When I was getting my motorcycle license two years ago, I had a fairly clear idea of why I was doing it. I was drawn to winding country roads, views of the hills, the smell of the countryside, or simply the chance to stop in places I would just drive past in a car. I was looking forward to taking more photos, exploring more and finally doing something that had been on my mind for a long time.
I thought I was getting a new hobby.
But the more kilometres I ride, the more I feel that the motorcycle is just a means. The most interesting part doesn’t happen on the road. It happens somewhere between the ears.
Maybe it’s because I’m only just discovering this world. I’m not a rider with twenty years and hundreds of thousands of kilometres behind me. I’m still a beginner. And maybe that’s exactly why I notice things that people who have ridden their whole lives take completely for granted.
After every ride, I came home with the same feeling.
It wasn’t adrenaline.
It wasn’t euphoria.
It was a strange kind of calm. And that’s what got me curious.
I’m someone who likes things to make sense. When something keeps repeating, the question Why? comes naturally. So I started looking things up and listening to conversations with people from the community, and I gradually began to realize that what riders have been describing for decades isn’t just a romantic idea of freedom. Many of those feelings have a surprisingly rational explanation.
I came across an old biker joke.
“You never see a motorcycle parked outside a psychologist’s office.”
It made me smile. I thought it was just one of those lines that get passed around among riders. Like the one that “Four wheels move the body and two wheels move the soul”.
But the more kilometres I rode, the less it seemed like a joke.
I don’t think a motorcycle will fix anyone’s life. It won’t replace a psychologist, take away your worries or change the world around us. But I’m beginning to understand that it can change something else.
The way we perceive that world, at least for a while.
We live in a time when our attention is the most valuable commodity. From morning to night, the phone, e-mails, social media, ads and work all compete for it. We jump from one thing to another so often that we’ve actually got used to the chaos. And maybe that’s exactly why it wears us out so much.
On a motorcycle, all of that disappears.
Not because we try to make it disappear, but because we have no other choice. Once you start riding, your brain has to deal with the road, the traffic, the corners, the asphalt surface, the throttle, the brakes and the clutch. It keeps only what really matters at that moment. There’s simply no capacity left for anything else.
Psychologists call this state flow.
You may not know the term, but you surely know the feeling.
Almost all of us have experienced it. Think of a time when you were doing something you really enjoyed. It might have been working in the workshop, taking photos, playing sport, playing a musical instrument or working in the garden. You were so absorbed in it that you completely lost track of time. The phone could ring, the weather outside could change, and you didn’t care at all. There was only the one thing you were doing. That’s flow. The moment when you stop thinking about the past and the future and are fully here and now. The difference is that most of us only get into this state once in a while.
On a motorcycle, turning the key is often enough. After a few kilometres, you realize that the thoughts that occupied you just a moment ago stayed somewhere behind the last corner. And I think that’s where its greatest magic lies.
For a long time, I thought riders talked about freedom mainly because they can go wherever they want.
Today I think freedom looks completely different. It’s an hour or two when nobody wants anything from you.
There’s no phone.
There are no deadlines.
Nobody gets a reply to their e-mail.
There’s only the road ahead of you.
Maybe that’s why I prefer winding country roads to the fastest route. They’re not more efficient. They’re certainly not shorter. They just remind me that not every journey has to have a destination. Some are worth simply enjoying.
One more thing surprised me.
I’ve never really felt the need to belong somewhere, but a simple wave from an oncoming rider makes me smile every time.
It’s strange how little it sometimes takes.
Nobody knows who you are.
Nobody knows what you do for a living.
Nobody cares how expensive your bike is.
And yet that quiet exchange happens between you: Yeah… I get it.
These days, that’s actually quite a rare moment.
Now and then I hear people say: “Shame I didn’t start riding sooner.”
I admit I’ve said it to myself too. But the longer I think about it, the less sure I am. If I had started riding at twenty, I would probably have had faster reflexes, more courage, and maybe I’d be a much better rider today. But I would also have had a completely different mindset. At twenty, you feel almost immortal. Speed is the thrill, risk is part of the game, and limits exist mainly to be pushed.
Today it’s different.
When I get on the bike, I know very well that someone is waiting for me at home. I know my decisions don’t affect only me. I know you can’t talk physics out of anything and that some mistakes simply can’t be undone.
That’s why riding faster doesn’t appeal to me.
Riding better does.
Learning to read the road.
Being smoother.
Anticipating.
And above all, coming back home.
That’s why I think I may have had to grow into riding first.
When I look back today, I’m actually surprised that I didn’t just buy a motorcycle.
I bought a reason to keep my phone in my pocket.
A reason to turn off the main road.
A reason to stop at a place I would just drive past in a car.
And above all, I bought time. Time when my head stops jumping between a hundred thoughts and focuses on just one single thing. Maybe that’s why I don’t come home from every ride with just more kilometres on the odometer. I come home with the feeling that, for a while, I was exactly where I was supposed to be.
And maybe that’s why motorcycles aren’t an escape from reality.
Maybe, on the contrary, they’re one of the few places where we finally return to real reality after a long time.