The philosophy of haiku takes root in Zen Buddhism, as a direct way of observing nature, attempting to capture the fleeting moment that passes through nature and even ourselves.

In a way, haiku is also an exercise in ego suppression, not too dissimilar to motorcycling. With the immediacy of the ride, you tend to notice things: a shift in the wind, a tight corner opening up to something larger, a fiery orange sunset in your mirror.

The haiku follows the same process, and recalls these moments with words. Nothing said in excess; it's simply observation, stripped down to the essential. Like the motorcyclist stripping down distractions to focus on mechanical input, response and execution. Both the haiku and the motorcycle treat the ordinary as something worth experiencing completely, with a degree of respect. Just like any corner could be your last, you must ride with a degree of respect for your surroundings.

Similarly, a haiku considers it all, though it captures reality in fragments. These fragments are part of all life. Like a photograph, the words paint a picture, and they involve all of us in this shared space of perception and observation.

Through the haiku, we seek "Sono-mama," that is to say, seeing things as they truly are, and without judgment. In a way, I think this philosophy is quite beneficial and in tune with riding a motorcycle. So, I thought to myself:

>Why not start a community thread to collect some motorcycle-inspired haikus?

The poems themselves don't have to be about motorcycling; they could also be simple observations while you were out riding. No need to be a poet, in fact just the opposite. The practice of haiku is not about the author, but about the thing itself. The exercise is to erase whatever you are and to show whatever it is you are describing with clarity and acceptance.

Before you ask, no, a haiku does not strictly have to be 5-7-5 in its syllabic structure. This can be a good guide, but the focus should be on capturing the fleeting moment instead of an exercise in counting. Besides, traditional Japanese sound units are not the same thing as English syllables.

All it is: three statements stripped down to the essential, painting that picture we mentioned.

>At the apex
A kneepad grinds the pavement
A perfect line

or

>A cold start
Vibrations stir beneath
Joy, a ride away

The point is what the exercise does to your brain. Ever since I started bringing my little haiku journal on my rides, I've noticed that I'm dramatically more attentive. Not only this, but I remember to make more frequent stops and simply: take in more of my surroundings.

The result? A ride that feels safer and more fulfilling. Give it a try!

—

Author's note: This might be the post where y'all say: "He's definitely lost his marbles." That may be the case, but Pirsig was definitely on to something when he made the association between motorcycling and Zen so apparent. There's just something about that philosophy that is extremely beneficial to adopting not only safe riding practices, but also more meaningful rides. It's how you come to realize that riding a motorcycle can surpass the label "hobby," it can become a way of life, a road you take to become closer to Nature, and to the Self behind the self. The one that is part of it all, and doesn't cling to the illusion of isolation.

I get the impression that Keanu Reeves is the type of person who holds important knowledge about the things he does, except he doesn’t flaunt it. 

So I thought to investigate further, pulling from interviews, snippets and a little bit of hearsay to distill his motorcycle knowledge into what I’ll call Keanuism (or Keanu Revs, whichever catches on). I was surprised to find that it makes a lot of sense to me, and that his passion for motorcycles truly comes through not only in the things he says, but also in his actions.

According to most sources, the Reeves motorcycle saga begins in Munich, at a soundstage, when the then young actor saw a young woman on an enduro, and thought to ask:

>Can you teach me?

Depending on the interview, Reeves was around 22 years old. He was taught the basics, and when he got back to Los Angeles, he bought a Kawasaki KLR600. Soon after that, he got his hands on his first Norton.

From the get-go, you can tell that he had a particular aesthetic inclination, an image of the perfect motorcycle that followed him into his quest to build one himself. In GQ’s tour of his motorcycle collection, Reeves recalls growing up in Toronto and seeing motorcycle gangs pass through Yorkville in the summer. He describes the riders and machines as “pirates," and stresses just how much this image affected him as a 10-year-old. 

Before even becoming a rider, there’s this image he associates with motorcyclists as existing outside the usual social order. They arrive with their own identity, and a kind of danger that moves from place to place, one that’s difficult to pin down. 

While the image of the motorcyclist reaches us first, and is enough to propel us to dive into the hobby, it’s actually riding the thing that reveals what the experience is all about. And that is internalized in many unique ways, depending on the rider. But Reeves also understands that the type of motorcycle also brings out something different in the rider. 

His second motorcycle in LA was a 1973 Mark 2A Norton Commando, and he talks about Nortons fondly, with the affection of someone who remembers a good friend. He mentions the sound, the way the oil smells when the bike heats up. Despite the quirks, he develops personal relationships with the motorcycles he owns.

And that’s what is commendable about the way Keanu Reeves approaches motorcycling. It isn’t just a representation of something abstract like freedom, counterculture or what have you. First and foremost, it's the thing itself and how it affects the senses. There’s a machine between your legs; it vibrates, it heats up, and it answers badly if neglected. This gives off a smell or a sound. It’s one you learn to love and listen to, in order to develop true proximity. 

In an interview with GQ, Reeves explains that a motorcycle has these visceral qualities: vibration, wind, sound. Paying attention to all of these more physical processes is a fundamental part of the riding experience, it’s what makes openness and “flow” possible. It’s what opens the door to a conversation with your inner self.

Many have said something similar. But what Reeves seems to intuitively grasp is that a motorcycle gives you room to think insofar as you remember to listen, feel and look. You have to manage the machine, understand what it wants and respect its limits, before you start to ponder your own existence. 

And that’s what presence means on two wheels. It’s giving yourself a job first and foremost; this attentiveness that demands focus and discipline. This helps explain why Reeves’ motorcycle habit followed him through his work, as a way to keep him centered. 

In Cycle World, he talks about buying used bikes while working in different cities: a KZ900 in Chicago, a GS1100E in Portland, a Shovelhead in Pittsburgh, a Norton in Australia during The Matrix, the list goes on. There’s something practical here; the motorcycle moves with the rider, and becomes a way to inhabit a place, to explore it. The work often changes, the city does as well, the bike… But riding is the constant. 

That might be one of the least pretentious ways to understand a lifelong obsession with motorcycling. You keep finding different versions of the same experience, like different engines, but the same basic need to keep riding. 

As with all things, there’s a price to pay. In Cycle World, Reeves mentions broken teeth, a ruptured spleen, a broken arm and leg. In GQ, he explains that film contracts sometimes told him he could not ride because productions considered him an asset they did not want damaged. His response, more or less, was that sometimes he listened and sometimes he didn’t.

Because when something is so a part of your way of life, nobody can really tell you to put it down unless you want to. I kind of admire this type of stubbornness. The kind that puts your own life in your hands, consciously and willingly.

To balance this perspective, Reeves’ public advice to new riders is noticeably cautious. He mentions the importance of proper instruction, protective gear, weather and not being seduced by too many motorcycles too soon.

You can tell that Reeves clearly loves the romance of riding, but he also recognizes the risk is a part of it, and it shouldn’t be ignored. Then, there’s ARCH.

ARCH Motorcycles began because Reeves wanted to personalize a Harley Dyna Wide Glide. He met Gard Hollinger, who owned a custom building company called Chop Rods, and the two stripped the Harley down to the engine. They built a prototype around it, and the result became the seed of ARCH. Reeves has said that when he rode Hollinger’s custom motorcycle, he felt it needed to exist in the world. 

Once again, we return to the core of Keanu’s relationship with motorcycles: feeling and physicality. Recognizing a unique relationship with the motorcycle, and wanting to preserve it. ARCH now exists as a way to challenge the idea of what an “American” motorcycle could be, and could look like. Combining the appeal of the custom scene with the ergonomics of modern design. 

Then there’s this heartwarming story that I’m glad I stumbled upon. After filming the “Burly Brawl” sequence in The Matrix Reloaded, Reeves reportedly bought Harleys for 12 stuntmen as a thank you. 

See, there are people who will talk all day about their love for motorcycles, and then there are people like Keanu Reeves, who show love with more than words. They create, give, share, redefine and still nurture a personal and evolving relationship with the sport. That’s why Reeves feels like a wise figure in the world of motorcycling. Because, like many wise philosophers of old, he backs everything he says with actions that are in line with the words. Something which philosophy itself abandoned centuries ago!

In a way, it’s not what he says alone that makes the difference, because many others say similar things. But I can name only a few that live in such harmony, balancing their words with an active and practical contribution to the motorcycle world. 

A final thought which is telling: I think Keanu Reeves would have found a way to do all of the above with neither the money nor the fame. What do you think?

-

Looks like I've officially begun a "What They Understood" Series, focusing on well-known riders and their philosophical takes on motorcycling.

For the first part of the series, see: What Neil Peart Understood About Motorcycling

We all have this idea of the perfect line when it comes to cornering. We chase after it like junkies. That moment where there's this invisible arrow that we create, starting from the beginning of the corner to the exit. That moment where everything feels clean and you're effortlessly adhering to geometric principles.

But why does it still feel so mystical? Even rare, at times when we feel like no corner wants to bend to our will, no matter our skill?

Isn't all just math and physics? It should be simple. A corner is about radius. The tighter the turn, the smaller the radius. And vice versa. This matters because the bike has to lean in order to balance the forces acting on it.

The basic relationship looks like this:

>lean angle = arctan(speed² ÷ radius x gravity)

Basically, speed demands that the bike lean more and very quickly, while a wider radius demands less. If you double your speed, you don't simply double the demand on the bike. You square it. That's why a corner that feels like nothing at one speed can suddenly feel like you're taking the great adios.

