Friday, June 19, 2009
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Wicked Bitch Review in Women Riders Now
Way To Go Girl!
WOMEN RIDERS DOING GREAT THINGS!
Against The Odds Amy White has just put out an autobiography, entitled "Wicked Bitch." Wicked Bitch chronicles what it's like to grow up in Arkansas and become a freelance biker journalist for Easyriders, In The Wind, Biker, and V-twin magazines. Amy is 90 percent deaf and takes chemotherapy for life threatening lupus. This August she will be riding her 16-year-old Harley-Davidson to Sturgis, South Dakota. Amy wants to show everyone that she is the person in her book, the woman who picks herself up and gets back on that bike, no matter what life throws at her. Safe travels. Amy, see you at Sturgis!
Amy White at Red Room
This is a link to a synopsis, introduction, and excerpt from Wicked Bitch at Red Room, a website that features authors.
http://www.redroom.com/publishedwork/wicked-bitch
http://www.redroom.com/publishedwork/wicked-bitch
Review at Ironworks Garage, IWBlogger
A New Book By Amy White
Amy Irene White is the author of the new book “Wicked Bitch”. This book takes a look back at her life which would make up a whole album of great Country Western songs. It’s the story of a girl with big dreams growing up in the South and pulling herself up by the bootstraps to conquer all sorts of major obstacles. Through the trials and tribulations she became a motorcycle rider, a freelance magazine writer and now a book author.
Amy will be appearing May 25th at the Hogs and Heifers Saloon, 859 Washington Street, New York City at the Memorial Day Bar B-Que. Amy and fellow author Arthur Veno, “Biker Chicks” will be making appearances together in the New York area from May 28 - June 8 so look for them if you’re going to be in the city.
Amy Irene White is the author of the new book “Wicked Bitch”. This book takes a look back at her life which would make up a whole album of great Country Western songs. It’s the story of a girl with big dreams growing up in the South and pulling herself up by the bootstraps to conquer all sorts of major obstacles. Through the trials and tribulations she became a motorcycle rider, a freelance magazine writer and now a book author.
Amy will be appearing May 25th at the Hogs and Heifers Saloon, 859 Washington Street, New York City at the Memorial Day Bar B-Que. Amy and fellow author Arthur Veno, “Biker Chicks” will be making appearances together in the New York area from May 28 - June 8 so look for them if you’re going to be in the city.
my story featured on Cure4Lupus website
Cure4Lupus.org News: **Follow Us on Twitter: https://twitter.com/cure4lupus**
Amy White's Story
An excerpt from Amy's book "Wicked Bitch"
Throughout the bittersweet years, I have been through seven Harleys, a few men, a billion camels, a million miles, a river of tears, a good bit of whiskey, and a lifetime of highways. I have painted hundreds, probably thousands of cars and trucks. Four and a half of the most recent years I spent weeping pathetic tears, for my body finally rebelled against all that paint I breathed, and I became stricken with all manner of autoimmune disorders such as lupus. Through lots of Steroids and even chemotherapy type drugs, I haunted the years that I wasn’t able to ride, mournfully admiring the fact that I made it to Sturgis and back to Arkansas, most likely with the onsets of life threatening lupus torturing my body for over four thousand miles. These words are typed by boney scarred hands that once swung a paint gun in the rhythm of an artist and outworked any man, yet shake with fragility and curl with the throbbing pain of arthritis. The lean mean body of a woman who could conquer any highway with steel assed hours on a harley, would fight any grown man or fix any broken car is now a ghost of my fondest memories. I now live in a crippled wispy body that is actually killing itself from the inside with autoimmune diseases. Now my every waking moment echoes the whispers like butterfly wings of my life slowly slipping away. Never again will I indulge in a chili cheeseburger eating contest with my biker family or go back for a second plate of turnip greens and fried potatoes. These days I consider myself lucky if I eat an apple and my daily handful of pills and don’t end up worshipping the porcelain god. Most mornings I awaken with a strangling gasp on my lips at the blinding pain squeezing me like a vice. I take tiny little yellow pills of chemotherapy that make me wish I could die to feel better, just to stay alive. I live in the quiet silent hours of darkness, prowling the realms of my mind through sleepless nights searching for somewhere to escape the pain. The long legs that once two stepped all night in 6 inch heels now often strain and quiver with the effort it takes to carry me to the bathroom. Never again will I pack up and head for Sturgis with just a dream, a prayer and my harley. My face now bears witness to the fluttering demon that has invaded my body, the beauty I once took for granted now hidden beneath red blotches of lupus flare ups, hollow sunken eyes and scars from breakouts caused by any exposure to the sun. I do not write this in search of pity. I do not want anyone to feel sorry for me. There is a certain serenity in knowing how you will die. It makes you treasure each day, and realize truly what people and life really mean to you. Don’t cry when I am gone… rejoice because I was here.
I have lived a thousand lifetimes in thirty four years. I have loved and lost, cried and died, and loved again. I have learned that no matter how bad it hurts, you can keep on going on. I now know it solves nothing to despair over things you cannot cure. I no longer rail at fate for allowing me to be struck down so soon… instead I treasure the memories of the heights I soared to before I crashed. I have driven 80 miles an hour down a gravel road. I have met legends. I have laughed until my stomach hurt, and I have cried real tears.
I never would have believed I would live to see a black man elected president. Never could I have imagined Brett Favre being anything but a Packer. I thought Chargers and Challengers were muscled myths of my childhood. I never imagined you could feel so very old when you are still so young. Never could I have thought living could be so hard, or take so much effort. But what do I know? Some days I’m not even sure I’ll see tomorrow.
