by Sharon Pink

*Sharon and Shel, Vancouver Pride Parade,* digital photograph, 2023. Courtesy of the author.

Riding on the

Backs of Giants

Sharon Pink | June 2026 | Issue 52

Essay

I wrap my bare arms around Shel’s leather jacket as we flow through the long weekend Sunday stillness and head to the city. The coolness of the air is respite from the extreme heat and forest fire smog. Our thick helmets prevent chatter, allowing our minds to simultaneously wander and be present.

It has been 56 days since Raven died. Disability took her opportunity to ride with Shel, though she did love her slow walk to their motorcycle, admiring its shine. Lighting a cigarette, her cane digging into sidewalk dirt, a smirk reminiscing of faster days past.

Our first stop is the Safeway parking lot to meet up with the Dykes on Bikes crew. Energy buzzes as pride flags are strewn onto handles and tailbars. Outfits affirmed, nods given, water filled, snacks shared.

In perfect formation, our procession begins cruising down the queerest street in the city. Half-awake brunchers raise their overpriced oat-lattes at us. An angry man on Prior Street steps into the road and shakes a golf club at us. We all look back, make sure our group is safe, and continue until we land at our rightful spot at the front of the Pride parade.

We gather our helmets and stuff them into our ally’s ride-along car. Two beloveds pop by to hug and share mutual admiration for our leather. They will lead the parade in vests that read “Bring them back” and “Safe supply now.”

I reapply my lipstick and tuck it back into my bra next to my pink pocket knife.

“DYKES ON BIKES! Let’s gooooooo!”

We scramble with an unnecessary urgency to hop on our bikes followed by excessive engine revving. The crowd’s energy is that of a full moon. I squeeze my thighs tight into Shel’s sides as my neck snaps back from the sudden jolt of speed.

Our bikes loop in 100-foot ovals. Even at high speed, there is an intimacy passing by the same groups of faces five to six times each section.

This year, an important young one in my life came out as queer. Their birthday is shared with the day that I was there as Raven went through the ritual of medically assisted death.

I think of them both and my thoughts begin to match the speed of the bike.

I think of all the leatherFemmes. I think of Catherine. I think of that dear one who is still trapped in the relationship that holds her down. I make eye contact with children and babies wearing rainbows and waving flags. I think of those who died from the isolation and neglect of AIDS and I think of the dyke nurses who held their hands in last breaths. I think of my young queer self. I think of the teens present experiencing their first pride parade. I think of Stonewall. I think of Minnie Bruce Pratt and Leslie Fienberg. I think of George Michael cruising in a park. I think of The Lady Chablis. I think of Matthew Shepard. I think of Eli, Dirceu, Lulu.

I think of how each of us must have felt on our first ride. I think of how each one of us must have felt the first time we went into a queer space. I think of how each one of us must have felt during our first chosen kiss.

And like that full moon energy of the crowd, my heart erupts to my throat and mouth and cheeks and seeps out my eyes. It is unstoppable.

Shel notices me from their right handlebar mirror. “I love you! Are you okay?” they shout, in competition with the crowd’s howls and cheers.

I keep weeping and whimper, “Yes, just emotional…”

We loop around the same spots several times to allow for the others Dykes on Bikes behind us doing the same to catch up. Folks in the audience start to look at me after passing numerous times and I can’t stop crying. One person calls to us, “Are you ok?” to which Shel slows down slightly and calls, “SHE’S OKAY, JUST SENTIMENTAL!” They squeeze my knee, and smile to my reflection in the mirror.

I tilt my head back and look up to the sky. My ears begin to fill with tears and my neck is tacky from a mixture of sweat and tears.

This moment affirms with certainty that we stand — and ride — on the backs of giants. And if we are so blessed, we will one day be giants too.

Sharon Pink (she) is a portuguese / polish leatherFemme writer and witch living her time on Squamish, Musqueam, Tsleil Waututh and Stó꞉lō territories. She has been published in Room Magazine, Feels zine and has 5 self-published zines. Using humour, awe and care, she aspires to be in ways that are anti-white supremacy, fat liberatory, gender affirming, leatherQueer celebratory, Elder & crone-honoring and sex worker positive.