It's also why line choice matters. A good line makes a corner wider than it first appears. It can reduce the amount of lean needed, and give you more space if something unexpected happens.

On a racetrack, the ideal line means using as much pavement as possible to create the widest arc. On the road, it's a little more tricky. We all want to chase after the perfect line, but here it's subject to context. Whether it be a blind corner, less available road space, a pothole, a deer (shoutout to the recent YT video)... You get the picture.

Here's where our philosophical approach starts to chime in. Given our value of adaptability on the road, and factors like unpredictability, does the perfect line actually matter at all?

To paraphrase Plato here, the idea of the perfect line exists: it's clean, and mathematical. But as Heraclitus would likely point out, the reality of the ride is subject to change. No singular ride is ever the same, and that completely shatters our hopes and dreams of chasing perfection.

Because really, if you do such a thing, you will eventually compromise your safety. Since the ride happens alongside weather, traffic, fear, judgment, and whatever oil spilled from the bottom of a 2008 Subaru Impreza (terrible year for the poor boxer, I know).

Save the perfect line for the track, and pretend like it doesn't exist on the road. What does exist is the right line, at the right moment. I think that's what Aristotle would say, if he owned a Gixxer.

The right line is the one that preserves vision and gives you room to adapt. That beautiful arc must be bendable, and so, no longer a beautiful arc.

For people who love aesthetics, this could be a difficult thing to let go of. And don't fool yourselves, it's a clear and present reality in most our riding, and it shows up in sneaky ways. For example, we're tearing through corners one day and the weather is beautiful. We start to feel a kind of flow and start chasing more lean angle. To drop a knee, to find that "optimal cornering speed." But the context never disappears, and we might start to overreach.

Once again, remind yourselves that the road isn't always your canvas to paint. Aesthetics should always take a back seat to safety. I would even argue that there's a beauty in this more humble approach, but it's definitely on the subtler side. That's why I avoid the tendency to impose a perfect shape onto the world. I try to read it for what it is, allowing that shape to change.

Geometry gives us this dream of precision. Motorcycling on the road teaches us the humility of adjustment. And somewhere between the two, there's still a line worth taking.

—

You can find this article and many others on our page dedicated to motorcycle philosophy. Check it out here.

Featured Image sourced from Agence Rol. - Coureurs motocyclistes - Anzani, Alessandro (1877-1956) - octobre 1904

A fair number of motorcyclists are also travellers. They move not only from one destination to the next, but treat the journey itself as a destination. Countless precious moments are stored in our memory, while we're just passing through. And countless goodbyes hit us like a punch to the gut.

I'd like to think that the intensity I feel while travelling is somewhat expected. It isn't always easy, but it comes with its dose of clarity and appreciation. Because you know your time is finite, and that you'll be moving on in a short while, you "stop to smell the roses," and concern yourself with truly living in the moment.

For me, the downside to my travels is that they always feel like lucid dreams moving further away from me on some bullet train, as soon as I return home. Sure, I appreciate more things in the moment, but there's this hyper-awareness of time just passing through me at a very high speed, ready to turn a great moment into a memory I struggle to remember with precision.

And that's why the motorcycle goodbye hits a little different. It's not only the struggle to accept that the experiences in a given location are now just memories, but also the frequency of having to do this when you're always on the move. It's coming to terms with often wanting more time, actually deciding to leave, and hopefully looking forward to the next part of the journey.

As we move through time and space on two wheels, we greet one area one day, and bid it farewell the next. We make friendships, discover parts of ourselves and areas that surprise us. There's this temptation in the act of travelling, one that tries to convince you:

>You can stay here for longer. This might be where you belong...

But there's a fundamental point of friction. While you are travelling, you do not see the places and people through the eyes of someone who is part of that environment. You are always looking in from the outside, even when you are in it. Because of the nature of your quest, you are always in motion.

And in a way, it casts everything in a rosy light. I'm not saying that this is a bad thing necessarily, because you typically tend to remember and give more meaning to the things that are special, that don't last. You might not be seeing each environment as it is in its more sober day-to-day, but you are appreciating its beautiful elements in acute ways.

This is surely a more romantic approach to motorcycle travel; I'm fully aware that some can take completely different approaches and still appreciate their journey in other ways, and with less acute sadness about saying farewell to places they cherish.

But for the travellers who try to hold the time they have like sand in their palms, it's a very difficult task to turn around and just move on. Practicing motorcycle travel in this way might be some kind of life exercise in coping with your own mortality. Because you are forced to see time as finite, and you are forced to let it slip away. You are forced to bid farewell to important moments in your life, and accept that they may never return. That you might never return.

>And here's the sobering reality: Even if you do return, you won't be the same.

It's easy to treat travel locations as this well you can go back to in order to feel the same great feelings you once did, but this is never guaranteed. In fact, your experience in the same location will always be different the more you visit it. The well might even run dry and leave you filled with resentment and cynicism. So much so that you'll forget why you ever valued it in the first place.

In a way, what I'm describing is an inability to actually say goodbye. To let go of a place and admit that it's never certain you'll return. It's a difficult task for any traveller, but I think it should be considered with a degree of severity, so you don't keep looking for joy in a past version of yourself.

Here's what I like to do. When I say goodbye, I also say thank you. If an experience, place, or person filled your life with meaning, even if it was for a short while, express that this actually happened through a kind of gratitude. It inherently accepts that there is this something that's already in your past, and that it provided you with something that is worth thanking.

What more could you ask for? The goodbye is the act of humility that says: I appreciate what happened here, and I don't need anything more. Whether you ever receive more from that place is a question of utter chance, but the act of accepting the joy you've experienced is utterly in your control.

And so, the series of goodbyes on your travels become exercises in self-mastery. Each time you close a door, you pause. You recognize all the good things that happened, and you leave it as it is. Only the road ahead of you remains, and it's in the nature of motorcycle travel to keep the wheels-a-rollin'.

—

Author's note: Perhaps this article has more personal undertones for me, as I am in the process of leaving my hometown in Greece to return to my other home in Canada. I always struggle to leave one place behind when I spend time there travelling, and I have tried to avoid saying goodbye by leaving the metaphorical door open to return "soon." I noticed, however, that this kind of approach kept me valuing time spent there in the past, romanticizing my nostalgia while looking to recreate what I used to feel in the same environment.

I definitely think that this was one of the main obstacles in my way when it came to setting up future plans and executing them. Because I always had a foot in a doorway I left behind. This opened my eyes to how easy it is to idolize travel locations, to give them this grand importance because you interacted with them so fully and completely, once upon a time.

The trap to avoid, I think, is to expect that same kind of interaction from the same places if you decide to return. I might even say: never return to a location just because you're greedily trying to experience more of the same thing you did back then. Any place, be it your backyard or some far-off idyllic landscape, has something new to offer you, if you care to look. If you're looking in front of you, if you're open to change... And if you actually have the "stones" to say goodbye when it's all over.

Featured Image sourced from the NESR archives.

In a way, I'm also asking: What makes a good teacher? At first glance, it's relatively easy to list core values that we associate with pedagogy, like patience, encouragement, concern, and collaboration.

>But is a patient, encouraging, concerned, and collaborative person also necessarily a good teacher?

Let's go back to ancient Greece for a minute, since I am raising the Aristotelian dilemma of whether or not a list of virtues or qualities can be enough to call someone good at a given task. When I use the word "good," I simply mean capable in the practice of something. I don't mean it in the moral sense, though we can also weigh this dilemma at an ethical level later on.

While it's true that possessing certain virtues can definitely aid in being more capable at something like teaching, you can very well guess that someone who possesses all the virtues might not be a good teacher if, for instance, they have absolutely no experience teaching.

Having experience teaching not only means mastering a given subject matter, but also knowing how, when, and why to teach it. These questions are the fundamental preoccupation of every teacher, and they might be completely foreign to anyone who hasn't actually practiced teaching yet, despite their good intentions and capacity.

Teaching is also about context. The ability to change how you approach a subject depending on the environment best suited for internalizing the kind of knowledge it hopes to pass on. This is perfectly clear in the case of motorcycling, because exposure to the actual practice of riding is quintessential to learning.

Sure, you might start learning about motorcycling in a classroom, and you might know exactly how the machine operates on a mechanical level, but it's rarely ever enough to actually ride the thing. So, you get to some parking lot one morning, armed with your excitement and readiness, and you meet your instructor.

What will make this instructor actually good at their job is their ability to take you from someone who is incapable of riding a motorcycle to someone who can, at the very least, control it within closed parameters, and eventually, out on the road.

I tip my hat to all motorcycle instructors out there. The task is much more complicated than it would seem. Because you are also putting something quite dangerous in front of a variety of people, with different inclinations, some of whom might not fully grasp how much harm the bike can do to them if they get arrogant.

As a motorcycle instructor, you have to be able to quickly identify the type of student you are teaching. And this is difficult because, in most cases, you are teaching groups of students. Except learning how to master the controls of a motorcycle does not come so naturally to most, and it can often backfire most on those who "think they know" what they're doing.

So, you have to teach in a general sense, but you also have to keep your wits about you to quickly identify which student has a proclivity for being overconfident (there's always a genius who wheelies the bike on the first start-up, isn't there), which is too frightened to handle the thing, which thinks they're already a teacher themselves... the list goes on.

Each one of those types of motorcycle students often requires individual feedback, which makes the task of group teaching rather difficult. A good motorcycle teacher will often present the essential knowledge, and quickly speak to individuals requiring more tailored feedback. Being able to do this effortlessly in the context of limited time is what sets a good motorcycle instructor apart. It's managing multiple people while also providing notes to each person based on the kinds of specific difficulties they struggle with. It doesn't have to be "attitude"; it could be as simple as struggling to shift, while for others, it could be low-speed turns.