For nearly a decade my life has consisted of rumbling chrome dragons that breath hot exhaust that is a sweeter scent than any flower, for it also carries the scent of freedom, wind, laughter, tears, and memories. Probably thousands of these amazing memories flood my brain as I try to choose the parts that best portray my life, and who I am. I guess the best way to describe it is recently I had a conversation with my husband, when he was first contemplating learning to ride with me…He said, “I guess you will always be a biker’s girl.“
I answered, “No, honey, I will always be a biker.”
Amy White's Story
An excerpt from Amy's book "Wicked Bitch"
Throughout the bittersweet years, I have been through seven Harleys, a few men, a billion camels, a million miles, a river of tears, a good bit of whiskey, and a lifetime of highways. I have painted hundreds, probably thousands of cars and trucks. Four and a half of the most recent years I spent weeping pathetic tears, for my body finally rebelled against all that paint I breathed, and I became stricken with all manner of autoimmune disorders such as lupus. Through lots of Steroids and even chemotherapy type drugs, I haunted the years that I wasn’t able to ride, mournfully admiring the fact that I made it to Sturgis and back to Arkansas, most likely with the onsets of life threatening lupus torturing my body for over four thousand miles. These words are typed by boney scarred hands that once swung a paint gun in the rhythm of an artist and outworked any man, yet shake with fragility and curl with the throbbing pain of arthritis. The lean mean body of a woman who could conquer any highway with steel assed hours on a harley, would fight any grown man or fix any broken car is now a ghost of my fondest memories. I now live in a crippled wispy body that is actually killing itself from the inside with autoimmune diseases. Now my every waking moment echoes the whispers like butterfly wings of my life slowly slipping away. Never again will I indulge in a chili cheeseburger eating contest with my biker family or go back for a second plate of turnip greens and fried potatoes. These days I consider myself lucky if I eat an apple and my daily handful of pills and don’t end up worshipping the porcelain god. Most mornings I awaken with a strangling gasp on my lips at the blinding pain squeezing me like a vice. I take tiny little yellow pills of chemotherapy that make me wish I could die to feel better, just to stay alive. I live in the quiet silent hours of darkness, prowling the realms of my mind through sleepless nights searching for somewhere to escape the pain. The long legs that once two stepped all night in 6 inch heels now often strain and quiver with the effort it takes to carry me to the bathroom. Never again will I pack up and head for Sturgis with just a dream, a prayer and my harley. My face now bears witness to the fluttering demon that has invaded my body, the beauty I once took for granted now hidden beneath red blotches of lupus flare ups, hollow sunken eyes and scars from breakouts caused by any exposure to the sun. I do not write this in search of pity. I do not want anyone to feel sorry for me. There is a certain serenity in knowing how you will die. It makes you treasure each day, and realize truly what people and life really mean to you. Don’t cry when I am gone… rejoice because I was here.
I have lived a thousand lifetimes in thirty four years. I have loved and lost, cried and died, and loved again. I have learned that no matter how bad it hurts, you can keep on going on. I now know it solves nothing to despair over things you cannot cure. I no longer rail at fate for allowing me to be struck down so soon… instead I treasure the memories of the heights I soared to before I crashed. I have driven 80 miles an hour down a gravel road. I have met legends. I have laughed until my stomach hurt, and I have cried real tears.
I never would have believed I would live to see a black man elected president. Never could I have imagined Brett Favre being anything but a Packer. I thought Chargers and Challengers were muscled myths of my childhood. I never imagined you could feel so very old when you are still so young. Never could I have thought living could be so hard, or take so much effort. But what do I know? Some days I’m not even sure I’ll see tomorrow.
For nearly a decade my life has consisted of rumbling chrome dragons that breath hot exhaust that is a sweeter scent than any flower, for it also carries the scent of freedom, wind, laughter, tears, and memories. Probably thousands of these amazing memories flood my brain as I try to choose the parts that best portray my life, and who I am. I guess the best way to describe it is recently I had a conversation with my husband, when he was first contemplating learning to ride with me…He said, “I guess you will always be a biker’s girl.“
I answered, “No, honey, I will always be a biker.”
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
"i take alot of pride in what i am..."
i exist between satin sheets and swim whiskey rivers. i am lookin for adventure and whatever comes my way. she told me not to smoke it but I did, and it took me far away. i soar on silver wings and hang out with honky tonk heroes like me. i've sold my diamond rings to buy boots and faded jeans, and i went back to the wild side of life. i was once an ordinary girl with ordinary dreams. i rule a smoky kingdom. i have tied a red bandana around my auburn hair, been busted flat in baton rouge, and got runned over by a damned old train. i have taken the midnight train to Memphis, only God knows why.. i have walked into a restaurant strung out from the road and i have seen a husband driven to drinkin' in a hot rod Lincoln. i have been known to visit fist city, and i stand barefooted in my own front yard quite frequently as well. i've heard that train a'coming as it rolls around the bend, and i park my big ol hog out on the lawn. i enjoy takin' my ol harley on a three day cruise, drivin' my chevy on the levee, wanting to go where everybody knows my name, driftin' down the dusty dixie road, rollin down the road in some cold blue steel, and workin' ten hours on a john deere tractor. i adore goin' downtown in the middle of the night, sportin short dresss wearing spike heeled shoes, smokin' lucky strikes and wearin' nylons too. i was raised crusin' in daddy's pick up truck, doin' things with my hands that most men can't, and i like being the young thing beside him that understands. i have one more silver dollar. i have built an emerald city from grains of sand. he has touched my cheek before he left me. there ain't no kinda cure for my disease. a man of low esteem has stood by my side, and you never met a motherfucker quite like me. i can make folks feel what i feel inside, and i know its a long, hard ride.
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