section of this book also features experiences on street bikes, and many of the columns under other headings were written with riding or working on such motorcycles in mind. But a mere four titles for “On the Road”?
Street bikes and street riding certainly don’t suffer low status in my personal motorcycling hierarchy. In fact, it’s just the opposite. Because I’ve spent so much of my life as a motorcyclist on tarmac, this is the default backdrop. In that position, though, it doesn’t stand out. Instead, it’s the medium for musing about other things. So, if you’re a road rider, don’t think you’re getting the short end of this deal. Most of the book you’re reading was written for you.
The Call of the Open Road
March 2002
This isn’t the first column I wrote for Motorcycle Consumer News (MCN), but it seemed like a good one to kick-start this book. Even though long tours have made up only a small portion of my riding, they have invariably been among the most memorable rides of my life. And, predictable as the metaphor may be, motorcycling has certainly been one very long, challenging, and deeply satisfying ride.
I’ve been itching for a long motorcycle trip lately. When I mentioned this to folks around me (a few motorcyclists included), they were perplexed. Not particularly with regard to why I’d go on a bike, but why I’d take the time to ride/drive anything cross-country. There are more efficient means of travel than going over the road if getting to the destination is really what’s important. And there are more effective ways to fully escape the responsibilities of life if achieving such relief as completely as possible is actually the goal. Yet there’s something irresistibly compelling—at least for some of us—about riding where we want to go, even when it requires enormous commitments of time and effort and includes the risk of serious and unpredictable frustrations. So what’s the big deal?
Let’s start with this issue of efficiency. People who don’t love riding (or driving, for that matter) ask why anyone would want to “waste” all that time getting there when we can fly and get there more quickly, presumably to start the enjoyment sooner, and then allow the fun to last longer at the tail end of the trip, zipping back home through the sky at the last minute. To this, I answer that they’re the ones wasting time. Instead of enduring the boredom and hassles of air travel (and vulnerability to delays caused by errors and problems) at both ends of my journey so I can theoretically begin the pleasure earlier and hold onto it longer, my enjoyment begins the moment I start my motor and doesn’t stop until I pull back into my garage. In fact, the trip’s fun actually starts even earlier than that, as I’m tending to the preparation of my bike a week or two before my departure. Factor in the possibility that the travel we’re talking about isn’t a vacation, and the ride there and back could be the only fun involved—I’ve certainly had work trips like that, and I’m sure I’m not the only one.
So the definition of efficiency depends on the context. If you love riding, it’s actually more efficient in terms of fun-per-minute than having someone else take you there by plane or train or anything else that you’re not controlling, which brings up the next item for discussion. Part of the satisfaction of riding is having maximum control. I decide what route I’ll take. I decide when to stop for fuel and snacks, for a look at the scenery, for a real meal, and for the night. I decide how much luggage I take, which—if any—music to play, what temperature to wait for before departing. The list goes on.
My point is that riding allows for autonomy. Not only is autonomy inherently appealing (we all want to do what we want to do, when we want to do it, right?), but it can also stand in stark contrast to the grinding confinement of everyday life, wherein our ability to make unilateral choices is often confined to a pretty tiny corner of existence. Riding, even when it’s just a matter of commuting or running an errand, provides a partial break from this sensation of captivity. Deliberate movement through space concretely defies the abstract mental walls that routinely hem us in; that’s why simply taking a walk can be such an effective means of attitude self-adjustment.
Unless we’re teenagers, autonomy isn’t only about breaking free of the constraints of others’ expectations. It’s also about taking responsibility for ourselves. When that challenge is accepted willingly, we call the experience adventure. Long-distance riding can be a treacherous ordeal, and it requires planning, foresight, skill, judgment, and patience, along with a host of other actions and attributes. You often need discipline and perseverance in order to avoid disaster or to recover from a setback.
How does this voluntary exposure to difficulty and demand square with that talk about “fun”? It’s the same category of pleasure we feel in competing with an opponent in a game or perfecting our technique in the gym. While there is a period of discomfort at the outset, when our fate is uncertain and our adequacy is unproven, the process of surmounting the obstacles in our path provides a sense of satisfaction that outweighs the anxiety involved. As skill and confidence accrue, the anticipation of that satisfaction can turn the initial anxiety into something more like excitement—roadside repairs become adrenaline-filled adventures! One of the most enjoyable rides I ever took was through a horrific storm that required an additional two nights on the road; the struggle to make headway (slowly and safely, but also surely) in spite of the weather felt like an adventure of epic proportions.
The Blue Ridge Parkway, probably somewhere in North Carolina, circa 1999. Excellent pavement, smoothly flowing curves, and spectacular scenery—sport-touring in the East doesn’t get any better than this.
Adventure is about discovery and surprise. That can involve the potentially frustrating whims of nature, road conditions, and mechanical failure, as well as unexpected delights and windfall opportunities—a stunningly gorgeous vista opens up around the next curve, you meet a whole new set of friends at a rally. No matter what, the rider is thrust into unfamiliar situations that require mental flexibility. This is a big part of what makes travel re-creation. Our minds tend to calcify and grow numb in the ruts of day-to-day repetition. Variety is more than the spice of life; it’s an essential nutrient. Without discovery, we grow weary, restless, and incompetent. Experiencing new things frees us up to experience old things in new ways. Creative problem-solving requires regular exploration away from the problem at hand. Those who can’t leave a problem until they’ve solved it may be working a lot longer and harder—and come to a far less effective solution (if they come to one at all)—compared to folks who can walk away from one challenge, exercise some other part of the mind or body elsewhere, and then return to the project with a fresh perspective. The more diverse our experiences and the wider range of challenges we face and learn from, the better our set of tools for dealing with whatever comes up in the future.
So the pursuit of discovery can expand our horizons, literally and figuratively. It provides a contrast, allows for the emergence of multiple perspectives, and levers us out of ruts. But sometimes the change we seek is not a matter of discovery but one of rediscovery. Travel can be about finding something we feared was lost, and it can mean reconnecting with people, places, and memories. While it’s a change from our present situation, it’s also an attempt to recapture something “same”—something we once knew and want to know again. In repeating something from the past, we experience ourselves as we were then, too, along with all the layers of who we’ve been between then and now. It provides us with a sense of personal coherence and stability.
There are many ways to slice the pie of human motivation. One cross-section reveals the opposing poles of adventure and security. At one extreme of this dichotomy, we seek excitement, take initiative, explore, and create. At the other extreme, we seek serenity, embed ourselves in the comforts