Being able to juggle so many individualized factors in a lesson is often a testament to the instructor's experience in actually teaching his craft. It almost has nothing to do with a combination of virtues. I've actually met the most impatient, explosive, and uncompromising instructors who were absolutely fantastic at what they did, simply because they had the experience and capacity to identify the exact thing that the student needed to sort out.

Sure, it'll help if your teacher is a little more patient and zen, but if they can't pinpoint your weaknesses and help you pull yourself out of them, you will inevitably crash your bike. Plain and simple. It might not happen in the lesson, but it'll happen out there (even worse).

I can't explain what a joy it was to be lucky enough to have good motorcycle instructors. I almost wish I could take back my experience and revisit those lessons once more. To feel that sense of improvement and to experience the moment where "everything clicked."

But in a way, I still can. Because having experience doesn't mean you're through being a student. Many riders forget that advanced courses exist, and that they're actually pretty awesome. Not to mention that there's a statistical link between passing advanced classes and fewer motorcycle fatalities, so that's a plus.

The good motorcycle instructor is not simply defined by this or that quality. They are defined by judgment: knowing when to teach, who is in front of them, and what measures are required to keep the student safe while moving them forward.

—

My thanks to motorcycle instructors far and wide, and teachers in general. The ability to connect with such a wide variety of students, combined with this perseverance to get through to them all, is no easy task.

Featured Image sourced from Jerry Sprint - NESR.

Let's finally address the elephant in the room: Easy Rider (1969). A film not only about escaping the grasp of social constructs, but also about reconnecting with one's "freer" and more primal nature.

The way to do this? A motorcycle.

Watching this film is when I first noticed how philosophy and motorcycling could be so easily joined together. Add the perfect soundtrack to an already errant and plotless film, and you have the perfect recipe for a cult classic.

The central philosophical theme of the film is to be found during the campfire scene, where Jack Nicholson's character explains to Billy (Dennis Hopper) that people's idea of freedom and the act of being free are entirely different. Here, the US identity of championing individual freedom is at odds with the genuinely free person, who is often scary and treated as an outcast of society.

The truly free person appears dangerous; and a society will seek to squash this threat, often violently and quickly. As Hanson puts it:

>I mean, it’s real hard to be free when you are bought and sold in the marketplace. Of course, don’t ever tell anybody that they’re not free, ’cause then they’re gonna get real busy killin’ and maimin’ to prove to you that they are. Oh, yeah, they’re gonna talk to you, and talk to you, and talk to you about individual freedom. But they see a free individual, it’s gonna scare ’em.

This spirit is also reflected in some of the rhetoric that Manson used when he was interviewed. Which shows just how dangerous and fine the line is between radical freedom, rebellion, and being held accountable by society. In some cases, you try to escape the oppressive forces that try to fit you in a square, but in others, resentment and anger builds to the point of unspeakable violence and/or heavy drug use. To escape a condition you are incapable of reconciling with.

I think Easy Rider works as a social commentary of the times, and it even gets quite experimental and "artsy," for a box office smash hit, I want to say (thinking of the famous cemetery scene here). Peter Fonda's dad even admitted not understanding what the hell it was about, and coming from that old cinema mentality, I totally get why. Still, it has something to say about American counterculture, both in its rebellion against Hollywood films and in its subject matter, characters and cinematography.

All this to say, it's definitely a favourite of mine, and of countless others I think, as soon as the words "motorcycle" and "film" are pronounced, this is likely the first of those films that jumps to mind.

With that out of the way, here are my top 3 must-watch films and why I chose them. Each one deals with a different facet of owning and riding a motorcycle, showcasing the brilliant depth of something as simple as a two-wheeled machine.

1. Psychomania (1973): Supernatural horror, acid/psych rock music, motorcycles and being resurrected as an all-powerful member of the undead! What's not to like?
2. Being Evel (2015): A glimpse into the life of the infamous stuntman we all know by name, but not so much in detail. Motorcycling isn't just riding on the road; in this case, it's also a tool to defy death itself.
3. Akira (1988): Simply couldn't leave this one out. The unique Japanese cyberpunk atmosphere, the metaphysical, dystopian and futuristic commentary, combined with the unforgettable animation are perfect, full stop.

Honourable mentions: Terminator ("I need your clothes, your boots and your motorcycle." is the holiest of lines to grace the silver screen), Tron, The Motorcycle Diaries, The Wild One, Long Way Round, and our very own attempt to break the overland circumnavigation world record by riding around the world in 16 days and 23 hours: Yalla Habibi!

—

I'd be curious to know your top picks, especially if they're super niche. I'm always on the lookout for random unknown films about motorcycling, it's like an addiction at this point!

I send this stuff by email, y'know. Have a peek at our moto-philosophy newsletter here. It might just shock you with its utter pretentiousness, but I have yet to namedrop Hegel, so that's a good thing I reckon.

It's a common cliché: the lone rider traveling from one highway to the next, searching for something society cannot provide. Thank the film Easy Rider for that, I guess.

What I want to discuss is whether a motorcycle can somehow aid in providing meaning to loneliness. After all, it's just an object, a kind of tool that gets you from one place to another. But as we all know, it's not just that.

I think everyone feels lonely at some point in their lives. Some move in and out of it; others exist with it their entire lives. In the latter case, we can wittily point out, as did the famous singer Georges Moustaki, that they are never lonely, those who have their loneliness to keep them company.

I don't think loneliness is an "enemy" to fight off. I think it almost forces you to confront all the things you might be running away from. But it doesn't always. Because most of us (me included, not trying to take the high ground here) cannot actually sit with ourselves most of the time. A million and one distractions cascade into our lives; we find busywork to forget, a romantic partner to provide us with affection, and get-togethers to remember what closeness feels like.

You could say that our modern-day lives offer us a lot of ease in silencing solitude. Because, in a way, solitude is pain. It's social isolation, it's looking at yourself and often seeing all the imperfections. It's letting thoughts come to your mind that you are ill-equipped to deal with, or that you fear might consume you.

Emil Cioran puts it in a way that I never can when he says:

>The truly solitary being is not the man who is abandoned by men, but the man who suffers in their midst, who drags his desert through the marketplace.

As if to say: the truly lonely are not the castaways, the hermits, nor the monks, strangely enough. The lonely are the people who are among us, the ones who get up and go to work, the ones who sit in silence at parties; heck, they might even be the ones who are the life of the party. You never know who is carrying a vast desert within them, and it's never as obvious as it seems.

One might feel lonely because they are misunderstood, or because they cannot seem to understand themselves. Of course, there are many reasons. It almost seems like it's more common in today's times, with how easy it is to become estranged from others. Consumed by distraction, pressured to feel this anxiety in every facet of our lives. For what?

In comes the bike. I know, it took a while. I think a lot of us ride because it's a healthy way of coping with loneliness. Even in groups, most of us are sitting alone on that motorcycle. Most of us have a particular relationship to our own bike. A kind of companionship, but one that exists somewhat symbolically. The machine itself provides a practical means of escape, though it's always us taking action.

There's often no one else. But the rumbling of the engine provides enough "noise" to quiet the intrusive thoughts. The concentration required while riding also limits distraction. The motorcycle is one of the perfect "places" (yes, I also think it's a moving location, kind of like Hemingway's "moveable feast") to discover what it means to be alone. Not only this, but to assist in coping with pre-existing loneliness that you might feel off the bike.

I'm not going to lie, many other things do the same thing. I'm not going to say something like "Cars just aren't the same, man!" Because I have also felt this peacefulness in loneliness driving down a deserted road at the crack of dawn, with some of my favourite music playing.

Like I've said before, we ride motorcycles and we know it's a unique experience in many regards. There's more at stake, and our relationship with the sport is its own thing. Less of a chore; more of a passion. Something that's a part of us, and can also become an extension of the way we feel.

Funnily enough, some of the times I've felt safest in my life have been on the bike. A lot of people might not get it, but I know that others do. And that matters on a fundamental level. Being able to "go somewhere" and be at ease. When thoughts of isolation can no longer be ignored.

Then, there's just one thing left to do. Not just "ride out," but also: ride into the part of your life that is so alone. With a bike by your side, it won't be as deserted as you think. At least, that's my hypothesis.

—

Author's note: As a musical companion to this article, the fantastic song "Only the Lonely" by Roy Orbison jumps to mind. It's frequently been my go-to song in moments of feeling blue. Wow, just noticing how many random references this article has. I'll call myself slightly pretentious before I get roasted in the comments section. The ego survives yet another day...

If any of you would enjoy receiving this kind of stuff by email, I also send the articles as part of our newsletter here. Even philosophers need to hit KPIs in this day and age. Sheesh!

Featured Image: Lamberjack sur motocyclette Griffon, 14 septembre 1905 : photographie de presse / Agence Rol

I've alluded to loathing the very nature of group rides in the past. But I'd like to set matters straight, and by that I mean provide a more balanced perspective, now that I've had some time on my own to think about the topic from a less emotional standpoint.

I think group rides can be some of the most fulfilling and exhilarating experiences in motorcycling, full stop. Does my personal experience reflect this? Not at all. And yet, my intuition tells me others have experienced it in all its glory.

First, let's get the negatives out of the way. Large group rides are always a toss-up. That is to say, rides that feature a lot of bikers you haven't met or ridden with before. You could have the best and most experienced blockers and leaders; there will always be a kind of unpredictable pace you'll either struggle to keep up with or get anxious to break free of. The ride becomes this moving organism you are technically part of, but don't fully understand.

