Trust the Bike
by Titus Gee
I rode home through the canyons under the glare of a fiery sunset, the great red orb smoldering its way to earth through the smoke of the season’s first wildfires.
It’s hot already, in the middle of March.
Ninety degrees at noon.
I felt the road calling to me today, screaming for more throttle as I flashed around curve after familiar curve, whispering about the pleasures of rolling on and on, over the horizon. I had to fight to keep my speed in check and stick to the roads that only lead home.
Back in town, the smoke had cleared and the air carried a light fragrance that reminded me of a love affair from my college days on the other side of town. No wonder they say spring is for lovers.
I cruised through my neighborhood as the last of the sunset disappeared and evening began to sing. Now, in the twilight, a nightingale is calling.
And I am content.
After months of hundred-mile days, commutes and extra-curricular outings, I feel like I’m just learning to ride.
I think I’m finally starting to trust the bike, to become one with the machine in a way I had never imagined.
I can almost feel it as a tangible sensation, like coming over the peak of a hill. Or as if some new organ were growing inside my limbs, taking over control of my muscles and sending back a shiver of pleasure to my brain.
Doc (my great mentor) once told me the only way to succeed as a writer, or any kind of artist, is to ‘give yourself over’ to it. I take that to mean you’ve got to let it take over and define you, so that it’s always on your mind, shaping your plans, even directing your schedule. To succeed you have to merge the art form with your self in some deep and fundamental way.
Like trusting the bike.
(There’s a connection, I promise.)
It’s the first lesson any rider has to learn, and maybe the last as well.
Two seconds into my first ride on a ‘real’ motorcycle (bigger than a mo-ped) I almost dropped it. The clutch popped and the bike shot forward, leaving my legs waving behind like a flag flapping from my grip on the handles. Then it stalled, which was lucky.
The trouble was I didn’t sit down. My butt was on the seat, but really I was still standing on my own feet. For the first month I had to think about it every time I started up.
In the beginning, a 20-minute ride would leave me sore from fingertips to shoulder blades. Every second in the saddle was a study in tension as my brain strained to keep everything together. I loved it, but I didn’t trust it. Every new bump or blind corner came with a spasm of tension.
After a while I started to relax — at least on the straighter bits of road. I could settle back and enjoy the glide. I almost wrote this post a month ago, thinking I had finally found the secret of trusting the bike.
I had no idea.
No concept of the almost mystical feeling of riding a familiar road on my own Nighthawk, with all the muscles of my body making tiny adjustments without the slightest thought. I have felt the beginning of that sensation, and every time I ride it gets stronger.
And every time I write I understand a little more about ‘giving myself over.’ It’s all in my brain, but somehow it’s the same kind of sensation.
Maybe I still have no idea what it will feel like after riding my Nighthawk for another month or a year, or after writing every day for a decade. I’ll probably look back from the top of those higher hills and think, “I didn’t have a clue.”
I only hope each new peak makes me want to shout, like it did today when I rode home through the smoke and smelled the perfume of summer at sunset.
A thought like that could keep me riding, and writing, ’til all my suns have set.
