Riding a motorcycle is, objectively, a stupid and unsafe thing to do. But not riding a motorcycle is a boring, far-too-safe thing to do. You make your choices, I make mine. I don’t judge you for yours and expect the same consideration from you. Don’t tell me how dangerous motorcycles are or how you had a buddy/brother/uncle/friend of a friend die on “one of those murder-cycles”. I’m a rider – I know.
This article from Dave Karlotski perfectly encapsulates why I ride and why it hurts my soul to not have a motorcycle in my life right now. Read it to understand why friends, family and complete strangers ride motorcycles
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 wind’s big hands squeeze the heat out of my body and whisk it away; caught in a cold October rain, the drops don’t even feel like water. They feel like shards of bone fallen from the skies of Hell to pock my face.
(but) On a motorcycle I know I’m 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 sunlight that fall through them.
A motorcycle is a joy machine. It’s a machine of wonders, a metal bird, a motorized prosthetic. It’s light and dark and shiny and dirty and warm and cold lapping over each other; it’s a conduit of grace, it’s a catalyst for bonding the gritty and the holy.