Reader’s Stories: Little Miss Miryana

Words: Miss Miryana   Illustrations: Jody Alcock

INTRO – Editor ‘arris

Miryana’s latest dream bike.

Hey, I can’t get the nipple stars option working on Porn Photo 4.3. Or is that a 5.0 feature?

If you’ve been paying attention to the “where credit’s due” bits at the top of articles then you should have noticed the name Miryana Golubovich as copy editor. Being a graduate of the Ryerson school of journalism, it seemed only sensible that Miryana should also write for CMG.

As per all new CMG lackeys, the introductory piece usually takes the form of a Reader’s Story. Of course, there’s always a twist. Although an explanation has not been forthcoming, the ellusive Miss Miryana has requested that her face not appear on CMG.

Hey for all we know that’s a made up name as well, but at least it’s imaginative. So, in the spirit of the screwed up world of CMG, we’ve used our application of ‘Porn Photo 4.3’ and the results can be seen below, and to the right.


My father didn’t speak to me for a week when I came home with my first motorcycle. I told him not to worry. It was only a 250 Ninja…from 1989. There was no way I could hurt myself. My assurance made no difference to the fact that I had disobeyed him. He had said ‘no’ a million times before and I had grudgingly listened. However, the last time he had only threatened to kill me, so I figured that was as close to okay as I was ever going to get.


Miryana’s first dream bike.

I had always thought motorcycles were really cool, but I first developed a real interest about six years ago. During the month that I spent visiting relatives in Athens, Greece, I must have spent at least an hour every other day on the back of a motorcycle. Everyone there has something with two wheels and a motor. I decided then that I had to have one someday soon.

At that time, I somehow got the idea from my cousin’s Kawasaki-something enduro, my other cousin’s Honda-something cruiser, and a whole bunch of other cheesy dual-sports, to get a Harley. Everyone laughed when I told them my plan. I really didn’t know jack about bikes when I first decided I really liked them, but I’m sure people had a mental image of me with my white Adidas trainers and pigtails on a Fat Boy when they told me it wouldn’t happen.

Rider Ed 101 – Greek style.

I think I found it all so exciting because there is a higher element of danger—there are no helmet laws in Greece and drivers there are absolutely insane—or maybe it was because by being on two wheels we could do whatever we wanted. In Athens, anyone who drives anything with two wheels and a motor rides in a pretty ridiculous and unconventional manner.

One night while out with my cousin, we were stopped at a red light, almost last in the line of about five or six cars. So, in what I later found out was typical Athenian fashion, my cousin hopped the curb, and rode on the sidewalk to pass all the cars and get to the front of the line. Surprised, I asked my cousin what he was doing. He said he didn’t buy a motorcycle to wait in line.

After that I promised myself that I wouldn’t break the law with my bike (speeding and tricks not counting of course). Even though it was socially acceptable in Greece to do things like drive in between cars and on sidewalks, I wouldn’t even think of doing anything that obvious in Canada.


The hardest part of the bike purchase was getting over the parental obstacle—specifically my dad. After a couple of years of research, I knew what I wanted to buy and would tell him all about it on a very frequent basis. I tried teaching him all about the wonderful world of sport bikes. Any time one would pass, I’d excitedly tell him as much as I could about it, giving him info about the model, year, and engine size.

Mr. Suzuki didn’t help sales.

I liked the R6, just like every rookie who doesn’t know bikes worth a lick. They were fast, blue, and pretty. I hated Honda because of every punk-gino kid and his souped-up civic, felt the Ninja was a bit cliché since everyone uninterested in bikes knew of it because of its “cool name,” and blackballed Suzuki. Performance-wise their bikes were great, but in junior high school my science teacher, Mr. Suzuki, kicked me out every day, so the name just brought back troubling memories.

I saved every penny. I’d throw my change in a piggy bank everyday for about two years—that was the helmet fund. The bike was paid for from a combination of my savings, some University bursary money, and part of a nice tax return. I told my father for years that I was going to do the deed one day. He always laughed and told me that I didn’t have enough tattoos, or that I couldn’t grow the proper facial hair. He made jokes because he always saw it as some sort of pipe dream of mine. I don’t think he ever thought that I’d go through with it, figuring that I was a little more obedient than that.

One day when I got back from a ride on the back of my friend’s GSX-R, I came home to find him the way I usually did after coming home on the back of a motorcycle—arms folded across his chest with a facial expression that couldn’t be further from happy. This time though, he looked a bit puzzled. What was I doing bringing the helmet and gloves in with me? He’d usually seen me strap them to the passenger seat with a cargo net.

Mr. Golubovich used to be happy when the only mischief that Miryana would get up to was pant-pooping.