On top of that, emergency braking in big groups is one of the most dangerous experiences I've been involved in. You're kind of sandwiched in a chain of riders, and it's more difficult to make emergency maneuvers. If the rider with ABS ahead of you suddenly slams the brakes and you've got to match braking power... it's a sketchy situation, to say the least.

I get this feeling of pressure in large group rides. I don't know if it's just me, but there's this atmosphere I can't really pin down. The kind that makes you feel like you've got to ride a little past your comfort zone. And I think that riding in groups requires an altogether different set of skills one might not yet have, based on experience.

You might say: just go at your own pace, or ride with the people you know, and let the others either catch up or pass you. But it's already quite a chaotic environment if you've got 50+ bikes doing the same route. I feel like you've got to be just that much more attentive. Could be a matter of getting used to it, but after a couple of big group rides, I think I had ridden enough for a lifetime.

Then there's what I'll call the "friend off the bike, fiend on the bike" trap. Just because you get along famously with certain riders off the bike doesn't mean your pace and style will line up on the bike. I made the mistake of blindly going on a group ride with friends I simply hung out with, and boy, were they hooligans on the bike. Immediately setting a pace that made me feel about as safe as a lit match at a gas station.

And then there's just your own personal preference. If you are the type who doesn't like following other riders, trying to match their pace, then you don't have to. If you don't like the pressure of leading a pack of riders somewhere because it gives you planning anxiety, or if you keep looking over your shoulder as often as a wanted criminal, it simply might not be for you.

Now, the flip side...

I say all this, and yet, I find that there's a lot of joy to be had in smaller groups that communicate well, that don't put any pressure on you, and that understand that you might need to break free from the formation from time to time. It's like developing this bond with people you trust and ironing out the kinks that make you feel unsafe.

The cool thing is that when this is accomplished, you're more likely to be seen on the road, and you're riding that much safer. There is something genuinely impressive about a group that moves cleanly together. No panic, no weird ego contest, no one trying to prove they are the main character of a GoPro compilation. Just riders who understand each other's habits well enough to make the whole thing feel almost effortless.

I've seen it in many groups before, and I kind of admire it. How they look like absolute units, and how the ride looks totally natural. It's a honed skill that beginners often get scared away from developing (me included), and it's kind of a shame. I feel like it's become a lot more difficult to find groups of people you just "gel" with, from the point of view of the beginner rider just getting into the sport, but I could be wrong.

To use more of a millennial reference, looking for group rides feels like queuing up with randoms in a video game. Often frustrating and lacking in any kind of communication. And then you face a group of organized gamers here and there, or accidentally join up with that one team that's got it down pat, and suddenly the truth is revealed to you. "This feels awesome; this is how I want to play the game!"

Great group rides are out there; you've just got to know what to look for. I think communication is the biggest factor, as well as having a good nose for who's got an ego. If the group operates like a unit, chances are they are one. If there's bickering about pace, where you're going, and a clearly disorganized mindset, you're probably better off doing your own thing.

I'd be curious to hear your experiences with group rides, especially the positive ones, because I feel like I've been so cynical of them for far too long, likely to my disservice. The best part of motorcycling might be the people you meet along the way, but only when the ride gives those people enough room to trust each other.

—

Featured images sourced from Agence Rol. Agence photographique - Coureurs motocyclistes - 1925-1927 - Bibliothèque nationale de France.

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Legacy is a tricky topic. I fully acknowledge many aren't looking for it, aren't thinking about it, or are "above" it. And yet, there's something about immortality that's universal to the human experience. Ironically, said experience exists insofar as mortality is a reality. I guess that's why we're so obsessed with the cup of life.

Eternity, in a sip. Surviving an ordeal, making it through a corner that almost killed you. Passing on our knowledge, ingraining our habits and values in our children. We know we won't stick around, but we want to ensure something lives on. A mannerism, a way of thinking, a kid that'll replace us.

We cling on to what we know because that's all we know, and everything outside inspires fear. To disappear totally and completely is a practice of many monks and wise men, but who can say that this is the point? Most of us run toward individuation, the expression of the self, the barbaric yawp that screams, "I am here, now, and this is my legacy!"

Part of riding a motorcycle is throwing oneself into the eye of the storm; that is to say, voluntarily choosing to practice a hobby that makes our lives that much more fragile. Why do we do it? Apart from the simpler answers like "it's fun" and "I feel free," isn't there a defiance in this act alone?

A kind of existential arrogance. The one that says:

>I can fully expose myself to the elements, propel my body forward at 100-200 km/h, and come out of it alive. I can defy my mortal condition, this time...

What is "feeling alive?" Is it not this flirtation with the powers that will erase us, and returning to the land of the living? What is a "legacy?" Is it not the parts of us that can endure, against all odds, when Time itself seeks to destroy them?

Chances are, it will, eventually. Even if you're Valentino Rossi or whomever. The time humanity has actually existed in the grand scheme of things is a speck of dust, the distance between two strands of hair on your head (or the ones you remember having once, if you're currently bald).

Mathematically, from this macro perspective, humanity's legacy is nothing. I say humanity and not yours. So, the same logic would be even more telling if we apply it to ourselves, right? And yet, all we know is what we experience, and we do not want to be nothing. For us, no matter how long we are here, we crave meaning.

I don't think I have said anything new, but that's not my goal. Opening avenues to a question that traverses our everyday is my concern. I think these kinds of topics are universal, and yet I find myself thinking about them only rarely, if at all.

I don't want to reach the end of my life and feel the urgency to address any grand philosophical question, simply because I feel my mortality more closely. I notice that even in health, the question is always there, waiting for a response.

So, who wants to live forever? I'll quote the wonderful Queen lyrics below, and address the question in a different light.

>There's no time for us
There's no place for us
What is this thing that builds our dreams
Yet slips away from us?

>Who wants to live forever?

>There's no chance for us
It's all decided for us
This world has only one sweet moment
Set aside for us

>Who wants to live forever?
Who dares to love forever
When love must die?

Our early lives are spent building dreams. We spend the rest of our lives in this simultaneous awareness that they will be erased, like us, but also that we can't do anything but make them as real as we can. We try to grasp at the pieces of who we are, to express them through things like motorcycling, and yet... The dice have already been cast. Despite our willingness to endure, we are condemned to take an off-ramp out of here at some point.

I'd like to think there are these singular moments when we truly are immortal. When it feels as though nothing can rob us of our joy, of this grand expression of the self. The courage to love, to say "this is who I am and devil take me," regardless of how the dice have fallen. Regardless of what awaits ahead.

For me, this is legacy. It's felt acutely, it's a known experience (perhaps to you alone), but in those moments, you cannot be vanquished by life in all its hardships. It's courage, and it expresses itself in time and space, regardless of the fact that in the grand scheme of things, this expression is quickly erased. After all, isn't this our destiny?

—

I'd be curious to hear about moments that, for you, made you feel this sense of immortality, even if it lasted a few seconds. I have a suspicion that motorcycling brings out this kind of feeling more acutely than many other hobbies, simply due to its proximity to mortality.

Featured Image
Agence Rol. Agence photographique - Un homme et sa moto : photographie de presse - Motocyclettes Portraits - 1922 - Collection Bibliothèque nationale de France

I might be opening Pandora's box with this post, but I'd like to talk about faith. Not in relation to a specific religion, but in relation to motorcycling (some might even call this their religion).

It might be obvious to point this out at first, but every time we turn into a corner, shift, or squeeze the front brake, we put our faith in a complex series of physical processes that respond to our will. Why do they? Because they have been engineered to do so. Not by you, but by some company, by some entity you have never met, and for all you know, only exists because of cool branding.

The epistemic certainty is that you have a machine in front of you that performs a certain way, and you call it a motorcycle. You are capable of understanding what it can do, but there is a part of it that exceeds your desire for control. Enter a little beast called "context." A motorcycle will perform differently on a wet road vs a dry one; it will respond differently to a clean road vs a sandy one next to a beach.

My point is: given the wild variety of contexts, there are so many elements that influence the physical relationship you have with your motorcycle, to the point where you can't really say you are fully "in control." There's a part of the relationship that relies on faith.

>Faith that your tires are "new enough." Faith that the same corner you took yesterday in the same aggressive fashion is "the same" today. Faith that your ABS kicks in this time.

Anything can happen, even when we're talking about an over-engineered piece of machinery. It is still subject to context and spontaneous or predictable malfunction. And let's face it, we're not always "on top of things" when it comes to maintenance (well, some are, but I doubt we all follow the service manual like fanatics).

It's very odd indeed, because I can't really define what faith is. I think about it, and in a way, I know I'm defeated. Even with all my philosophical prowess. One of the most fundamental human emotions, expressed across aeons, and we don't really have a satisfying definition?

>Now, the spicy thought is: Why do I know it's there?

How can I know that a feeling/concept/reality exists when I can't even define it? I can say things like "faith is trust in something you don't understand fully." Or, "faith is a leap whereby courage expresses itself in the humility we foster."

But I cannot encompass every aspect of this perplexing feeling with words. Faith asks a question. In the case of motorcycling, it might receive an answer in the way the machine responds to your input. But then again, it might not. The faith you put in your traction today could be disrupted by very real things, though they often surpass your understanding in the given context of being an operator.

And then there's belief, often used synonymously with faith. We have faith because we believe in something. We believe that things will be OK, that this or that outcome, even if expected or predictable, will occur.

