Today I took part in the Inaugural Busselton Distinguished Gentlemans Ride, the DGR. This is an event in which you cannot help but draw attention to yourself. Even, if like me, you would really rather be hiding under a rock, there is just no avoiding it.
The concept is simple. Arrange for a whole load of incredibly stylish motorcycles to be in one place at one time, then encourage their riders to be just as stylish….The purpose, to have a great time, and raise some cash for Mens Health….The formula works and Millions of dollars have been raised since the idea became reality a few years ago.
In cities all around the world today, there will be DGR events. With motorcycle riding ladies and gents donning their finest, most “Dapper” attire and having a ride. More than fifty thousand motorcyclists doing their bit around the Globe.
I decided a Busselton DGR was a great idea after dragging myself to Perth and back last year to take part in their ride. It was fun, but long and hard miles on Cafe Racer.
Of course, at an event like this you need photographers, so I invited two along, and they came prepared with some great ideas. Added to the two pro snappers, there was of course, the camera phones and cameras of everyone else who attended.
There was no way I was not going to end up in a photograph, in fact before we even started I was being tagged left right and centre in pictures arriving thick and fast. This was definitely immersion……
The problem I have is that seeing a photograph of me immediately fills me with sadness, shame and fear.
Sadness because of the abuse I have heaped upon a body that for many years I didn’t want. Shame because I seem to be unable to deal with it, and fear because this body is what I am asking people to me to accept and the worry they won’t.
My personal feelings of disgust are total. Wretched, hideous, and grotesque are all words that spring to mind. There are people who will tell me those words are wrong. The camera never lies, and todays lesson, after this intense immersion has to be about responding, not to my feelings, or to my fear of my self. But responding to the quite simply, appalling condition I am in.
If anyone wants me, I’ll be in the Gym with a bag on my head.
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