I’ve been thinking a lot about riding a motorcycle–obviously. And you know what? I can’t explain why I want this so badly. I know it can be dangerous. I see completely crappy drivers here in Southern California every day. I almost had a guy whack my truck on the way home today, making a lane change while yacking away on a cell phone. Nurses, as a commenter pointed out, call motorcycles “donorcycles.” As in “Organ Donor”.
And I still can’t wait to get back on a bike–my very own Harley!–and roar off down the road. I can’t explain it. All I know is that it’s a weird hunger that I can’t ignore. It’s something I have to do.
I dream about riding every night. It’s the first thing I think of when I wake up in the morning. I already have rides planned. It’s a desire that overcomes the knowledge–the certain knowledge–that I will dump my bike at some point.
If I had no experience on a bike, or if I had never dumped one (two actually), then maybe I could explain it by just saying that I think motorcycle riding will be all fuzzy kittens and fluffy bunnies. But I know it won’t be.
And, when looked at rationally, riding itself, for the most part, shouldn’t be all that fun. In the summer, leathers are too hot. You sweat like a pig in your helmet. Here in the desert, if you take any of that stuff off, you get seriously dehydrated and wind-burned. If it rains just the slightest bit, the roads get all slick and scary. If it’s foggy, you get damp and cold. You can’t enjoy a delicious beverage on the road, or slip another CD into the stereo.
It’s just you, the road, the wind, little comfort, and even less protection.
And I can’t wait to do it.