BETWEEN SHIFTS // Interview with Alex Swaka
Instagram: @alexbetweenshifts
MEET ALEX SWAKA
Taking the scenic route.
Alex has always chosen the scenic route, but she never expected a motorcycle to change the way she experienced the world. After an unexpected introduction to riding in India, she went from a first-time passenger to a founding member of The Litas Tucson. Returning to the country where it all began, Alex takes us along for a journey through winding mountain roads, vibrant villages, and the unexpected lessons found between destinations.
Balancing medical school with a growing love of motorcycling, Alex makes the most of every opportunity to ride. Between shifts, the open road offers a different kind of education, one shaped by discovery, connection, and adventure. Here is her story.
My name is Alex. I am a final-year medical student, a former circus aerial acrobat, and mom to two grown humans, two mini-doodles, and a small parrot. I’ve lived all over the world and for as long as I can remember, I have always preferred either the scenic route or the mountainous backroad, to both my physical and metaphorical destinations.
Riding a motorcycle had forever been on the very short list of things I said I would never do. Halfway through medical school, however, I decided to go to India for my month-long winter break to visit a friend. His idea of a welcome was to surprise me with a Royal Enfield organized road trip, and he promptly threw me onto the back of his motorcycle. It took approximately five seconds for me to fall completely in love with the sensory overload. Something in me was illuminated into an unforgettable vibrance. I returned home knowing I needed more of it, although there was one fairly significant logistical question: at 5'2", could a woman my size actually ride a motorcycle? Obviously, I turned to Instagram.
I started looking at what other women were riding and came across the account of ThatMotoGal, a seasoned rider who, in what felt like an actual miracle, was almost exactly my size. I reached out for guidance, and she gave me something far more valuable than a list of motorcycles that fit petite riders: she offered the kindest support and empowerment. I got my license, and per her suggestion, bought my first motorcycle (a Honda Rebel) and joined The Litas.
A year and many thousands of motorcycle miles later on my second bike (an Indian Scout), I became a founding member of The Litas Tucson. Riding through the Arizona desert as the sun dissolves into every imaginable shade of orange has become one of those experiences that makes you understand why people fall in love with motorcycles in the first place.
There is a particular magic in being surrounded by women who have found community, friendship, and a shared affinity for the wild in places beyond the boundaries of ordinary life.
After a year of riding, it was time to return to India.
Part pilgrimage, part rite of passage, I wanted to go back to the origin of where this unlikely chapter of my life had begun, and ride it myself. India, however, is not really a place you simply visit. It rearranges your entire soul and everything you thought you knew about the world, becomes obsolete.
Traffic, for example, moves in a chaotic choreography that appears completely improvised to the foreign eye, yet somehow navigates with the fluidity of water. Horns are not an expression of road rage, but rather a language spoken with considerable enthusiasm, and one must participate. Semi-trucks lumber past, adorned with elaborate devotional paintings, their horns blowing almost an entire song. Motorcycles and scooters materialize from gaps I would have sworn were physically impossible, while pedestrians cross wherever they decide. Cows, monkeys, dogs, and assorted other wildlife participate freely, also having declined to acknowledge the vague idea of traffic laws altogether. I learned quickly that the key is not to try to control it, but rather to learn how to move with it.
My friend had another surprise waiting for me. He bought a BMW 1300 GSA, and this enormous machine would be our transportation for a two-week road trip through the deep south. I arrived in India with the kind of riding confidence that exists primarily in people who have not yet encountered the thing they are confident about, but I was about to.
As we rode out of Hyderabad toward the tea fields, high mountain villages, and coastal fishing regions of Kerala, the urban density gradually softened. Concrete surrendered to farmland, cities dissolved into villages, and the horizon expanded. From inside a car, we observe a country; but from a motorcycle, we experience it.
I was riding pillion when my friend suddenly pulled onto the side of the highway. “Okay, ready? It’s your turn to ride.” I certainly wasn’t going to say no, but I definitely was not ready. It wasn’t a question of skill; it was a question of scale. I had never ridden anything remotely resembling a motorcycle the size of a giraffe. We switched places and I realized I was miles away from either foot touching the ground, but I knew my only hope was to throttle and go. Miraculously, that worked.
“Riding taught me that confidence is rarely something we possess before we begin; it is something we build along the way, mile by mile, alternating fear with exhilaration and learning to move forward even when we cannot see exactly where the road leads.”
Somewhere between the mountain roads and the tea plantations, I stopped thinking about the size of the motorcycle and started paying attention to everything else. The aromas of curry drifting from roadside kitchens, temples painted in impossibly vivid colors, children waving enthusiastically from doorways, and entire families who somehow balanced on a single motorcycle, smiling and waving as they passed.
Stopping on the roadside for frequent coffees, there was something addictive about the way curiosity dissolved the language barrier. Eye contact would become a conversation, and smile, an invitation for a photo together. I never would have thought that a motorcycle could become such a personable bridge between strangers.
After two weeks on the GSA, I decided to spend my remaining time in India having the full Indian experience and switched to a Royal Enfield Super Meteor 650. Coincidentally, it was the very motorcycle that had unknowingly started this entire chapter of my life. It felt beautifully planted, its parallel-twin carrying me along with a rhythm synchronized to the energy I asked of it. The GSA taught me that I could ride something enormous, while the Super Meteor reminded me why I loved riding in the first place. It felt less like conquering the road and more like becoming part of it.
Somewhere along those miles, I realized how profoundly riding had changed my life. What began as an impulsive road trip on the back of a friend’s motorcycle had become a passport to places, people, friendships, and to versions of myself I never would have had access to otherwise.
Riding taught me that confidence is rarely something we possess before we begin; it is something we build along the way, mile by mile, alternating fear with exhilaration and learning to move forward even when we cannot see exactly where the road leads. It gave me community, a deeper sense of freedom, and a renewed understanding of why I have always been drawn to exploring life’s scenic routes.
I went to India as a passenger. I left as a rider, and with the rather inconvenient realization that I would never again be content simply watching the world go by.
The Litas Tucson, Arizona