Whether you're a spiritual type or not, I fail to see how anyone can deny the presence of belief as a fundamental anchor in motorcycling. Every time you start the bike, turn a corner, or pop a wheelie, you deliver an unspoken command alongside the mechanical one. It's not conscious, nor is it inherently spiritual or metaphysical, but your actions are "expecting" a response.

Think about it. You're sitting on an engine creating a series of micro-explosions and combustions with every revolution; you're literally sitting on a kind of bomb. You're not the one who engineered the thing, nor the one who understands it in every possible aspect (heck, I don't even think the one who did would admit they knew everything either). You're just the one riding it, hoping and, in a way, praying that it will accept your inputs.

The motorcycle isn't a God, but it can humble you with the fury of one. Putting our faith in the machine is something we do every time we start it up. But this is nothing without the know-how and knowledge we need to keep the bike running in its most optimal condition. Faith might always be there, but blind faith is what puts us in the hospital.

And so, like in everything we choose to trust, doing so with awareness and openness to adapting the way we act and think is of paramount importance.

—

Author's note: I find this post kind of banal in some ways, because you could apply the same logic to your coffee machine. Every day you pop in your little pod, or prepare your fancy shot and hit "brew," you're in this silence, awaiting the appropriate response from something outside your control. In that moment, you put your faith in something, and expect a result. Now, think about all the people who put their faith in things without expecting something in return. It begs the question: Do we need results to have faith? Human activity tells a fascinating tale. Psychoanalysts might argue that there is always an egotistical or collective drive and expectation to "receive," but this gift might be metaphysical, or simply not manifest in our reality. Think of Ancient Egyptians and the treasures in the tombs they built. Their belief was that the reward would be given in the afterlife. But I digress, from coffee machines to grand metaphysical expectations.

Also, back when "riding" actually meant riding (a horse), you were putting your faith in something that had a total will of its own. Horses could be trained, but they weren't "engineered" to respond to your commands. And yet, experienced riders could handle them in predictable ways. Still, there's a large part of that experience that involves putting your faith in another living being. At its core, that's all it is; riders become riders in the delicate balance between the knowledge they develop (the control they have) and the faith in the other (the control they don't have).

I can't help it. Nostalgia has an overwhelming presence in my life. Every time I stop to think, moments burned into my memory come pouring into me, and I am left in a constant state of relating to words, actions, and a version of myself that no longer exists.

"Focus on the now." "Chase new experiences." "Plan your future." I keep hearing all this advice, almost powerless to stop the itch to look back. As if a revelation were waiting for me in 2012, on some rainy afternoon I forgot to consider. Live enough, and the same places you drive by turn into a picture book of feelings and visuals that belong to your previous self.

>But what does that do to the present? Is it simply there to remind you of all the things that slipped through your fingers?

I'd like to think that nostalgia is a way to refuse a harsher reality, the one in which the current version of yourself is existing. This is a reality in which uncertainty reigns; you have not yet created the experience to look back on, and you have all this open space ahead of you. That space can look like a void; it can look like a dense forest in which you are only certain of one thing: that you will disappear.

If you make your existence a constant relationship to the past, your memory is the essential component making all of this possible. Your memory is your identity; it's an amalgamation of all the things that make you who you are, and the safety net of having those thoughts locked in some box inside your brain.

As such, voluntarily throwing oneself into the unknown, into that dense forest, is, in a way, admitting that you can also erase a part of yourself, that this memory you hold so dear is not as "certain" as you think. The power of nostalgia tricks you into feeling a sense of security because you can remember parts of your past. Except, it's all rosy precisely because you have forgotten other parts of your past.

Memory is a selective little devil. If you could remember every single detail, I doubt this would be a welcome reality. If anything, it would be hell itself. In a way, the forgotten moments of your past are not so different from the moments you have yet to experience in your future. In both cases, the you of today, with whatever things it knows, must enter willingly into a space of erasure. Not to access what is now inaccessible, but to exist in a place that's different from the "safety" of who you think you are.

>I am held back by the illusions of who I think I am. If the safety net of my memory has taught me something, it's that I'd rather cherish an ideal that makes me feel less threatened than a reality that's messy, that cannot be understood right away, that does not bend to my way of thinking.

This is why I ride. Alone, wherever the road takes me. It's one of many antidotes I can think of, where I trick myself into playing a different kind of game. One that allows me to erase parts of myself I thought were set in stone. The danger, the added awareness I must have, there is simply no room to seek refuge in my past. I must be here, I must look ahead, into whatever horizon is saturated with the ever-changing colours of dawn and dusk. Part of me existing as a stationary image, and the act of dissidence. The setting in motion of another part of me that is simply not content with that definition.

I'm not trying to say I have "overcome" anything, nor do I think I am much of a different person because of this practice. But in it, in the rebellious act of disappearing, scenes, feelings, and thoughts come to me that feel foreign to my patterns. A kind of acceptance, that reality is never and was never what I wanted it to be. It's just there; I'm moving through it one day, and the next, I will be gone.

Is riding an exercise in ego death? Not for everyone, but it can be. Especially for those of you who might be looking to understand something outside your comfort zones. You don't need to let time turn you into an archivist of your own memories. You can also unravel by giving away the control over your self-image and allowing the negative space of the unknown to teach.

We are who we are, but we also contain the possibility of becoming what we are not. Sounds mystical, but it took me a long time to accept that there is freedom in letting the self go unnamed for a while. To be no one, even briefly, is to move through the world without asking anyone to confirm the person you think you are. Maybe that is the strange mercy of the ride: it gives the unknown enough room to enter.

>In a space where we aren't really trying to be someone, are we really all that different from one another?

—

Featured Image Source: NESR, Reggie Honda

Author's Note: The NESR Gallery available on Wikimedia Commons and Flickr is one of my favourite collection of vintage motorcycle pictures. There's something magical in the scenes they captured, even more so in the feelings these photos convey. All these guys were once young, full of enthusiasm and joy for the sport of motorcycling. When I think of all the good things about riding a motorbike, I think of them.

I want to describe a specific cultural phenomenon. Motorcycle stereotypes exist, and they have solidified themselves in various ways, notably in pop culture and through the formation of "cliques."

There's the activity of motorcycling, and then there's the "image" of that activity, represented differently depending on the type of motorcycle you ride. This is all very generic, but we can already distinguish some groups from others.

Ride a Harley? You must love skulls, fire, leather, facial hair, an open-face helmet, and the whiff of pure freedom with your morning coffee (you take it black, obviously).

Got sportbike energy? You must love adrenaline, zipping through traffic, and bragging about the lack of chicken strips on your tires. You don't know what you did with your stock exhaust, and you haven't properly sat down to calculate how much you actually pay for insurance every year (just turn a blind eye, and it'll be fine).

Oh, so you're something of a café racer? If you're young, the back pain has yet to make an appearance. Plus, you're too wired up on caffeine and something else that starts with "c." Hipsters love this; it's a "cooler" Harley dude with just as much leather and less branding. Nice thrift, bro.

You get the idea. Like it or not, many of these thoughts are often associated with various riding styles, and most of us who are already riding know them quite well. When we stumble upon a meet, we unintentionally have some of these ideas in our heads before we even begin to speak.

And I mean, sure, life is full of nuance, blah blah blah. But I can count way more times where I could pinpoint riders falling into these exact stereotypes than not. For instance, I was recently at a huge motorcycle event here in Montreal, made to showcase custom cruisers and Harleys. Of course, the vast majority of people there had jean jackets and leatherwear, with a kind of pervasive ride-or-die attitude in the air.

A typical attitude here (well, at least the elitist one) is to shun the stereotype and to sum it all up as: "how unoriginal." But why do rider stereotypes get such a bad rap? We all know about them, including the riders who choose to partake in the entire image. And even though the image feels predetermined at times, the feeling of belonging within a community and the connections this simple image creates are quite important.

From the outside looking in, we might see skulls and fire and lame slogans. But when we actually partake, and eliminate all the stigma we associate with the image, we often notice people sharing a common passion, and growing their love for the sport. The image isn't as diabolical as we tend to think, and I kind of think that we tend to associate it with something negative because of the way a more "prudish" America tried at one point to censor freedom of expression by claiming that certain ways of life were associated with the devil or with evil.

In a way, that negative association is what gave the rebellious motorcyclist the "cool" image they have today. Without the political and cultural context, it's just an image among others, but one that groups still hold on to. I don't think this is inherently a bad thing, unless the image itself is the thing promoting intolerant and violent actions (and it most definitely has, with outlaw culture).

Nowadays, and in most spaces, I find it difficult to fault someone for embracing the stereotypes of their riding style. Fully and without apology. It's a kind of freedom, in a way, to be totally okay with belonging to something and existing in that space. Not everyone needs to show they are a unique snowflake to be independent, or even smart. And I would argue that the image of the "unique" rider is also another iteration of counterculture. A counter to the parody of counterculture. Except in this case, you'll find that when everybody tries to be unique, no one is, and there's no clear community that they can belong to. It's all about the differences, and not the things that unite, and in this way, we tend to lose more of ourselves in the sport.

I don't think stereotypes are good or bad, I just think they can create a social environment of connection. Sort of like a game with a rulebook. You have an idea of the rules, and then you play. How you choose to play the game, and with whom, is up to you. In this space, there are people, and people are multifaceted in all cases, regardless of them liking a specific aesthetic over another, in general terms.

My motto will always be: get to know the people, and don't assume things just because they like to ride X, Y, or Z. Sometimes, embracing the stereotypes we tend to quickly form opinions about is a way to participate in something that has the power to bring us closer.

