Man, I am so grateful for my motorcycle. I can’t possibly capture the full experience, which is a lightening barrage of feelings, memories and hysterically random thoughts. When it is good, it is so rich that dark chocolate is like cardboard in comparison. No, I am not the He Man type, who gets a woody, while riding in life threatening and breath stealing situations. I am the guy, who slouches deep into his seat, splays his legs out on the pegs and smiles, while singing at the top of his lungs. On any of our biblically perfect Sundays, it is the angel sun and her sweet exhalations that take me inside myself.
Listen, I am no brilliant writer with a spray can of gems that can cover a page without effort. I love the idea that it is impossible to clearly define the biking experience, because it is different for everyone, each time they roll down the road. I know that my mind often floats gently on imaginary clouds, occasionally crystallizing an unfocused thought I am trying to share, in a waiting-to-be written story.
Not all that long ago, I started to think about the idea that I have been keeping myself company for quite some time now. I swear, I have never asked anyone else about how they think. I simply know how I have been living with myself all these years. Like all of you, I have an endless string of thoughts and feelings that come and go with lightening speed. On my ride last Sunday, I managed to push myself into taking a stab at this idea of always talking to myself and keeping perfect company, not missing a thing.
I have had many recurring themes and while the script changes, I can always find my patterns somewhere in the disarray. My past continues to grow behind me and I think about my stories, frequently sharing memories with myself. I wonder who it is that is telling all these stories to me? No, I am not on an acid trip, but I seem to have one of those minds that thinks about all this.
The voice of my mind makes no sound, but I can hear it with perfect clarity. For example, I silently spoke the last sentence to myself, while I was typing it. I know I have put off writing about this for a long time, because I wasn’t sure if I could make sense of it to you or me. I’ve got a good one for you. Obviously, you are reading this story and somehow all these different spaced letters you are staring at, magically translate into an explosion of meaning, conveyed to your brain. It’s like having an instant conversation with symbols, seamlessly weaving story after story after story, never repeating the experience even once.
When you have been with yourself as long as I have, you can easily take yourself for granted and stop paying attention to the details, a huge mistake. The opposite has occurred to me and I can’t say for sure when it began. It is like going from a stark, solo performance to a full on chorus, complete with matching outfits and theatrical lighting. The voice of my mind now feels so much richer and anything can set it off. I find that I am able to instantly mine my history and I know that voice so well now.
If you love riding a motorcycle as much as I do, you understand you experience an infinite torrent of all sorts of disparate thoughts, as if your mind is weightless, wandering here and there. When it’s just me and my bike, that inside voice is wonderfully clear and we have a fantastic time communicating. My mechanical muse and I have become a team. I had no idea that my love of riding would put me in closer touch with that silent voice inside and help me start writing.