Motorcycle Diary

The motorcycle is a much more democratic vehicle than the car - and not just on the principle of one man, one engine. The pedestrian struck by a car is more grievously hurt than the driver, who is cossetted by the crumple-zone, seat-belt, air-bag, and other hyphenated accoutrements of safety. The lot of the motorcyclist, however, is much closer to that of the pedestrian. He is exposed to the dangers of the road with nothing more than a helmet, and sometimes not even that, and so in a crash is just as likely to be tossed and killed as the pedestrian he strikes. Acquiring an independent means of transport brings many benefits to one so blessed, including freedom of travel and the ability to bring goods long distances, which can do no harm to one's socio-economic position. Vehicles are hence, well, vehicles of inequality, widening the gulf between haves and have-nots. But cars set one apart much more markedly, dehumanizing the motorist, because the road-unit that the observer sees is not the driver but the car. The motorcycle, then, with its equality of possible harm to pedestrian and rider, is the vehicular equivalent of the Golden Rule, of turning the other cheek.

But that is not why I like motorcycles. I like them because they feel fast. Not that they are fast, which undoubtedly many of them are capable of being, though not the ones I have ridden. What they do possess is the ability to make even relatively slow speeds feel faster, to make one viscerally conscious of what is otherwise only a number on the speedometer. Speeding is hence a much more deliberate act for the motorcyclist: the driver can claim that he didn't know he was hovering five kph above the limit - it doesn't seem that much different to him whether he goes fifty or fifty-five. A motorcyclist can feel the difference, and he knows that he is speeding. Speed becomes palpable, speed becomes real. For TE Lawrence, perhaps, the speed itself held more reality than the country road that he sped through towards his death. Psychologically disjointed from what was supposedly his own society, abnegating himself by serving as a lowly enlisted man under a pseudonym, knowing that one could not possibly ever top a former life as Lawrence of Arabia, maybe that was why he took to the engine with such gusto.

Aside from speed itself, I believe that the exercise of one's faculties of balance also makes motorcycling attractive, just as one's balance is constantly tested on a bicycle or on horseback. One becomes part of one's vehicle in a way that a regular driver of cars could never understand. Leaning into turns for example, subtle adjustments made to one's body, shifting one's weight just so. I remember being kept in training overtime by my riding instructor, just going at the figure-of-eight until I was sick of that shape. When I finally understood how to execute it, however, realization came suddenly, it became intuition rather than learning. Practiced movement done skilfully is pleasing and satisfying, and that is what I think every motorcyclist knows, consciously or not, at the back of his or her mind.

Having not ridden for almost three years now, I probably should not be trusted with any class of vehicle. But I still can remember how it was, going just a bit faster on a hot day to cool off, stopping at the traffic lights and surveying the other dumpy, boxed-in motorists from a high perch. One day soon I'll go and get licensed again, and put these vaguely equestrian longings to rest. And the first thing I'll try, of course, will be figure-eights in the parking lot.