Still, I don't think you'll be seeing me at any Ducati meets soon. Just kidding.

Trying something different, surprise surprise. Since I'm currently touring Greece, I thought it might be a good idea to compile some practical info, awesome pitstops and dangerous locations to keep in mind. After all, this is the type of info that serves as a backdrop to unforgettable moments (or sketchy ones), opening the door to new challenges that improve our riding.

My first stop was the South of Italy (near Brindisi), but I barely did much riding there. So, the trip properly began after taking an overnight ferry boat to Corfu (Kerkyra, in Greek). The old city has its charm, blending old Venetian architecture with the classical Greek columns and decor we know so well.

So, without further ado, here's full access to the list of places that left a lasting impression on me, and the ones that were recommended by other locals themselves. I'll also mention that I speak the language, so it was much easier to collect and document this info.

I'll start with some general recommendations and I'll move on to actual riding itineraries and pitstops.

My Old City Recs:

• The obvious one: Old Fortress of Corfu. Totally worth it! Great view, not too much of a hike, and the entry was something like 7-10 euros if I'm remembering correctly. There's a lovely church that's easy to miss on the right hand side after you walk through the fort's entrance. It looks like an ancient palace, but the interior is quite modest and quaint (a good thing).
• Corfu Museum of Asian Art: See it if you can, but the real charm lies behind the building, in its gardens. There you'll typically find a musician named Jason, playing some of the most intricate and complex classical guitar songs I've heard. Definitely don't miss this open-air and totally free concert he puts on almost every day. You can always leave something in his tin can to support the local scene.
• As far as eateries are concerned, definitely try Lampadina Traditional Cuisine, it's a staple in the city and quite reasonably priced. For your morning coffee and treat, I recommend Δέσποινα - Bakery house.

OK, on to the real adventure (can you tell I'm not a city person?). Having stayed in the centre for a couple of nights, I set out for the remote village of Pagi on a 200c scooter I rented in the city. A local was also able to lend me his KTM dirt bike for some more aggressive excursions.

Pagi is located in the north western corner of the island, and is close to amazing landscape mountain views of the Adriatic.

Day 1

Cutting through the middle of the island was straightforward enough. I decided to stop at Paleokastritsa, which felt like a tourist trap, to be honest. But I then decided to take the road up the mountain to a place called Lakones, and boy was I not let down.

There is a famous street light over there, that turns red and stays red for 7 minutes. It's because there's quite a narrow passage through the village, and cars take turns navigating its winding street. Seeing as I wasn't in any rush, I decided to stop at a local bakery and cafe right next to the light. It was authentic, and had amazing local food (the kumquat jam, a specialty).

The place was called Bakalokafenio - Michalas Kostas, and it has a superb balcony mountain view of Palaiokastritsa and the ocean. There are many similar places like this in Lakones, but this one is the best, and most reasonably priced. A must-see, I think.

The ride to Lakones had its challenges, and I actually fell on the way down, on a separate journey. The asphalt here is slippery and the turns are quite extreme. This, paired with a heavy slope, was the perfect recipe for a lowside. Not to mention, I got overconfident and took the turn a little quicker than I should have.

A little further up, past more challenging twisties, was the little village of Pagi. A quaint and affordable place to stay for anyone looking to explore the northern parts of Corfu.

On the way there, I recommend stopping at Angelokastro Byzantine Castle, but be careful as the roads aren't the greatest.

From Pagi, the place to visit for a spectacular sunset view is Afionas. It's another challenging ride since you are moving through seaside roads with sand on them, and then steep uphills, but it's worth it. If you happen to find yourself there during the day, Porto Timoni beach is a nice vista, but be prepared to hike downhill.

Day 2

My next route took me seaside, following the road on the north side of the island. There are multiple beaches to stop at, and continue on. But for me, the destination (and one that was recommended to me by a local) was Erimitis, especially Akoli and Santa Barbara beaches, which are quite close to Albania.

To get there, you have to stop on the side of the road and take a bit of a hike. If you go to Santa Barbara, it's a good uphill and downhill followed by a steep slope down, which is kind of dangerous. I would recommend Akoli instead, which is an easier hike away from the main road.

I also recommend stopping at Paralia Avlaki. You'll also find a quaint and charming tavern called Cavo Barbaro. Recharge your energy by eating there before you attempt the hike to Akoli.

If you have some extra time to kill around this area, you can visit the town of Old Peritheia, in the mountains just west of this area. It has some pretty sketchy roads so riders beware. I would recommend an off-road vehicle here.

Day 3

This one is a doozy. Because I learned a bunch of things the hard way (relying on map memorization instead of an actual gps). The destination: Achilleon Palace. Starting from Palaiokastritsa, I recommend making your way to Liapades. But beware, this small town is a bit of a labyrinth if you're trying to get to some of the best beaches on the island: Chomi and Stelari.

As you can see, you'll have to prepare for quite the hike to get down to the beaches here. This was also probably the worst place in terms of road quality, and I would strongly recommend an offroad motorcycle or an ATV.

A good alternative to this whole Liapades excursion is just riding down to Ermones, which has a nice beach and a few more taverns around. You can then make your way east and even stop at Aqualand if you have children with you or if you enjoy water parks! But I would probably save this for another day if we want to make it to Achilleon (and it's so worth it).

The palace of Achilles. It's plain awesome. Go there. I recommend following the signs for free parking instead of getting stuck in traffic on the main road. You can then simply walk up some stairs and you'll be at the entrance.

After you see the palace-turned-casino-turned-museum, don't rush back to the bike. Turn left from the main entrance and you'll find a great cafe, with a lovely panoramic view. Now, if you still have it in you, you can make the descent from the palace to the eastern side of the island and follow the road past Benitses. You'll find some beaches and places to eat along the way, but it wasn't my favourite part of the island, personally.

Instead, I propose killing a bit of time at the cafe, and then making your way to the following legendary tavern: Atzardo, in Kouramades (just west). It's in a small village, but the food at this place is the island's best kept secret, and I've verified this with people that have lived on the island their whole lives. Kind of a "trust me, bro" situation here, but try it and you'll see.

Day 4

A bit of a drive, especially if you're staying on the north side, but going down to Chalikounas and Issos for a relaxed beach day is what I'd recommend. If you have more time, get a place in the south side and give that a tour as well. Not too many people get around to visiting the areas down here (even the locals), so it'll surely make for an open-ended explore-at-your-own-pace kind of adventure.

You can walk along the thin strip of beach between Chalikounas and Issos, and take a few mesmerizing photos while you're at it. For food, a little birdy told me that the tavern Kafesas is quite good, in Ag. Georgios.

Overall, I believe that this island is the full package. Some twisties would make Tail of the Dragon crap its metaphorical pants, but they come with the price of being death traps at times, given the lack of maintenance and the variety of terrain style. The views you'll see are spectacular, the beaches are top tier (west, north and northeastern sides, not really east), and the food you'll eat will be unforgettable.

A word of caution: these rides are relatively long, and the island is huge. So, expect some stretches of road that are generally uninteresting. It's part of the big island experience. If you're looking for something a little smaller with a similar landscape, try Kephallonia, Ithaca or Lefkada.

Well, that's that. My first travel guide. I have no idea how useful this will be to anyone, but since I did it and thought that the info could be of some use to someone, why not.

Cheers, and see you next week!
~DanF9

Going on a speculative tangent this week... one that might reveal the very essence of your personality as a motorcyclist, or might open the door to total anarchy. Either way, fun!

Disclaimer: I have no clue about astrology, but I've always found it curious how loads of people attempt to formulate psychological traits based off celestial movements (horoscope fanboys and girls, please correct me if I'm summarizing this poorly).

Since the theme of my weekly posts is inherently psychological, I thought: why not attempt to equate some pre-existing constellation of traits to certain types of motorcyclists?

I doubt we'll be revealing any absolute truths today, but if I can at least get one "OMG, that's so me!!" in the comments section, mission accomplished! Also, I reserve the right to say "Typical so-and-so" to any critiques this article receives. Checkmate non-believers.

Aries ♈️ | March 21 – April 19

Ouu, spicy. From what I've researched online (literally 2 minutes ago), Aries are courageous and direct. They're born leaders who initiate and dive headfirst into challenges... or end up crashing their Gixxer into a brick wall.

• Motorcyclist: The Litre Bike Rider
• Strength: Losing the Cops
• Weakness: Potholes
• Group Ride Compatibility: Sagittarius, Leo, Gemini

Taurus ♉️ | April 20 – May 20

Similar stubborn traits as Aries, but more patient, reliable and practical. Think of the Emmanuel Macron meme: "Sometimes it's too slow, for sure. And needs to be reformed, for sure. But which is predictable, loyal..." A Taurus will seek to create stability and foster comfort, often indirectly seeking out praise about their latest project bike and the countless hours they put into it.

• Motorcyclist: The Large Cruiser Rider
• Strength: Quasi-Mystical Bike Knowledge (but only about their own bike)
• Weakness: U-Turns
• Group Ride Compatibility: Taurus, Scorpio, Pisces

Gemini ♊️ | May 21 – June 20

Bunch of two-faced bas... Just kidding. A Gemini is adaptable, curious and communicative. They often display keen social wit, and can be difficult to fit into a box. They move in and out of riding styles, changing bikes and terrain every season. Exhausting, if you ask me...

