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 Why I ride a motorcycle

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Iride

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Number of posts : 18
Registration date : 2008-04-03

PostSubject: Why I ride a motorcycle   Sun Mar 20, 2011 12:47 am



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My Gallery Why we ride....
There is cold, and there is cold on a motorcycle. Cold on a motorcycle is like being beaten with cold hammers while being kicked with cold boots, a bone bruising cold. The windís big hands squeeze the heat out of my body and whisk it away; caught in a cold October rain, the drops donít even feel like water. They feel like shards of bone fallen from the skies of Hell to pock my face. I expect to arrive with my cheeks and forehead streaked with blood, but thatís just an illusion, just the misery of nerves not designed for highway speeds.

Despite this, itís hard to give up my motorcycle in the fall and I rush to get it on the road again in the spring; lapses of sanity like this are common among motorcyclists. When you let a motorcycle into your life youíre changed forever. The letters ďMCĒ are stamped on your driverís license right next to your sex and weight as if ďmotorcycleĒ was just another of your physical characteristics, or maybe a mental condition. But when warm weather finally does come around all those cold snaps and rainstorms are paid in full because a summer is worth any price.

A motorcycle is not just a two-wheeled car; the difference between driving a car and climbing onto a motorcycle is the difference between watching TV and actually living your life. We spend all our time sealed in boxes and cars are just the rolling boxes that shuffle us from home-box to work-box to store-box and back, the whole time, entombed in stale air, temperature regulated, sound insulated, and smelling of carpets.

On a motorcycle I know Iím alive. When I ride, even the familiar seems strange and glorious. The air has weight and substance as I push through it and its touch is as intimate as water to a swimmer. I feel the cool wells of air that pool under trees and the warm spokes of that fall through them. I can see everything in a sweeping 360 degrees, up, down and around, wider than Pana-Vision and than IMAX and unrestricted by ceiling or dashboard. Sometimes I even hear music. Itís like hearing phantom telephones in the shower or false doorbells when vacuuming; the pattern-loving brain, seeking signals in the noise, raises acoustic ghosts out of the windís roar. But on a motorcycle I hear whole songs: rock Ďn roll, dark orchestras, womenís voices, all hidden in the air and released by speed. At 30 miles per hour and up, smells become uncannily vivid. All the individual tree- smells and flower-smells and grass-smells flit by like chemical notes in a great plant symphony.

Sometimes the smells evoke memories so strongly that itís as though the past hangs invisible in the air around me, wanting only the most casual of rumbling time machines to unlock it. A ride on a summer afternoon can border on the rapturous. The sheer volume and variety of stimuli is like a bath for my nervous system, an electrical massage for my brain, a systems check for my soul. It tears smiles out of me: a minute ago I was dour, depressed, apathetic, numb, but now, on two wheels, big, ragged, windy smiles flap against the side of my face, billowing out of me like air from a decompressing plane.

Transportation is only a secondary function. A motorcycle is a joy machine. Itís a machine of wonders, a metal bird, a motorized prosthetic. Itís light and dark and shiny and dirty and warm and cold lapping over each other; itís a conduit of grace, itís a catalyst for bonding the gritty and the holy. I still think of myself as a motorcycle amateur, but by now Iíve had a handful of bikes over half a dozen years and slept under my share of bridges. I wouldnít trade one second of either the good times or the misery. Learning to ride one of the best things Iíve done.

Cars lie to us and tell us weíre safe, powerful, and in control. The air-conditioning fans murmur empty assurances and whisper, ďSleep, sleep.Ē Motorcycles tell us a more useful truth: we are small and exposed, and probably moving too fast for our own good, but thatís no reason not to enjoy every minute of the ride.

-Author unknown
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