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Discussion Starter · #1 ·
I posted this in another thread, but I think it is so good that I didn't want anyone to miss it. Sorry if you've seen it more than once. ;)

Here is why I ride: (I wish I could take the credit for writing this, but I can't.)

Season of the Bike
by Dave Karlotski​

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. I expect to arrive with my cheeks and forehead streaked with blood, but that's just an illusion, just the misery of nerves not designed for highway speeds.

Despite this, it's 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 you're changed forever. The letters "MC" are stamped on your driver's license right next to your sex and height as if "motorcycle" 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 motorcycle 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 languidly 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 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. I can see everything in a sweeping 360 degrees, up, down and around, wider than PanaVision and higher than IMAX and unrestricted by ceiling or dashboard.

Sometimes I even hear music. It's 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 wind's roar. But on a motorcycle I hear whole songs: rock 'n roll, dark orchestras, women's voices, all hidden in the air and released by speed.

At 30 miles an 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 it's 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. 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.

I still think of myself as a motorcycle amateur, but by now I've had a handful of bikes over a half dozen years and slept under my share of bridges. I wouldn't trade one second of either the good times or the misery. Learning to ride was one of the best things I've done.

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

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Discussion Starter · #7 ·
6 replies so far, and only 3 words total! You guys are so talkative!! :a20:
I guess my original post said it all. ;)
 

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Geeze, I didn't know all you big burly guys were so SENSITIVE! :joke:
 

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'tis the difference between watching porn and..........


- A client said it best to me the other day.
After telling her I bought a motorcycle and how much I've been enjoying it, she voiced the usual concerns. Afterwhich she gathered herself and added "Well you know, they say you never see a motorcycle parked outside a Psychiatrists office"

That should be our official Mantra.

-D
 

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i deal with the public all day and the bike is the only thing keeping me from actually reaching across the desk and choking the s--t out of them. It's bad enough that i have visions of choking them while i'm talking to them- it's my therapy i guess! :D :D :D :D :D
 

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Aside from the birth of my children and my wedding day......most of my fondest memories are rides I had with my best friend of nearly 30 years now.....

Motorcycles have been in my blood since I was a very young man.....my father started that in me and he is not with us now. I have good memories of riding behind him on his CB750 Supersport in the summertime.......
 

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M109Rider said:
6 replies so far, and only 3 words total! You guys are so talkative!!  :a20:
I guess my original post said it all.  ;)
:a18:
:clap2:Awesome......you're right, what more can be said! :clap2:
 

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That is exactly why even when I'm in my truck I prefer to drive with the windows down. When I can't be on my bike, I still want to feel the wind and all of the sensations that come with it.
 
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