• Motorcyclist: The Dual Sport Rider
• Strength: Terrain and Style Are Never an Obstacle
• Weakness: Picking a Lane
• Group Ride Compatibility: Ares, Libra, Aquarius

Cancer ♋️ | June 21 – July 22

Quite the ominous name for a sign, to be honest. I'll just call it "The Crab." The Crab is nurturing, intuitive and compassionate. These individuals care deeply about their home, family and friends... but as for their bike, don't expect flashy.

• Motorcyclist: The Scooter Rider
• Strength: Will Uplift You In Hard Times
• Weakness: Car Drivers
• Group Ride Compatibility: Taurus, Virgo, Capricorn

Leo ♌️ | July 23 – August 22

Fierce, charismatic and confident. Leos are warm-hearted and generous, but can hog up the spotlight. Kind of like that one dude at the meet revving and pointing at the mods they installed.

• Motorcyclist: The Street Fighter (you know, the one with the mohawk helmet)
• Strength: Knows More Tricks Than You
• Weakness: Rearview Mirror
• Group Ride Compatibility: Aries, Gemini, Libra

Virgo ♍ | August 23 – September 22

The detail-oriented, analytical type. Also an overthinker plagued with anxiety. Special talent in creating order out of complete chaos, like that blocker in a huge group ride that knows exactly how to create enough space for everyone to pass safely.

• Motorcyclist: The Touring Rider
• Strength: Can Handle a Big Bike Like It's Nothing
• Weakness: Unplanned Stops
• Group Ride Compatibility: Scorpio, Taurus, Capricorn

Libra ♎ | Sept 23 – Oct 22

The artistic, measured and diplomatic sign. A state of balance and harmony is most important for Libras, which is often coupled with some indecisiveness. Basically, they won't be in charge of planning your group ride, but they'll ride it in the most aesthetic way.

• Motorcyclist: The Sport-Naked or Sport-Touring Rider
• Strength: Trendsetter
• Weakness: Italian Manufacturing
• Group Ride Compatibility: Gemini, Leo, Aquarius

Scorpio ♏ | Oct 23 – Nov 21

The strategist, and the protector. The Scorpio is intuitive, focused but also private and mysterious. They are loyal to their own and sting outsiders. Basically, a good motorcycle gang leader.

• Motorcyclist: The Chopper Scene Kid
• Strength: Intimate Knowledge, If You Are Part of the Select Few
• Weakness: Front Brakes
• Group Ride Compatibility: Virgo, Capricorn, Pisces

Sagittarius ♐ | November 22 - December 21

The one on a quest for knowledge and truth. Also adventurous and curious, but kind of like the cat, might have a tendency of ending up in the wrong kinds of places.

• Motorcyclist: The ADV/Dirt Rider
• Strength: Free-Spirit
• Weakness: A Travel Itinerary
• Group Ride Compatibility: Ares, Leo, Aquarius

Capricorn ♑ | December 22 – January 19

Also called the sea goat, for some reason? These are the disciplined, ambitious, responsible and practical types. Rational inquiry is their finest trait, as well as being hardworking. They can be a little square and predictable, but they get things done.

• Motorcyclist: The Traditionalist (just a stock bike, really)
• Strength: Helpful In Almost All Situations
• Weakness: OEM Part Availability
• Group Ride Compatibility: Cancer, Virgo, Scorpio

Aquarius ♒ | January 20 – February 18

The independent and unconventional intellectual. The rebellious deep thinker who values community, progress and originality. They might also be the ones that everyone can't stand at the meet. But it's alright, because they're "ahead of their time."

• Motorcyclist: The Café Racer or Scrambler
• Strength: Embraces the Quirks
• Weakness: Other Riders
• Group Ride Compatibility: Aries, Gemini, Libra

Pisces ♓ | February 19 – March 20

The intuitive and dreamy artist, with profound emotional depth and empathy. They've got their head in the clouds most of the time, creating the bridge between reality and imagination ("Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?"). As you might very well guess, Pisces do not excel at being pragmatic and to the point.

• Motorcyclist: The Vintage Revivalist (Minus the Know-How)
• Strength: Will Open Your Mind
• Weakness: A Wrench
• Group Ride Compatibility: Cancer, Scorpio, Capricorn

—

Great, now my social media is going to be pushing astrology content on me for the foreseeable future. Hope this was worth the chuckle; please don't ask me to read your palms next...

Ding! The alarm rings at 8 on yet another Monday. One that often begins with the urge to pick up my phone and look for some life-changing update I convinced myself I missed in the late evening hours.

The brain then plays a funny trick. "You're already on the thing, might as well scroll a bit and see what's going on." Not even 10 minutes into my day, and I am already peering into someone else's life. Absorbed by the endless possibility of the things I can't be, or the places I cannot reach, I sit there and almost forget I'm late for work.

On the ride there, I contemplate. Not about my own life. Again, the brain plays a funny trick. It was just overloaded with new stimuli, information, people, and places that made it wonder... slowly cementing the idea that I am not doing as much in my own life.

I realize that this sea of possibility shatters the very foundation of value in my life. It relies on endless comparison, and ignites the desire to pursue things and feelings that were never my own to begin with.

It's easy to get pulled in. I love motorcycling. I am suggested a reel showcasing the superpowers of this jacket, helmet, etc. Inception occurs. I now ponder if my life would indeed be better or more practical with this piece of gear. The interest happened to align, but the need wasn't there to begin with; it was cleverly manufactured.

Here's how it typically goes: I don't have the product (yet). I am magically shown (thanks to an insidious invention called cookies) what life looks like with the product. Am I convinced? If not, that's OK, I'll just get spammed with ads about it later anyway...

And then there's what I'll call the "impossibility of satisfaction." When I awaken the desire for a specific thing or experience, I wonder: with so many options, there's bound to be something better out there for me. It's insidious, because this logic can also extend to the personal connections I develop (or don't) with others. Why should I "settle" for this perfectly decent person when I'm sure there's one out there that's even better for me?

Social media promises and even promotes connection, and yet, in connecting us to everyone, we connect with no one. Is this the illusion of choice, or the sheer scope of the world we think we are entitled to, and think we can access without a price?

I realize the price chips away at who I am, bit by bit. It erodes the importance of all the small things that make my life my own, because the surrounding elements outside it promise more, and often pull me in their direction. I used to think a motorcycle offered a way out, a way to experience life through my own actions and thoughts. But a motorcycle isn't a simple Band-Aid of escape, it's a means to get somewhere. You still have to have an idea of who you are and where you're going, otherwise you'll be just as lost, in motion or not.

>If we cannot confront the distractions that pull us away from solidifying our place and identity, we slowly turn hollow. Every ride, a little less fulfilling than the last.

I can't think of a perfect solution and wrap it up in a bow. I know that I get caught up in things often. But I also know that I can make a mindful choice. Ding! The alarm rings on yet another Monday. I get up and take care of my morning routine, treat myself to a coffee, and think about the things I can accomplish today.

There isn't something waiting for me on a screen I can't catch up with later. The motorcycle is sitting outside; it beckons me and asks: "Are you ready, this time?"

I walk toward it, helmet in hand, with everything in front of me, and nothing on my mind but the road ahead.

This might light the behinds of gearheads and safety fanatics alike, but I have something to confess.

I rode without gear once (OK, maybe a few times), and I loved it. I can't say I'm an ATGATT purist, but I still wear basic safety gear while riding in North America. Except, when I travel abroad, a switch just shuts off in my head, and it's almost too easy to ignore what many would call the most basic safety principles.

Now, for anyone who has ridden in Europe, Asia, or even... Florida, you'll notice that the golden rule of gearing up is followed extremely loosely, if not at all.

Does this inherently make motorcycling in these areas even more unsafe than it should be? Absolutely. So, why do people do it?

I'll divide my answer into two parts. Firstly, motorcycling in Europe and Asia is fundamentally different in the sense that it's function first. You ride a motorcycle because it's convenient to do so, and because it gets you to your destination quicker. You ride a motorcycle because you want to think less; you just want to throw a leg over and go, nothing more.

In the chaotic city centre of Tokyo, for example, you'll notice more motorcyclists on the road than anywhere else (or almost); sporting a simple open face, in their suits... Just watching them navigate through traffic could make the average Westerner shudder.

All this, with barely any gear. It's staggering to think about how many people adopt this mindset. Are they insane? Or just living life on the edge?

Well, I kind of think most don't even care to think about it too much. The bike is serving its function, and things are running smoothly, most of the time. The factors at play also play a role, whether it's heat, slow speeds, or the higher price tag of full gear.

Secondly, I think there's something about riding gearless that is perhaps intrinsic to how we can connect with motorcycling.

What do I mean? Well, have you ever taken the bike out around the block, without any gear to speak of? If you have, I suspect you might agree that it feels... great?

Here's a little story to explain what I mean. I was once travelling to a few islands in the Aegean, and I thought to rent a motorcycle from a lovely, carefree guy named Stavros. He had absolutely no gear to offer me; just the bike, the keys, and prayers that I make it back in one piece.

"Besides," he said, "What do you need a costume for? This is Greece, and it's 40 degrees outside!"

With a bit of a raised eyebrow, I said OK. Took the bike, the keys, and started touring the beautiful island of Tinos. I quickly realized how little I was actually thinking about my safety (and I can get pretty anxious about this riding over here in Canada). It could be for a variety of reasons: drivers being more aware of motorcycles there, fewer cars on the road, a laid-back speed, etc.

But what I'll always remember is this: the most liberating feeling I had ever felt. A kind of intense connection to my surroundings: the salt in the air, the full influence of the wind... I would even call it this "lightness of being." It gave a new meaning to the phrase "ride like the wind," because that's literally how it felt. Not in the sense that I was moving fast, but that I was moving with the elements.