I broke the bad news to him. Sorry Pops, but I’d taken step one. The helmet and gloves were a prerequisite for my rider training course, which was scheduled in two months time. And I had spoken to a guy in Ottawa who’s bike I was going to buy.

There was no looking back. He sat down at the base of our stairwell and smiled. It was his white flag, and he hesitantly waved it. It wasn’t a smile of happiness, but that gentle fatherly smile we’ve all been subjected to from crappy family sitcoms—when the father knows he’s lost and there’s nothing he can do about it, but loves his daughter any way and hopes he can trust her judgment. It was one of the best conversations we had ever had. And all it took was for me to do the one thing he forbade more than anything else in the world.

A couple of months before I had bought the bike, I asked my father the million dollar question. We were at the dinner table, and there was nowhere for him to run, so I asked. Seriously, what would he do if I got a bike?

What did I mean what would he do, he asked. So I gave him suggestions:

Would he throw me out of the house?

Would he disown me?

Would he never lend me his car again?

He said no, he would just be very disappointed. Was that all? It was the green light I was looking for.

He had never been as opposed to anything as he was to my idea of getting a motorcycle. I was his eldest child, his only daughter, and to him motorcycles were death machines, ridden by Hell’s Angels. According to him, I was now either going to get killed or start breaking the law. I felt otherwise, and gambled that his short-term silent treatment wouldn’t last.


Money for motorcycle gear had been building for years.

At the time, getting my 1989 250 Kawasaki Ninja was a great idea. I was poor and it was cheap. I bought it for just under $2000, but I stupidly paid about $900 in insurance—getting full coverage because I really believed that it was on every thief’s”bikes to steal” list.

I bought into the bullshit about how I’m a small girl and how a 600 would throw me, and so I searched for months for a 250 Ninja. After being unable to find one in Toronto, my friend Justin mentioned that a former College buddy had one and was looking to sell it. I called him up and told him I’d buy it. He wanted me to look at it first, but it wasn’t somewhere I could easily take the time to make two trips to.

Justin went to College in Ottawa. That’s where his friend lived, and that’s where the bike was. So I told the seller I’d have to take his word for it. Justin said he was a good guy and that was enough for me. My former motorcycle consultant, who was appointed to the position on the sole fact that he was the only one of my friends who owned a bike, was totally down for going to Ottawa to get it. And so I rented a Dodge Ram, took a trip, and came back with a motorcycle.

The day after I got the Ninja back to Toronto, I was dying to ride it. I only had a class M1 license, and it was way past sunset, but I figured I could bend my rules this one time to ease my pain.

Yes, you’d at least think we had a picture of Miryana on the Ninja!

My buddy with the GSX-R took me out onto his street to learn. He barked instructions at me as I putted up and down Pharmacy Ave. Since I couldn’t hear with the helmet on, I left it off. I had no license plate, no insurance, and I was going against M1 restrictions. I had already become the shady criminal my father warned me I would become.

I thought it was awesome, even though it was a piece of shit. But I loved it because I really had no clue that there were far better things out there for me—until I rode a friend’s Suzuki GSX-R 600 and then got back on my bike. But it was still a motorcycle—although slightly lawnmower like—and after years of torturing myself with the idea, I finally owned one.


“Hey look, it’s that crazy biker chick”!

Photo: John Kosir

Now that I own a 2000 Honda CBR600 F4, I can’t believe I ever owned a 250 Ninja. I now know what the term “has no balls” means. But the main reason for my buying the Ninja was financial.

Since then I bought a few bikes in the span of a year, so my dad has kinda got used to having motorcycles around his house. For three months I owned three bikes—I just couldn’t part with any of them. It did get a bit ridiculous though, since we had to move the Ninja every time we had to get to the barbecue. So by the end of bike season, my 2000 Honda CBR F4 was left all alone.

I only began having real fun on motorcycles with my F4, since it has the power to do everything I want it to do. I’ve taken it to the track a few times, received an honourable mention at FAST Riding school, and although the F4 is kinda sluggish for doing wheelies, stoppies and other tricks are coming along nicely.

I used to get excited when I’d meet another sport bike rider. I thought that every young person with a sport bike had a similar story to mine—winning his or her parents over, scrounging for the cash to buy it, studying the stuff for years to know what was out there—but many didn’t. I’ve been finding out more and more that the sport bike has become a new symbol of cool among young people. And even though I jumped the fatherly hurdle to get my bike, I still have to convince people every day that I didn’t buy it simply to impress people.

But I’ve got a million incredible stories because of my bike. It’s like you can’t have one without the other. If there’s one thing being a girl on a pretty sport bike has taught me is that there is such a thing as too much attention. And I still have to correct people when they refer to me as “that crazy biker chick.”

I’m just a fun girl with a sunny disposition that happens to own a motorcycle.

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