty-five because the men in my life kept telling me I couldn’t.
It started with my father when I was sixteen. I’d mentioned wanting to take the MSF course, and he’d laughed. “Motorcycles are for men who want to die young and women who want attention,” he’d said. “Neither describes my daughter.”
In college, my boyfriend had been more direct. “You’re too small,” Jake had explained, like he was talking to a child. “Five-foot-four, 120 pounds? You’d drop the bike at the first stop sign. It’s just physics, babe.”
But it was my boss, Bill Morrison, who finally pushed me over the edge. During a site inspection last year, one of the contractors had arrived on a Harley. While the men gathered around admiring it, I’d asked about engine size, torque specifications – things I’d researched obsessively online. The contractor, surprised, had offered to let me sit on it.
“Absolutely not,” Bill had interrupted before I could answer. “Insurance liability. Plus, Sarah, you can barely handle the forklift.”
The men had laughed. I operated heavy machinery every day, managed construction sites, held certifications most of them didn’t have. But somehow, a motorcycle was beyond my capabilities.
That night, I’d signed up for the Motorcycle Safety Foundation course.
The instructor, a woman named Maria who’d been riding for thirty years, took one look at me and smiled. “Let me guess – someone told you that you couldn’t?”
“Everyone told me I couldn’t,” I corrected.
“Good,” she’d said. “Spite is excellent motivation.”
I passed the course on my first try. Bought my MT-07 the next week – light enough to handle, powerful enough to shut up anyone who called it a “beginner bike.” For six months, I’d been riding to work, parking next to the construction trailers, letting my helmet speak louder than any argument.
Some of the younger guys had been curious, even respectful. But Bill’s reaction had grown increasingly hostile. Little comments about “death wishes” and “attention-seeking.” Forwarded articles about motorcycle accidents with notes like “FYI, in case you care about your future.”
Now he’d escalated to a full company meeting, complete with a PowerPoint about why women shouldn’t ride.
“The statistics don’t lie,” Bill continued, clicking through slides he’d clearly spent the weekend preparing. “Women are 30% more likely to be injured in motorcycle accidents.”
“That’s because we’re more likely to report injuries and seek proper medical care,” I interrupted, my voice steady despite my shaking hands. “Men ride through injuries that need treatment. Doesn’t make them better riders – makes them stupid.”
The room went silent. Bill’s face reddened.
“Emotional responses like that prove my point,” he said. “Riding requires calm, logical thinking. Not… feminine hysteria.”
“Feminine hysteria?” I stood up slowly. “Like spending your weekend making a presentation about something that doesn’t affect company performance? Like being so threatened by a woman on a motorcycle that you’re trying to change company policy?”
“This is about safety—”
“This is about control,” I cut him off. “I’ve never been late, never had an accident, never filed a single claim. But Tom crashed his truck twice last year driving drunk. Steve got three speeding tickets in the company vehicle. Paul fell off a ladder because he refused to use safety equipment. Where are their PowerPoints?”
The men I’d named shifted uncomfortably. Bill’s face had gone from red to purple.
“You’re being insubordinate,” he warned.
“I’m being factual,” I replied. “You want statistics? I’ll give you statistics. I have a perfect driving record. I wear full protective gear. I’ve taken advanced riding courses. I maintain my bike meticulously. I’m statistically safer than anyone in this room who drives a car while texting, speeding, or drinking. Which, based on our last company party, is most of you.”
“You’re fired,” Bill said quietly.
“For what?” I asked, pulling out my phone to record. “For being female while riding? Please, say it clearly for the recording.”
He realized his mistake too late. Twenty-three witnesses had just heard him fire me immediately after a presentation about women being unfit to ride, after I’d provided factual rebuttals to his sexist arguments.
“For… for insubordination,” he stammered.
“I’ll need that in writing,” I said calmly. “With the specific examples of insubordination. I’m sure the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission will find it fascinating reading, along with this presentation about how women are biologically inferior operators of motor vehicles.”
The room was dead silent. I picked up my helmet, my hands finally steady.
“I’ll be expecting my final paycheck, including the vacation days I’m owed,” I said. “Mail it. I’ll be hard to reach for a while – I’m taking a motorcycle trip. Solo. Because I can.”
I walked out, leaving them with their PowerPoints and prejudices. In the parking lot, my MT-07 waited, morning sun glinting off its tank. I put on my gear methodically – armored jacket, gloves, boots, helmet. Each piece a middle finger to everyone who’d said I couldn’t.
