ROXY BOURDILLON SPENDS A DAY WITH THE DYKES ON BIKES

Left to right: Flipper, Badger, Roxy, Petit Chou, Stolk and Pogs

PHOTOS SUE FOLLEY

I’m straddling a motorbike, clutching on to a six foot dyke called Badger.

I thought I’d be terrified going out on the road for the first time, but in the immortal words of Madonna, this feels like lying. My nerves have melted away and all that’s left is exhilaration. My senses are heightened.

I drink in the scenery as the breeze caresses my skin. I’m basking in the thrill of this moment, cruising with my homos. I feel totally and utterly alive.

Rewind three hours and I’m gussying up to meet the London chapter of Dykes On Bikes for the very first time. My girlfriend catches me trying on her leather jacket and swaggering in front of the mirror. She looks confused. What the hell’s happened to her glamorous femme? She asks why I’m “walking funny”. I tell her I’m trying to get in touch with my inner butch. She does not look convinced.

Any trace of bravado vanishes as soon as I reach the open-air cafe in Epping Forest. It’s only 10am, but it’s already crawling with bikers – mostly blokes all in leather – looking like extras from Sons Of Anarchy. Someone’s revving their engine repeatedly.

This place is noisy, rough and ready, and full of people who look like they belong. I immediately regret bringing my pink patent handbag. I’m as out of place as Mary Poppins at a Metallica concert.

I take a deep breath and steel myself, because I am a woman on a mission. Today this dyke will mount a bike. I notice a group of leather-clad ladies with rainbow patches sewn on their jackets and realise, with relief, I’ve found my tribe. I needn’t have worried. Far from being standoffish or scary, the Dykes On Bikes are, without exception, warm, friendly and gentle.