A Proud Little Biker

The chrome-gleaming column rolled along the Kyiv embankment. Traffic in the oncoming lanes had been brought to a dead halt. And as luck would have it, it was packed bumper-to-bumper. Frozen in forced anticipation, the drivers stared at the bikers cruising slowly past, practically radiating pure badassery. They took their time, letting the crowd get a good, long look.

If raw, living swagger exists in this world, this was it. Basking in the gaze of the entire city, the riders wore expressions of grandeur and triumphant power! And the sheer volume of sexual energy oozing from some three hundred rugged men, decked out for the occasion in every piece of obligatory biker hardware... The absolute luxury in the way they steered their tricked-out steel steeds!

I was riding pillion behind one of these tough guys, a man practically dripping with chiseled, legendary masculinity. A handsome, brooding foreigner who had ridden in for the festival had wrapped me in his massive jacket, pulling over right on the Paton Bridge to do it. He did this over my protests after getting no answer to his question:

"Are you cold?"

He simply touched my ice-cold fingers as they clung to his torso.

Once I thawed out, pressing myself hard against my escort's back, I could finally appreciate the miles he was wringing out of his iron beast. Sure, it felt like I was about to fly right over his shoulders and dissolve into the drizzling May rain above the Dnipro River, but mostly there was just the sensation of flight—and, oddly enough, complete safety. A serene sense of security at 110 miles per hour.

Among the onlookers watching this strutting pack was an unassuming kid of about twenty. His totally beat-up junker barely qualified as a motorcycle. Did "that" actually run? Judging by its spot in the third lane of the highway—it was still kicking.

The owner's grimy, tattered clothes clung to a scrawny, fine-boned frame. Aside from some shiny studs sewn onto a leather jacket that clearly belonged to his dad (judging by the oversized fit), the little D’Artagnan had absolutely nothing to boast about. Yet his proud posture and high-held head carried more weight than ten potbellied guys on priceless Harleys. And then there was his gaze—touching, yet so deliberately fierce. God, he was endearing, this defiant little stray!

And all these expensive, intensely magnetic birds of prey (modern bikers aren’t cheap thugs; they’re successful businessmen out blowing off steam) nodded to him as they cruised past. Calmly. Without a shred of arrogance. And the boy... He nodded back as an equal. No fawning, no groveling gratitude like, "Thank ye kindly, milords, for noticing a lowly peasant like me!" He just greeted them as one of their own, because he truly felt like one of their own. And they recognized it, too.

Groveling is repulsive. You only get accepted into the pack if you're an equal. That’s exactly why the only master you should ever serve is yourself. That fierce little kid was the absolute embodiment of this psychological truth.

You tiny little man. Just how massive you were in that moment...

Photos and video by the author

Nelli Verkhovska PhD in Psychology For more on alternative relationships, check out my YouTube channel