As I started the engine, I saw faces appear at the conference room window. Some looked shocked, others almost admiring. Tom, who’d secretly asked me about riding lessons for his daughter, gave me a small thumbs up.
I revved the engine once – not for attention, but for punctuation – and pulled out of the lot for the last time.
The lawsuit would come later. Bill, in his infinite wisdom, had emailed his presentation to the entire company, creating a paper trail of discrimination. The EEOC took one look at “Women riders: Biological limitations and liability concerns” and fast-tracked my case.
But first, I rode.
I took two weeks and traveled the Pacific Coast Highway. At gas stations, other riders would nod – the universal acknowledgment between those who get it. Some were surprised to see a young woman alone on a sport bike. Most just saw another rider.
In San Francisco, I met a group of women riders at a café. They ranged from twenty-two to seventy-three, riding everything from scooters to Gold Wings. When I told them about Bill’s presentation, they laughed so hard the whole café stared.
“Weaker reflexes?” Carol, a sixty-year-old on a Ducati, wiped tears from her eyes. “I’ve been riding for forty years. You know what makes you crash? Ego. Showing off. Refusing to acknowledge your limits. All things men excel at.”
“My ex-husband said I was too emotional to ride,” added Jamie, whose BMW adventure bike was covered in stickers from cross-country trips. “Now I lead wilderness rescue operations. On my bike. Saving men who got lost because they were too proud to read a map.”
They invited me to ride with them the next day. Six women, ages spanning five decades, carving through California mountains with precision and joy. No ego competitions, no risky showing off – just skilled riders who happened to be female, proving Bill’s PowerPoint wrong with every curve.
When I finally returned home, I had seventeen messages from lawyers wanting to take my case, and one from Maria, my MSF instructor.
“Heard what happened,” her voicemail said. “I’ve got twenty female riders ready to testify about discrimination they’ve faced. Let’s make this count.”
The case settled out of court eight months later. Bill was quietly let go for “restructuring reasons.” The company implemented new anti-discrimination policies and, ironically, motorcycle safety training for all employees who rode. My settlement was enough to start my own construction consulting firm.
I named it “Two Wheels Forward.”
Now I employ twelve people, half of them women, several of them riders. We have “Bike to Work Fridays” where anyone who rides gets prime parking. Our safety meetings cover actual safety – proper gear, defensive riding, vehicle maintenance. Not one PowerPoint about biological inferiority.
Last month, Tom’s daughter Emma started working for me. She rides a Ninja 400, green to match her eyes. During her interview, she’d said, “You’re the reason I learned to ride. Seeing you leave that day… I realized I was letting fear of judgment stop me from living.”
Bill’s LinkedIn shows he’s “seeking new opportunities.” I heard through the construction grapevine that he’d applied to several companies, but word had gotten out about the lawsuit. Turns out discriminating against half the population limits your employment options.
Meanwhile, my MT-07 and I have logged 30,000 miles together. Solo trips, group rides, daily commutes, weekend adventures. Each mile proof that strength isn’t measured in upper body mass but in determination. That good decision-making isn’t about gender but about respecting the machine and the road. That the only statistics that matter are the ones you create through your choices.
Sometimes I pass the old company lot and see the guys outside on break. Some wave. Steve actually bought a bike last year and asked for riding tips. Even Paul admitted the company had become “way too uptight” under Bill’s management.
But the best part? The emails I get from young women who saw the news coverage of the lawsuit. Who heard about a female construction supervisor who refused to choose between her career and her freedom. Who decided that maybe, despite what fathers and boyfriends and bosses said, they could ride too.
Last week, one of them wrote: “I passed my MSF course today. Thought you should know. My dad said I’d never be able to handle a bike. I sent him a photo from the seat of my new Honda. Thank you for showing me that ‘no’ is just noise.”
That’s worth more than any settlement. Because every woman who throws her leg over a motorcycle despite being told she can’t is writing her own statistics. Creating her own story. Proving that the only limitation that matters is the one you accept.
And we’re not accepting any.
My bike is parked outside my office right now, helmet locked to the frame, ready for the ride home. Through my window, I can see Emma in the lot, teaching the new intern basic motorcycle maintenance. She’s explaining that checking your oil isn’t about being male or female – it’s about being responsible.
Bill was right about one thing: riding a motorcycle as a woman does make you a statistic.
One of the millions of female riders who won’t be silenced, stopped, or PowerPointed into submission.
One of the women who heard “you can’t” and answered with the roar of an engine.
One of us who knows that freedom doesn’t ask permission – it just rides.
