The rain stopped overnight but I can still smell it drying on the road. My tires have warmed up enough I can now feel them grip the road as I lean into the turn, although the late winter air still breaks through my black leather. A heavy coat, hand made in Montreal with its cropped collar, lapels, and double waist belts on either side of the zipper to avoid rubbing on the tank, it is decidedly neither British nor American style, but stands somewhere in between without looking like something Don Johnson would wear as a hip cop in the late 90's. I hope. Fuck, who knows? At least it will save some skin if I go down on the highway.
The forest around me is wet and teeming with moist forest smells. The rich hummus of decomposing leaves, pines and their wonderfully sharp acidic smell, rainwater evaporating through the dappled canopy. A rare moment with no one else on the road mid-day through Mount Doug Park, I pull the throttle a little more and the early spring smells that have shown up come at me fast. I feel their pressure as I bank through more turns, my eyes watering behind my glasses in my open-face helmet. It will be a month or two still before my friends in Toronto start to ride, mind you it will be a month or two still before my friends here on the West Coast start to ride as well. But there's a growing number of us out here, dropping a hand or nodding a helmet-clad head as we pass each other in the cold; knowing we're getting away with it. We found a spot between the rains long enough for the road to dry and to make a handful of us convince ourselves it's safe enough to ride.
The thrills come fast as I round a blind corner getting ready to cross the oncoming lane. Although I checked them in my shop before I left, my back brakes seem to still be hibernating not yet ready to brake at speed. I pull the clutch and jam through the gears, the engine runs hard against the throbbing engine, push rods hammering against rocker arms and I pull the front brake letting the Audi pass as I cross lanes onto a bridge heading over a tiny creek.
It's funny the things we get ourselves into for reasons that may not start sincerely. I got my first couple of motorbikes over 10 years ago, two Hondas from the 70's, a CB, and a CMT. Neither was running and I didn't have the attention span to get them doing so. I needed instant gratification with everything I did and old motorbikes do not provide such frivolities. The bikes, though I loved them for what I thought they could make me couldn't get more than a couple of coughs through the carbs. So I'd sit in my basement, drink warm Lucky Lager, do cocaine, clean the carbs, and think I was a biker. I did however enjoy the work of taking the bikes apart, learning where some of the bits go, leaving some on the floor never to find their homes again.
By this time my ego and addiction were running full throttle and I'm glad I split town, heading up north to weld. I might have got one of those bikes running properly and more than likely would not have survived; I had a hard enough time staying alive without tempting fate while inebriated on a motorcycle.
Ample money with equal parts self-loathing and insecurity I'd end up back in Vancouver for a few days at the end of the 21 day shift, rage through the city, skate a bit and generally ignore any hint of emotion or reality. Face deep and full-throttle with massive delusions of grandeur, I'd dry out over the first week back at work, drinking heavily to keep the shakes and voices of self-doubt at bay. This cycle would continue for several years, not always working out of town, not always in Vancouver but consistently pretending to be something that I'm not. Even if no one around me was buying the shtick I had myself convinced I was killing it until I'd be just sober enough to feel. To physically feel my body and mind, worn out. To feel an emotion, an idea so foreign it took years of counseling, reading, and rehab to become ok with the sensation of happiness. To learn to sit with anxiety, understand that depression will pass like everything else on the planet, good or bad. Comfortable or not, foreign or local, these are simple titles given to characters in the story of us we tell ourselves.
There is no "good". "That" is not "bad". There is only "is", and the story we associate with the emotions involved. These are the thoughts I'm able to process while given time to ride. Leaning through turns, having my senses assaulted by sounds, smells and sights is one of the best ways to clear my mind. More consistently than mediation I'm able to get myself to a place of ease and contentment after a short ride.
Peculiar how something I got into years ago to give me a boost to my ego and make me feel tough has ended up providing a platform for me to become more contemplative, loving, and accepting. Try and try again I can't force my future. I can't plan what I'm going to get out of anything or whom I am to become. A boost to the ego? Try humility.
Kommentare