I don't think there's a single female rider who hasn't been confronted by its blatant absurdity.  Doesn't matter how big the bike or the girl in question. I've been asked while riding a 250.

Of all of us, only Kathi could be called petite, and she throws around an FJ1200 like it was a 125.

The smallest bike of the bunch is a 750, owned by Jo, who's ridden it around Australia. It's not like she has trouble touching the ground.  On a good day, I think this is supposed to be some kind of hopelessly misguided compliment.

Yes, motorcycles are large, powerful machines, no question there, but they're designed to be ridden. And it's not like any of us rides under duress.  On any other day, it's a petty, condescending comment which betrays its speaker's narrow mind.

I fail to understand why such a comment can spill unchecked when 
a) the woman in question is obviously riding the bike quite competently, 
b) there's no reason to assume she doesn't own it, and 
c) who asked you, anyway?!

I've never heard of a man, no matter his physical dimensions, being patronised the same way.  Mind you, there is an up-side, but it doesn't happen often enough, and only in the outback.  It goes something like this: woman rider pulls up at roadhouse covered in dust, sweat, insects, and grinning.  Four-wheeled travellers marvel at her guts, determination, and other admirable qualities. So do the people who run the roadhouse.

This results in offers of anything from cups of tea to accommodation from the travellers, and really, really good service at the roadhouse.  Meanwhile, in the city, I grit my teeth and haul out one of my standard answers for stupid questions (see column The Survival of the Sarcastic).

Talk to Elle. 

Late Braking News