There is something pleasingly primeval about riding a motorcycle. It is not hard to do but the feeling it generates is one of happiness.
Great bikes and great cars for that matter are more than the sum of their parts, there is some indefinable magic, unexplainable voodoo which triggers endorphins and makes the world rest easy.
To ride a bike quickly is all encompassing. On the road, the consequences of even the most minor errors are magnified, heightening your awareness and making you at once a pawn and a master of your destiny. Likewise to ride a motorcycle slowly, sensations driven by exposure and solidarity with your surroundings brings true joy.
The white line is hugged, maximising your visibility through the bend, cognisant of the gravel dusting the centre of your lane. The forks dive as you squeeze the front brake, knees grip the tank as your left foot automatically toes the gears. Throttle and clutch work to stop the rear wheel locking and all the while you look for the turn in point. Your strip of road is 2ft wide, to your right is possible traffic and to the left gravel enough to make you think twice. Your fingers start to come off the front brake and you roll on the tiniest bit of throttle. Counter steering begins and you sense the bike tipping over. You can feel the front suspension unload slightly and sense the front tyre key into the tarmac. Now you wait, bike balanced, eyes focused on the vanishing point and throttle steady, everything as it should be. The corner begins to straighten and you wind on the throttle, feeling the weight transfer rearwards, too much and you’ll go wide, just enough and you will drive out determinedly to the horizon. You are in control, the road is yours to tame and to master. The bike is the conduit to your ecstasy.
That’s just one road and one corner. Yes it’s great to occasionally sit your brain on the shelf and ride approaching your limits. However, just covering miles, watching a county or a country slide by. Absorbing the tastes, textures and smells of city and countryside. Winding through country lanes, watching the sun rise or fall. Taking time to savour rather than dispatch. Knowing the next day brings more miles, more places. Eyes open to new experiences, people, views, memories and spaces.
Motorcycles are illogical, cars offer more protection and true rapid transit systems in cities nullify them. When it rains you get wet, sunny and you overheat. Riding bikes in spite of this makes us closer to them. Makes us appreciate them more.
When I started writing I wanted to illustrate why I ride a motorcycle, why it brings me genuine happiness, what makes me choose to ride rather than drive? The answer is multi faceted. My Grandpa rode bikes, transporting his family of four in a BSA and sidecar. He would buy bikes for fun, get them running and blast about on them before selling and repeating. My Dad rides bikes, buying one so he could travel to see my Mum. My families joy in the technology and familiarity with the danger made it an easy step for me to start riding. For me I was addicted to the machine by the age of 5. I loved anything that moved and preferably went fast. I rode my bicycle everywhere. I wore out tyres, trashed chains and sprockets, snapped forks and brake cables. I wheelied I stoppied, dropped off 6ft walls to flat and speared down concrete stairways. I crashed I fell and I broke bones. My enthusiasm remained undiminished. Motorcycles were the logical step and riding them or building them became and is a big part of my life. I think I ride motorcycles because they give me a sensation I cannot get anywhere else. It is not necessarily an endorphin rush, often it’s the humdrum of commuting or city riding that make me happy. There is something about a motorcycle that fills a hole in my life I didn’t know I had. A hole that will be there for ever, a hole I don’t know how to fill with anything else.
The Driven Wheel 