Interim Post - Why We Ride

This is an article to appease the masses, while awaiting the second half to the Tex/Mex border post. My dad sent me this article and I thought that it definitely needed to be shared. American Rider - please don't sue me. If you are going to - please ask me to take down the post first, and I will gladly comply.

As valuable as “time” is, once it is gone you cannot get it back. Here's something I thought you might enjoy. An article by Reg Kittrelle entitled Go Away from American Rider magazine, reproduced here from a copy I received. It is why we ride.

Welcome to American Rider. Now go away. Leave. Put down the magazine, move away from the couch, pick up your helmet...and go. Yes, it's that important.


I recently spoke before a group of older retired men on the subject of motorcycles and, in particular, enjoying them. This was a non-riding group who had made their marks in the world. They had arrived in expensive cars, eaten a too-costly dinner and, in general, looked as if they were enjoying the fact that their major battles in life were past them. This was a free-form sort of thing; I spoke, answered questions, offered up an embellished anecdote or two and generally talked of the pleasure that decades of riding a motorcycle has brought to me. While my speech will not survive the ages, it did elicit responses from some that were a bit unexpected.


As things moved along I noticed a wistfulness of sorts creep into the comments from some of the audience. This became even more evident afterwards in casual conversations. I heard stories of the motorcycle "I had as a kid", of “the Harley I wished I'd bought," and of "the Indian the guy down the street had". What I didn't hear, of course, were stories of great rides, adventures on the road, or seeing sights from the saddle that they'd never forget. Things that to me, and many of you, are an integral part of our lives, and maybe even the fabric from which we're woven.


Certainly many of these accomplished people had led interesting, exciting lives, and had done things that could fill volumes. But often when you hear of these things you find that they are special events, long planned and soon over. Such as that trip to the Grand Canyon, the hike up Mt Shasta, or maybe that white-water raft trip that the family so enjoyed. All good and worthy endeavors, but when they’re over, they’re over. Normalcy returns and the minivan once again becomes the focal point of transportation. Contrast this with our lives as riders. Every commute, every short hop is an adventure of sorts requiring skill and heightened awareness, and featuring the opportunity to enjoy life, rather than just endure it. Yes, we have our planned trips, but they’re the icing on the cake we eat daily, not just during two frantic weeks a year.


Thoreau wrote (in Walden, 1854), “The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.” In part he was referring to how we spend our time devoid of real joy. Read that again: “…devoid of real joy.” That’s what came to mind while listening to my audience. Had they led lives of quiet desperation? Probably not, but maybe their lives had been so structured, so planned out that the idea of enjoying their time on the planet might not have made the cut. They saw in me a man who was enjoying life, principally because of motorcycles. While Thoreau might not agree that motorcycles fit within the Walden world, he might be convinced that a late spring ride over Lolo Pass or an afternoon on the Big Sur coast is as good a cure for desperation as anything he had to offer.


Running from your problems is never recommended. However, riding from them temporarily can be very therapeutic. It always impresses me how much more suited I am to attack the day when I approach it after a motorcycle ride. Sitting around, wallowing in the sweat of the numerous battles that constitute today’s life, I have a tendency to blend them together to the point where my little problems take on the trappings of major ones, and the biggies go supernova on me. Enter the motorcycle. Within a handful of miles the onion-like layers of stress and worry get peeled away, shoved into proper perspective and richly scolded for taking control of my mind, if not my life. Replacing them are the basics—the motorcycle, the road, and me, leaving precious little time to bother with the battle du jour.


So just go. Leave. Take a ride. Go make another hundred miles worth of memories so that in your dotage when you’re sitting listening to some smart-ass guy talk of his adventures you can just smile and say to yourself, “If he only knew”.