The more I think about it, the more I want to become a biker when I’m older. There’s something about cruising down open country roads at whatever speed seems right, in a pack of thirty other people riding loud, two-wheeled death-traps, that strikes me as, well, romantic.
I hope that last sentence didn’t make William S. Harley do a barrel-roll in his grave. But I’m also not suggesting a “Twilight” sort of romanticism. To me, being a biker is the closest thing to being free. Maybe my perspective is a bit skewed (especially since I’ve never actually been on a motorcycle). Regardless, I think there’s something to this whole biker gig.
Okay, before going any farther, let me make one clarification of the type of biker I’m referring to. I’ve read enough Tom Wolfe and Hunter S. Thompson to know that even if I wanted to, I couldn’t be a Hell’s Angels protégé. I’m not enough of a hard-ass to be in a gang. The reasoning behind my hog desire comes from an entirely different plane of thought.
One of my favorite things to do is go for a Sunday drive. In case you’re unfamiliar with the term, Sunday driving is lazily putting around, usually to unfamiliar places, while having absolutely no plans or worries. In fact, fall is one of the best seasons for the sport.
Creeping (or hauling, depending on one’s mood) over the sinusoidal midwestern expanse, dyed orange and red by the changing foliage, with the windows down to let in the ashy smells and delicate sunlit-warmth of autumn is absolute euphoria.
So I’m thinking that doing the same thing except on a motorcycle might be the greatest thing on earth. Instead of a Sunday drive, it’ll be a Sunday ride.
Why does this sound so much more appealing to me on two wheels than four? Well, largely because when I’m in a car, I can’t help feeling separated from the rest of the world. I’ve watched people while they drive; I’m not the only person who’s like this. All the nose-pickers, email readers and air-drum champions on the road seem to forget they aren’t in their own living room.
If I take the walls away from my Sunday drives and lower myself closer to the pavement, I feel like I’ll sort of be one with the road. I know that probably sounds pretty cliché, but I’m serious about this.
When I think about being on a motorcycle, I imagine the wind stinging my face and whistling in my ears. I have no concept of what it’s actually like, but have visions of myself cruising down long highways.
On a motorcycle there’s nothing separating you from the road. It’s just you sitting there, with no protection. That excites me. At one level, being on a motorcycle is inherently dangerous, which makes me want to do it. I don’t have a death wish. But I do get a rush from riskiness.
The real beauty of riding a motorcycle (I think) is the ability to become a part of the road. Obviously, I don’t mean literally. Unlike when driving in a car, on a bike there’s no forgetting what you’re doing. This is because the road, and everything associated with it, is in your face at all times. Instead of just observing nature, you become part of it.
For my entire life I’ve heard negative connotations put on bikers. But I’m wondering if all the animosity towards bikers is rooted in jealousy. I think people are jealous of bikers because they live freely. They don’t let their lives be dictated by anything beyond their own prerogative. That’s why the act of riding a motorcycle seems so appealing to me. It’s freedom by letting go of the obliviousness that comes with driving a car, and becoming one with the road.
Want to help form a biker gang with Andy? Shoot him an email at holsteen@wisc.edu.
