The Open Road
There is nothing redeemable about you
You despicable shrew
You’re a monster and a ghoul
and the devil’s tool.
In your eyes I see nothing
not a hint of joy
nor a glimmer of love
for your own little boy.
You can control my body
but you can’t own my mind.
That is why I ride.
You can scare the wits out of me
and paralyze the world around me
that is why I ride.
You can try to capture my future
but you can’t stop the tide
that is why I ride.
You can’t stop the sunrise
or put on a fake disguise
that is why I ride.
You can suck the oxygen
right out of the room
like the devil’s vacuum cleaner
And give your own bloody version of doom
that is why I ride.
You dominate the news
with your twisted views
that’s why I ride.
You can hypnotize the world
Weave your terror so well
But you can never get me
under your spell
that’s why I ride.
And one last thing I’ll say
Is that you may have today
But one day, mark my words,
We will have the last say.
My love affair with the motorcycle began inauspiciously when I was 18. I got my first bike, a 250 cc Ducati, and not long after, one afternoon in Paramus, it caught fire because of a leaking hose.
That was the end of the Ducati but the beginning of a lifelong steel attraction to the two wheeled motorized machines. Trying to explain the beauty of the ride is like trying to explain a sunrise or a Mozart concerto or a Michelangelo painting; words fall flat. But I’ll try.
The speed is exhilarating, watching the needle climb to 100 mph on Route 80. The power surges between your legs, like having sex with 400 pounds of roaring chrome and steel. You are holding her as she holds you. The bike is a jealous lover that demands total attention. Anything less can spell oblivion. You have to be on your game always; there is no day dreaming allowed, no taking a hand off the handlebar grip for even a moment.
Watch the road go by and feel an unmatched freedom while you tempt fate and potential ruin, with nothing around you for protection. That is the thrill of facing danger and watching it blink. I’ve been extremely lucky to have never suffered an injury. Others have not. Just visit the rehab hospital and see the young and old, paralyzed and worse.
It can be the motorist who runs the red light or pulls into the left lane without looking. Or the sudden, gigantic pothole that throws bike and rider into chaos. And it happens in a heartbeat to the utterly powerless biker.
Do you hear me knocking on wood?
The bike is an extension of the body and like the body, it is not always perfect. On my way along Route 84 in Connecticut, sometime around 3 a.m., many years ago, the bike died. No matter how much I screamed and carried on, it would not start. It was a lonely few hours, just me and my broken steel body, with the cars and their doors and hoods and roofs speeding by.
The angry father of a girlfriend came to get me and I chained the bike to the railing until I could get it towed to safety and repair, which I did the next tired morning. I could hear it calling me in agony as I left the scene that hard night.
Weather is the great nemesis. Maneuvering through a driving rain with winds howling and pushing the machine all ways around. Trying to keep the bike straight, is no easy task. And there is nothing wetter than being drenched to the bone right through the minimally waterproof leathers.
The only condition worse than the drenching rain is the bone-chilling cold. The knees lose feeling, the pinkies become numb, despite the best winter wear. It is a test of physical and mental endurance where there is no sense in stopping and just delaying the inevitable return to the angry cold.
But then comes the rebirth of spring and summer and it all makes sense again. There is the camaraderie of bikers on the road and at the same time, the joy of solitude on the bike. The warm sun returns. Once again, it is only the bike and his lover and there is no moment that offers more freedom from the evils of the day.