Here's a piece I wrote for my blog a few months ago when I got bored:
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Yeah, I ride a motorcycle. I don't do it for you or other people. I have no one I need to impress. Look at what I ride and that should be enough to convince even the most cynical types about that. An old vintage Honda is not going to garner the respect or admiration that the latest Plastic Fantastic does. Never mind that with it's woolly handling, questionable brakes and underpowered engine, it takes a better rider to extract all of its performance and not get killed in the process. But I digress...
I used to be opposed to the things, thinking they were beastly machines intended for overly-macho lunks or fools long on testosterone but short on brains. They were DANGEROUS you see and in my younger, more NERF-wrapped days, I hated them.
Then I went out and got one. Now I get it.
A motorcycle is not merely transportation, though it can be used as such. No, a motorcycle, (pardon the cliche), is a freedom machine. Freedom from life, freedom from work, from stress, from anything else that is eating at you. Riding clears your head and lets you focus on the task at hand, which is to find the limits of both yourself and the machine. You screw up while doing most hobbies, you start over whatever you were doing. You screw up on a bike and you could very well die. Or at the least suffer severe bodily injury.
It's also freedom from the vertical. You drive a car and no matter how you turn, you stay (hopefully) upright. You walk vertically, you sit vertically, you live your life in the vertical plane, (prostitutes notwithstanding). On a motorcycle, you bank like an airplane. It is then, in that brief moment, when you are trying the laws of physics, heeled over like an America's Cup yacht, footpegs grinding and engine howling, that it happens.
The release, the complete washing away of whatever the world threw at you. Right then it's just you and the machine, dancing together. One false move and ZANG!, over the side. Physics you see, is a harsh mistress, there's no fooling her. You can push her, you can bend her, but you can't break her.
These old bikes are not very forgiving either, not like modern machines. She's a very willing dance partner, but she won't suffer fools gladly. One misstep, one false move and she'll hurt you. But make all the right moves, touch her the way she wants to be touched and guide her, but don't force her, and she'll make everything better, blow your mind and make you forget about the rest of your life.
It makes me almost feel sorry for those poor zombies in their steel cages. Nah, I'm not. It's probably just as well that they stay locked in their climate-controlled rolling living rooms.
Driving a car is sort of like watching a movie. You view the world through a rectangular screen and are little more than a passive observer. You watch things as they happen. On a bike, there is nothing between you and the scene. You are IN the movie, you are involved in things that are happening, for better or worse. The sights, the smells, the sounds, all are there, assaulting your senses and demanding your attention.
I am not a passive observer. I stopped being one a long time ago. I want to be IN the action, to be a part of everything around me.
Of course, it's not for everybody. It's not as safe as a car because there is nothing more than the air around you and the clothes on your back should anything go wrong. That used to bother me until I decided that there's no point in worrying about it. Life is a fragile thing and I would rather eat it while I was hanging it all out with my hair on fire going 100 MPH than being 90 years old in some nursing home, laying in a pile of my own filth, forgotten and alone with nothing more than a head full of regrets and a heart full of bitterness and hate.
The only true sports are mountain climbing, bullfighting and auto racing. The rest are just games.
-Ernest Hemingway
I do believe the man has a point.