On motorcycling

"Who is this guy? Who the hell does he think he is writing about motorcycling?" These are questions that may come to your mind while reading this. And you may be right. However, this does not have the intention to be any kind of technical article that you may well find in one of those specialized magazines that we bikers read every time we get the chance to, until they form enormous piles on the tanks of our toilets that we refuse to get rid of arguing that they contain important technical data, the history of motorcycling itself, bla, bla, bla.

 

 

In fact, this is inspired by one of those articles. One which caught my attention a few months ago because it was everything but technical. One which simply and directly asked one question that all bikers have to answer one way or the other at a certain point:"Why am I this type of rider?"

And the truth is that there are no straight answers to that just as there are no straight answers to the reason why many people ride motorcycles in the first place besides the vanality behind answers like "for the sense of freedom" or practical and financial advantages over cars which are so objective that they can't be denied. The question targets a different spot though, a deeper one.

People who have never ridden a motorcycle may be thinking that this is a nonesensical attempt to theorize over machines. Wrong. I became a rider in the first place because of my father. I remember him being a hero to my eyes every time he happened to be in town and went to pick me up from school on his bike. That is certainly the deepest root I can trace in my case.

Against all odds and most of all, against my mother's will, my dad decided to buy me a bike when I was eight. My first bike. A small one but it wasn't a scooter.

 My old man taught me the whole theory and all he knew about the gears and the clutch, the lean angles and a certain sound in the machine that I was supposed to not only listen but understand in order to know "what the machine wants." By then, I couldn't even read a non digital watch. How was I supposed to ride a bike?! Well, I did after a while.

Years passed by and after returning from a trip to Europe and a few experiences with bikes over there I opened the storage room in my parents' house in order to ride my bike and go visit some friends. It was gone. That's a part of the story I don't want to get into with full detail. Mom and Dad thought it was time for me to have a car and that's how I got my mom's lazy and everything but impressive Nissan. My complaints ended the minute my father said I could grab the bus instead if I didn't want the car. The rest is history.

Compact cars came and went.  Guess my father thought I was cured. Wrong again. The minute I had the chance  I went and bought myself a brand new italian bike. I have a passion for those toys. The second one came after racing in the national superbike series for almost a season and up to the day I knew my first son was coming. Racing was like a dream come true eventhough I had to support myself financially through the season and my whole staff was my brother and girlfriend. Practice made me realize that no book about sport riding techniques could substitute the experience but theory had lots to do with the end result. I had been a geek and knew a bit about vectors, basic physics, angles and so on. I had to focus and improve my riding. After a while, riding became a sort of ballet dance. Orchestral music and jazz. Theory and improvisation sometimes, specially when the unexpected happens. Fingers, feet, body and hands move in a display of the finest surgery without a doubt. A surgery on the pilot himself in which a mistake may mean more than a wound or an injury sometimes. When I quit I had already gotten a sponsor, the Cagiva dealer himself.

Those days are gone now. Different priorities redirected my financial resources. In fact, I even sold a bike, "Carolla" the one I used to race with. It hurt me to do so but it was sitting in the garage with a sad look in its eyes and asking if we were going for a ride every time it saw me passing by. I couldn't stand that and the fact that private schools in Mexico are everything but cheap sure helped me meet that final decision.

Now, I don't ride that often anymore. Some of the guys I used to race against or ride with have even left this world already. I have become a different rider. However, whenever I find the chance I use the opportunity to go and carve the road. When I am riding, I enter a different rythm. I can even hear my breathing and focus in a very unusual way. The world disappears and it is simply the road and me. A brisk bike demands too much. Speed has become a secondary part of the enjoyment. It is that demand for precision and the ephemere feeling of being in charge of something in life what still makes me get a kick out of motorcycling.

What my thoughts are while driving? Blank. A magnificent silence and no thought except for the almost unconscious movements that riding a bike can become. Like playing a piano, you don't have to think about every single key and finger, you simply play it.

Dangerous, counterintuitive, challenging,... yes. Don't even think about it! Impossible? I guess. My rituals have helped me though. Before leaving on the bike, I kneel in front of my children and ask them to touch my head and let me borrow a toy from them, I look them in the eye and promise I will return it as soon as I am back. Fortunately, I have kept my promise so far.