What Not to Wear to A Motorbike Wedding

Hubby rides motorbikes. To some that is enough to put him a whole other category. People we read about or people we fear. Foreign. But to me, it is normal, and certainly to him and his friends.

His mother will ask me, ‘He isn’t out on that damn bike again?’ But riding is all he’s ever known. When she went into labour with him, they arrived at the hospital in a side car. Family of almost 5--only transportation. His fondest memories are of going to the race track with his dad and helping time the riders. He has the stopwatch still.

And, moment of truth; I rode when we met. At the time I loved riding. I felt rebellious, free and unique. But, like my cousin Leslie, parenthood made me aware of my mortality and in the last 13 years I have ridden maybe five times.

Naturally, Hubby’s best friends are bike riders. Not bikies, although they might look the part, but bikers. They ride. I can’t think of one close mate who doesn’t ride. He’ll get along with anyone, but owning a bike is a bonding point.

So, we arrive at the point of this post. Little Dave got married yesterday. He’s known Hubby since their school days. Very, very late forties, three kids and one grandson, and his first marriage. His new wife is considerably younger, gorgeous and Welsh. They met crossing the Tasman by ferry. Dave was riding with mates, of course. His opening line? ‘I may be hairy but I’m not scary. ‘

The invitation looked like a normal garden wedding invitation, but I wasn’t so sure. I had heard that the groom would ride up on his motorbike, with his mates (Hubby included) following. I’d heard that Little Dave would be barefoot and shirtless. I was sure Sammy would wear a pretty dress, but didn’t know what to wear myself.

All the men would be in Kevlar, denim and leather. This is a good thing, because Hubby owns, I think, not one pair of trousers that are not for riding, part of a work uniform, or denim. No slacks, no khakis, no sweatpants.

My mother had excellent advice, suggesting high heels would dig into the ground. The weather was quite UK-ish, so I went with some pleather flats, a silk dress and my grandmother’s beaded cardigan. And a large umbrella. In retrospect gumboots and a rain coat might have been better.

Confession time. I am not overweight by any standards except the fashion industry’s, but when I put on that bias cut silk dress I thought I could use a little smoothing. Almost mid-forties, kids, no exercise other than Wii Fit and a passion for dark chocolate, you know what I mean.

So I pulled out the Body by Nancy Gantz squeezy thing. Surely I’ve successfully if not comfortably worn it before, right? It fits like a slip, from thigh to rib cage. I pulled it on (at this point a kid waltzed into my room, groaned and quickly left scarred for life) and slipped the dress over. Perfect, really nice looking and I told myself I could stand it for a few hours.

Then I sat down on my bed to put on my rainy day shoes. Ziiiiiiiiip, that squeezy thingy rolled up, and I felt my tummy rush to expand and push it up until it was a solid, thick roll just sitting on my rib cage. It actually caught the dress and rolled it up, too. I laughed and laughed until I was flopping on the bed helpless, struggled out of it, and went freely, loosely to the wedding.

Anyone want it? Size small. I’ll pay postage.

Back to the wedding…

The best man Dave (Brownie, for obvious reasons) had flown in from China for the event. He wore a dark shirt with jeans and boots, and got a shave and a haircut. You couldn’t even see his ponytail until he turned around.

Little Dave was barefoot with a purple elastic in his hair, Sammy was stunning, and I am so glad to be able to hose off my shoes this morning.

Hubby stayed all night, of course, and rang to report in this morning. He said, 'They're rather loud, but no-one got arrested.'