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Discovering I could drive without the use of my legs was nothing short of a revelation. Before a car crash left me paralyzed from the chest down, I had no knowledge of the adaptations available to Disabled drivers until the moment the occupational therapist in spinal rehabilitation told me that it was, in fact, still possible for me to get behind the wheel.
A few days later, I transferred clumsily into a learner car, buckled my seatbelt, and placed one hand on a steering ball and the other around a “push-pull system.” I felt the vehicle edge forward as I pulled the hand controls gently towards me, even though my legs sat unresponsive in the footwell. My life, which had so far been unrecognizable in those early days of recovery, felt like it was back in my control.
Adjusting to living with paralysis means, in large part, coming to terms with accessing the world in a wheelchair, but the prospect of existing solely within the limits of four manual-powered wheels never sat well with me. From that first drive onwards, I realized I would need to somehow find alternative ways to navigate my surroundings—to reinvent the wheelchair, so to speak. After all, there is only so far a wheelchair can go.
Driving represented freedom and gave me agency at a time when my fate felt desperately uncertain. It also gave me some escapism from the confines of people’s perceptions of what life lived with a Disability could or could not be. I didn’t feel so paralyzed in the driver’s seat, and to those around me, I didn’t look it, either.
My whole world as a Disabled driver changed once again when I discovered the Can-Am Ryker. Although not designed for someone like me, with two wheels at the front and one behind, it is inherently stable enough to ride using your legs without core strength or balance. For my first ride, I decided to journey up to Scotland to revisit the place where I was paralyzed all those years ago. As I rode independently over the road scar that my then out-of-control car had carved into the tarmac, I felt as in control as I could have ever imagined being again. The experience became the title of my memoir, Driving Forwards, a mantra for life post-life-changing injury.
“This must be what it feels like to have a penis,” a friend of mine hilariously observed when she straddled my brand-new modified CanAm Spyder F3-S with a semi-automatic 1330cc engine. Whatever you want to call the surge of energy that pulsates through you when you feel the power and control independent driving provides, each twist of the throttle is a declaration of defiance, a refusal to be limited by societal expectations—or gender norms, for that matter.
Leaving my wheelchair behind, I get the chance to shed the unyielding pitiful stares that follow me wherever I go in this Disabled life. When I roll out into the world on a motorbike instead of a wheelchair, perceptions shift. On my CanAm Spyder, I get to be a “biker chick” instead of a wheelchair user. The gap between these stereotypes is considerable. Despite being closely associated with men, the stereotype of a biker is one many women can get on board with: She’s strong, brave, and defies convention. Her hands are dirty, and her soul unbridled. She is free and unrestrained.
In mainstream imaginations, the same cannot always be said about a woman using a wheelchair. Taking on this new identity, I feel the dormant parts of myself wake up, and I hit the road as though I own it. Having a one-hundred-and-fifteen horsepower machine between your legs for a few hours is transformational. And the emboldened badass it awakens doesn’t just switch off when you kill the engine; she remains within you long after you dismount.
Unsurprisingly, my advocacy work took a turn for the better around the same time that I started to ride. It also coincided with the end of an abusive relationship. In a world where we as women—let alone Disabled women, who are three times as likely to experience domestic abuse—have our power so frequently stripped away from us, the road to recovery is certainly a long one. But my journey felt expedited on the back of a bike. It allowed me to outride my struggles and helped me build back my confidence—a shared outcome for so many other women.
Fellow rider and close friend Kristina Tracey agrees: “Being a woman rider has helped me get through so many challenges in life. With the chaos of being a single mom and running a business, life gets hectic. But when I hop on my bike and hit the open road, it’s a whole different world. Peace washes over me, and suddenly, I’m alive, free, and completely serene. It’s a meditation like no other. Riding gave me solace after leaving an abusive relationship, and cruising solo helped me heal, adding this extra layer of empowerment and strength that ripples through everything I tackle in life. Riding isn’t just a journey on the road. It’s my sanctuary.”
During a 4,000-mile solo ride across America last summer to celebrate the 20th anniversary of my crash, I asked Kristina to join me. Our friendship was quickly cemented as we rode together through the ancient redwood forests of the West Coast, from Oregon to Yosemite and down the Pacific Coast Highway into Los Angeles.
In my experience, the biker community is intersectional. It spans age, race, size, and ability. Fellow rider Cindy Birkett put it perfectly: “For me, freedom of the mind begins with a single turn of the key. The sound of the engine has a calming effect on my soul. It’s like learning to breathe all over again.” The sisterhood that exists between us all is one that I have been grateful for since the moment I first discovered I would once again be able to drive all those years ago.
A version of this article originally appeared in Condé Nast Traveller UK.
