Bessie Stringfield

To ride a motorcycle across the United States in the 1930s meant harsh hours over unforgiving dirt roads, careful planning for fuel and food, no way of calling for help other than waving down a fellow vehicle that might not come along for days, or hiking out, possibly desperate for water. Not only were there no call boxes lining the highway, or Taco Bell signs glowing in the distance; there were no interstate highways at all. Sure, there were maps, but there was no way to know what was over the next hill if you hadn’t been there before.

For a man to load up some panniers, fire up a bike, and hit the road in 1930, it was a cross-country adventure with a real element of danger. For a woman, multiply that a few times over, plus add in strange local laws about whether women could ride motorcycles at all, or what they could wear while doing it. For a Black woman to