The Motorcyclists' Paradigm

by

Ben Heitman a.k.a. Mithrandir184 

It is a dream day in which I am consumed. The type that is not merely created in the sleep of physical exhaustion: building, and tearing down, more building, and all the while getting older. The parade of days, one next to the other in a fashion no wealth or power can change, though we all try don't we? How we all try so futilely, like a tidal wave soaring across land, leaving nothing but destruction, and achieving no great gain. No, but this mood which takes me is of the deepest mental state, a place of solemnity, sorrow, and peace. Naturally the unsettling type of peace, the only kind you'll find for sale around here. The market for it is huge though.

Ah, it is a strange dance I rehearse this morning. The dance of man and machine, a love story scarcely glorified. Yet is it not well-known to us all? Don't we all know of pride, and wisdom; of joy, and oblivion? Or what of caution and self-control, and how lust makes us forget all of this, as though we'd forgetten our own names? Lust for what? A few know, and I don't claim to be one of them. It is a strange dance I find myself enchanted in, but I love it nonetheless.

A quick movement of my hand brings her to life. It is indeed a woman, of an exotic, nature scarcely sedated by the bonds of civility. Indeed, a civilized savage, with the keen ability to induce my own metamorphosis: no one cares about the tactful thing to say, or do, or making proper appearances in such situations? At least, I refuse to, today this rebellion makes me feel unique, "Indeed, I am willing to step out of the line, so carefully drawn before us." I liken this ride to myself as the "sunrise", and the metaphor appeals to me for its poetic richness. And so, with the sunrise breaking the blue-grey dawn's last hold, I depart, or flee this house, and this driveway, and all these endings, because where I ride, the road is just beginning, and the story's yet to be told.

A handful of minutes brings me to the Lonely Road. Trees flanking either side, guarding from what no one knows, but they yield only to the breeze, and the unrelenting chains of progress. Silently I am bestowed with gifts of leaves, set loose by the wind, lazily falling towards my path, then suddenly whipping about in mad circles as I pass through them. And through all this the heat of the machine works it way.

In this uninterruted straight, my mind is left to wander.

Two columns regard the other as they relentlessly approach. The road can do nothing to divide them, but merely provides a cold, hard hand to stop their fall. They simply stand their trading death for death, so one can cross the road, on the burnt out husks of the other, only to be struck down themselves by another more ambitious. These are the two merchants of the apocalypse, on who's greedy and uncalloused hands the weight of the world rests comfortably, being buoyed in the pool of blood which they themselves have not spilt, but rather found others to spill for them. Such base actions are beneath them after all.

The first curve of the road banishes these thoughts from my mind. This road undulates like a shallow mountain stream: "light and fast". That is what I whisper to the machine as we lean in unison- ever so close to that unforgiving asphalt. If I had the courage, or stupidity, I could reach out my finger and trace out the line of my passing on the asphalt: perhaps to leave some memory of my passing, lest it be forgotten. Certainly that is too close to play, and it's a foolish child's thought anyway. In this flirtatious game I play, close is good, but getting too close too fast is disastrous. At least that's what they will all tell you. You should keep your distance, and only get so close as is acceptable. They will point out that the road does not give back but merely takes. Still if there were no road, I would not have ever left the hole in my room where I do my time. Does this road not tenaciously grasp the impossibly thin rubber that support me as feet. Does this road not curve and twist as a springtime rook, exclusively for my delight? Fear will keep the machine and I upright, and it will keep us alive. But in so many things, this fear will leave me as a dead man, who's body only reflexively continues breathing, and running around, and consuming, to the delight of few?

Every piece of this machine is beautiful to me. The entire concept is impossibly precise, while producing a sensation and reaction which is constantly imprecise. Infinite reactions on near infinite roads. A quick downshift and flick of the throttle reward my ears with the exotic purr of decelleration, and a sensation of an inhuman power. A sensation which flows through the bars, and pegs, and the very air around me. Quickly grabbing the brakes threatens to throw me from temporary throne. She is, after all, a savage at heart, but not so savage as to have no love for me, or to refuse my lead. With some effort I can rein in control over the impulse to go faster. Still, the desire never leaves, sometimes it startles me with its morbidity, which I fear may be a reflection of some darkness within me. Whichever, it persists: a barely realized thought that encourages me to simply open this throttle, open this entire machine, to it's limit- and far past it. It'd all end in a blaze of glory, mourned by an appreciable amount but soon forgotten in a myriad sea of mundane grocery errands, petty fights, and inane philosophical chatter.

I have the utmost appreciation for the artful handiwork of this road. I appreciate how it bores mid-turn of it's left bound route, and forces to me to throw it hard to the right. In the focus of this arc I sit, and for the brief instant experience the thrill of flight, of controlled speed, and channelled terror. The terror, which shifts back and forth between joy, that they soon become indistinguishable. In the search for things concrete, there are only my reactions. My reactions and instincts will guide the fate of this ride.

As all dreams do, this one fades, first slowly and tentatively, then suddenly rapidly. The ache in my lower back is apparent, and the worry that I may have that ache forever. I feel my glasses pressed up between my eyes and my helmet, and am annoyed that contacts seem to inflame my eyes. Ah, I'm hardly twenty, but the thought of aging weighs heavy on me, while I yet feel so young inside. I wonder if I will have the money to pay for new tires, and oil, and bike notes, and insurance, and all the joys I'm told money will buy. For few measures of fun come free. Wherever you go, there are a horde of grabbing hands, driven by an instinct which chants relentlessly: "Aquire, Acclimate, Aquire, Control, Exceed."

This machine continues on, the journey no longer limitless and undying, no longer captivated by sudden life, like a plant just breaking the soil. This journey leads me home: up the driveway, click the door shut behind me, switch the motor off, remove my helmet. It seems everyone else has left for somewhere to entertain themselves from their own boredom. It's here, sitting on my stilled, sleeping bike, that I'm left, so deeply, alone.