The parts I need to fix the clutch on my motorcycle have been ordered. I’m anxious to get back on the road, although having my bike on ice hasn’t been as tortuous as I expected. There have been silver linings like carpooling with my wife and not having to wear pants. That’s not to say it’s been easy or that I haven’t been whiny. The time off has also given me a chance to reflect on why I’ve become so emotionally attached to a mess of steel that looks like a discarded barbeque.
I think it’s possible my motorcycle and I have “imprinted” on each other. We’ve had enough skin-to-skin time to form a bond. This happens with cars but it’s much, much rarer. The experience in a car makes it tough to build that connection. Everyone knows what it’s like to hop in their car, drive somewhere, and have no recollection of the journey when you arrive. This does not happen on a motorcycle unless you go down with a head injury. Riding just one mile on a motorcycle is a ritual. Cars are boxes that insulate the occupants from the outside world. The structure provides safety and a barrier to the outside elements. Motorcycles lack these features, leaving the rider quite literally twisting in the wind. You don’t forget how you got somewhere on a motorcycle. Every second on a bike is a mental and physical experience that you feel to your core. When you arrive at your destination, that experience is draped over you like a flag on a heavyweight champion. You don’t forget the journey. You roll around in it like a dog with an itch.
I’ve put twenty-thousand miles on this bike since I bought it in late 2022. We’ve spent a considerable amount of time together. I laughed on that bike. I cried on that bike. I contemplated ending my life on that bike. We’ve seen some shit together. I’m OK with being attached to an inanimate object that leaks oil and rattles like a paint shaker. I dipped a toe into Zen Buddhism when depression started pulling me south. I couldn’t accept the idea that nothing is sacred. I call bullshit. Wanting is part of living. The same is true for the joy that comes with finding something sacred and the pain that comes with the inevitable loss. Not riding gave me a chance to appreciate what that connection means and why it’s so important to me. My wife has given me firm instructions to never sell or trade-in my bike. I traded in my last bike when I bought my Harley. I’ve suspected she issued these instructions because she doesn’t want me to go for Mountain Dew and come home with a new $20,000 bike. She insists that I keep this bike because she’s keenly aware of what it means of how close we’ve become. I have the greenlight to buy another bike someday, but I’m not allowed to get rid of this one. No argument here.
