It’s been a long road to what feels like my first real milestone. 1,700 miles, to be exact. I’m finally beginning to feel comfortable on my motorcycle.
I have to say, this is the day I’ve been waiting for. The fear has finally started to dissipate, and in its place, I feel a gentle pull back toward the bike. A desire to ride, rather than something I have to convince myself to do.
Now, please don’t misunderstand that as a lack of healthy respect for the machine. Oh no. If anything, I’ve had more than enough respect for it, bordering on crippling fear after my 35 mph highside in a fairly shallow curve. Looking back, I suspect it was target fixation, a failure to look through the turn and lean into it properly. Whatever the cause, the experience left its mark, and it took much longer to shake the fear than I expected.
But this gradual dissipation of fear feels different from simply becoming accustomed to something. It comes from a slightly deeper understanding, still very much in its infancy.
I feel as though I’ve broken the surface of a very deep ocean, just dipping beneath the first wave as I paddle out. An enormous amount of water lies ahead of me, and I have no illusions about how much I still have to learn. But I’m moving forward.
I’m not where I need to be, but I’m on my way, so to speak.
That’s not to say I don’t still make plenty of mistakes. I do. But I’m spending less time consciously thinking about what I need to do. Some of it is becoming intuitive. Shifting, braking, and turning are starting to feel smoother, more deliberate, and a little more controlled, even at speed.
Not to lean too heavily on a cliché, but the motorcycle is beginning to feel like an extension of myself rather than something I’m holding on to for fear of losing control.
1,700 Miles: A Beginner’s Mind
It’s been a long road to what feels like my first real milestone. 1,700 miles, to be exact. I’m finally beginning to feel comfortable on my motorcycle.
That’s not to say I don’t still make plenty of mistakes. I do. But I’m spending less time consciously thinking about what I need to do. Some of it is becoming intuitive. Shifting, braking, and turning are starting to feel smoother, more deliberate, and a little more controlled, even at speed.
Not to lean too heavily on a cliché, but the motorcycle is beginning to feel like an extension of myself rather than something I’m holding on to for fear of losing control.
I still remind myself to “look through the turn,” and I’m probably taking some corners a little slower than most. But not nearly as slowly or as uncertainly as I once did. And that’s a good, good feeling.
I’m even beginning to enjoy leaning into tighter turns. It’s difficult to describe. There’s a moment, almost like catching a wave on a surfboard, when you feel it pick you up and carry you forward. For just a second, everything seems to come together. The movement, the balance, the concentration. A kind of flow state, I suppose. It’s exhilarating, to say the least.
Recently, I made it up to the observatory in San Jose. The road winds its way up the mountain through what feels like an endless series of hairpins and curves. It’s the kind of ride that demands your attention. You have to move with the motorcycle, look where you’re going, and remain completely present.
You know, so you don’t roll off the side of the mountain.
There’s something meditative about it. Meditation in motion. Almost like shaving with a straight razor. You know that a careless movement might hurt you, so you’re deliberate with the pressure. Easy with your hands. Easy on the throttle. Nothing hurried, nothing forced.
I came away feeling like I’d learned quite a bit.
But going slowly can be deceptive, too. It can give you a false sense of confidence, like you’re completely in control. And maybe you are. Or maybe you simply haven’t encountered the situation that reveals how much you still don’t know.
That’s something I’ve been thinking about beyond riding.
The other day, one of my younger siblings gave me a lecture. Lol. There was something almost admirable about the conviction behind it, even if I found the argument a little naive. I caught myself wishing I could feel that certain about anything anymore. Youthful conviction has a kind of fire, a passion that burns hot and deep. Unfortunately, what might have been a thoughtful conversation became a rather one-sided affair.
But we all learn at different paces, I suppose.
I’ve found that the older I get, the more I question what I think I know. I doubt nearly everything, including myself. Not necessarily because I lack confidence, but because I’ve come to recognize that I could be wrong. Experience hasn’t made me more certain about anything. In many ways, it’s made me more aware of how much I don’t understand.
And maybe that’s a good thing.
Confidence and certainty are different. Confidence allows you to act despite what you don’t know. Certainty can convince you there’s nothing left to learn.
Motorcycling has been an interesting reminder of that distinction. Every ride teaches me something, sometimes through the smallest mistakes or the briefest moments of hesitation. The more comfortable I become, the more important it is to remember that comfort isn’t the same as mastery.
Shunryu Suzuki, in Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind, wrote:
“When you do something, you should do it with your whole body and mind; you should be concentrated on what you do. You should do it completely, like a good bonfire. You should not be a smoky fire. You should burn yourself completely.”
I like that.
There’s something beautiful about giving yourself completely to an experience, without becoming so attached to what you think you know that you stop paying attention.
When I ride, I try to bring my whole mind into it. To let each experience come all the way through, whether it’s exhilarating, frightening, frustrating, or quietly satisfying. To be present enough to recognize the lessons, and humble enough to accept them.
I’m still afraid sometimes. I still hesitate. I still make mistakes. But I’m growing a little more comfortable with those things, too.
After 1,700 miles, perhaps the most important thing I’ve learned isn’t how to ride with confidence, but how to remain a beginner even as that confidence grows.
And that’s a good, good feeling.