Every pit stop and takeoff was meaningful. And through it all, an invasive sense of calm. Almost as if I was being obliged to feel at ease (which is weird to say, granted). Maybe it's a personal thing, but it felt as though the context forced a kind of relaxation, even in full knowledge of the added risk.

I once heard the climber Alex Honnold describe how he feels during his free solo climbs (without any use of ropes) in an interview. To paraphrase, he was talking about how there was no room for panic, how it was all about making sure he was as calm as he could be, to properly focus on his holds and the route he rehearsed prior to the ascent.

To this, some might say that I was blissfully ignorant (a very valid point). That I would have ridden very differently had I actually been in an accident with no gear, and lived to ride another day. Looking back now, I fully admit that riding in this way was very dangerous, and I consider myself lucky to have made it. At the same time, I can't help but admit that it was still one of the most liberating moments in my life.

So what's the takeaway here? I generally write about safety and adopting the kind of mindset that keeps you alive, and now I'm talking about a literal death trap. Well, to quote Zorba himself:

>You have everything but one thing: madness. A man needs a little madness or else... he never dares cut the rope and be free.

Part of a healthy mindset, I think, is allowing yourself to feel truly free. In whatever way that freedom comes to you. It might or might not have anything to do with riding gearless, but in that pocket of time, it had everything to do with it for me.

While this is not a practice I dare repeat too often, I am glad and lucky to have experienced it, like many others, I'm sure. I would add that the even more dangerous element is getting addicted to this kind of behaviour. The odds are never on your side, and just because a moment feels like the most special thing in the world doesn't mean you will experience the same fulfillment if you keep chasing it.

Like all good things, they come into our lives unexpectedly, and leave just as promptly. Notice them when they happen, maybe snap a picture, and look back on them fondly when you live to be old and grey. Madness can have its moment, but it's still important to return and treasure our sanity.

If I've come to understand something about motorcycling in the decade I've been riding, it's that adaptability will save your hide.

Being adaptable means challenging the notion that we are always in control. How common is it to make a mistake and then try to seize back the control we lost momentarily, only to overcompensate and get into an even worse situation?

Similarly, sometimes we think a technique is right because we heard it from a few riding buddies or read about it on the internet, and so we attempt it stubbornly, often out of context, and develop bad habits that eventually get us into trouble.

Having an adaptable mindset is starting from a position of humility. It's allowing yourself to determine a course of action contextually, based on your skillset and readiness. Every sketchy situation you get yourself into is a little different, and might require a slightly different set of actions depending on the circumstances.

This kind of implies that fundamental safety rules aren't always set in stone. Some can be good tenets to adopt in a kind of umbrella fashion, but if the situation arises where it's your life on the line or adhering to some principle, most would likely agree that the principle should be defenestrated.

One example is lane splitting. Some instructors will tell you to steer clear, others might say it's actually the safer practice. But most laws in North America will tell you it's illegal. So, you adopt a "safe" behaviour on the road according to the laws of your country, but that doesn't mean you shouldn't adopt the "unsafe" filtering behaviour if a given context calls for it. Rules exist in absolutes, but our riding experience is inherently specific.

>So, with that being said, what are some safety practices you often ignore out there? Are there any you've even found to be flat-out dangerous, based on your experience?

If this thread can serve as some kind of nuance to a lot of the stuff new riders simply adopt and never think twice about, that would be stellar. And to be clear, my intention is not to condone breaking any laws in any way, but to stress that a certain flexibility must accompany our ideas of motorcycle safety.

Also, having pondered this a bit, I am not so opposed to discussing the other perspective, whereby rigidity in proven safety methods is a good thing; precisely because what we "naturally" tend to do as new riders are the things that are particularly unsafe. Learning to control a machine that operates in very specific ways is not in the least bit "natural," but requires training and the mental clarity to make decisions based on principles of physics.

I have a feeling it all comes down to knowing which rules to follow and which to break, depending on the where, what, and when. It's difficult to give a universal solution, but we can potentially list a few recurring experiences that showcase either the importance of sticking to a safety protocol, or ditching it.

We have a tendency to romanticize epic journeys as this sacred time of self-discovery.

Space and time are often understood as essential components of "making things happen," insofar as having more of them makes us more likely to "get the best" out of our trips.

>But what if I told you that you could find the same kind of meaning, fulfillment, and joy in a short ride?

Sounds like an ad, like a Slap Chop™, but for your soul.

Can I even say that without getting a copyright claim filed against me? I even added the little trademark symbol and all.

Anywho. Short rides. They're the best. Kind of like everything that we know is finite, that won't ever last. In our awareness of this fact, we attempt mindful presence as much as we can, to savour the moment and imprint it into our memories.

I gave you the hack right away without even explaining my logic. Think of the above as an informal TL;DR, I guess. Now, here's my train (or motorcycle) of thought in propositional logic (what else):

>p: Short rides are common.
q: Whatever is common is less unique.
r: The frequency of short rides makes them less unique.
(p ∧ q) → r

Similarly,

>s: Long rides are uncommon.
t: Whatever is uncommon is more unique.
u: The infrequency of long rides makes them more unique.
(s ∧ t) → u

That's a starting point for most. Especially for us commuters and weekend warriors. The long ride at the end of the week almost always feels more special and relaxing than the 30-minute ride in the morning, stuck in some infernal traffic jam.

Here's why this mindset makes no sense. We spend most of our time riding and not enjoying it. We hold ourselves back because the outside circumstances are perceived to be chaotic, lacklustre, or just plain ordinary. So we then set out on a long ride, to reset, to see new things, to experience riding anew, through a lens that makes the landscape in front of us seem unique.

In other words, by devaluing the ordinary rides, we place all of our future joy and expectations in this other ride, the one that we might experience over the weekend... Or next month?... Next year?... Never?

Uniqueness is not a proper basis on which we can rely for fulfilment. By its very definition, it's sparse; and so, must the joy we experience in our lives also be sparse? I think not.

I kind of blame modern work schedules (feels like an easy target; realistically, it's only one of the many reasons). We are psychologically set up to wait for the weekend. To hold back on living just a little, to get through the week, and to finally open up our lives when we have just a bit more time and space.

Our work schedules are working against us. Our routines are retuning our expectations. We come to desire everything out of life in just those 2 days that bring the week to an end.

For illustration purposes, that's 104 days out of 365, which represents roughly 28% of our time throughout the year.

It simply does not work. Even after you add holidays and vacation. And so, I modify the content of my previous propositional statements:

>p: Short rides are common.
q: Whatever is common in our life takes up more of our time.
r: Our time is valuable.
s: The frequency of short rides makes them more valuable.
(p ∧ q ∧ r) → s

Every common, plain, ordinary, yet repeatable moment in your life is an opportunity. If you look back from a distant future, you will see that the moments that made up your life were the ones that filled most of your days, not the ones you waited years for, the ones that either lived up to or fell short of your expectations.

In my twenties, I wasted a lot of time waiting. I thought that big events would eventually arrive in some dramatic fashion, that I just needed to be patient, and that my life would change when it was meant to and would make sense when it was meant to.

Now I'm in my mid-thirties. I look back, and I see. All the moments with all the possibility were always right in front of me, in the mundane things I did, day to day. Those were the good years, the ones I now romanticize and once thought nothing of.

Short rides are a gift precisely because they're frequent. If you can get out and ride every day, it's a gift. It's both special and mundane. And when you know that every single one of these moments will add up to form the grand picture of your life, you take each piece as it comes, with presence and openness.

Life's short, and so are all the rides it contains. Make 'em count.

—

If this article resonated with you in any way, buy me a Slap Chop™ or just hit me with a newsletter sub to keep my job alive. -DanF9

Featured Image belongs to Bill Keaggy from St. Louis, Missouri, USA, 1979.

Description: Me. Dig the western shirt and the bike with the fake gas tank on it. It was called The Hombre, and one day one of my sisters left it in the driveway and mom backed over it. Photo by dad.

Dear Rider,

I am writing to you on this day, the 1st of June 2026, to connect two moments in time.

Everyday stories and letters written with pen and paper are rarely digitized. In the world I live in today, I am often overwhelmed by this abstract feeling that there's an entire world of communication behind us that we can never fully access.

We are here now, with all these tools. We typically use them as a means of distraction; our letters to one another are 1 or 2 sentences long, and our sense of longing, of uncertainty (did my words reach you?), is quickly resolved with a checkmark and a "Seen" icon.

Somewhere in this massive transformation of our communication and connection, we find ourselves experiencing everyday life. Like many other things, motorcycling existed before and after (what I'll call) this "technological revolution." But I wonder, for those who experienced it before, what do you think about? How has your relationship with motorcycling changed, and how has it remained the same?

And more importantly:

>Can we use this digital space to share stories, letters, and tangible evidence of lives that will soon disappear from our rearview mirror? These tales that would otherwise be destined to rest in a dusty drawer or cabinet, likely to be thrown out or destroyed with time?

I can already picture it: a long motorcycle trip, maps of each region carefully stored and treated as prized possessions. Pit stops and postcards sent in the lull of a hot summer's day. A phone call to check in with our loved ones, and, in moments of uncertainty, the thought that everyone you know is OK.

Sure, it's possible for me to picture and list these things. To imagine a time that is similar to and different from our own. I am still part of a generation that grew up without the internet, so the feeling is also familiar to me in the way a piece of music from one's childhood is impossible to ignore when heard unexpectedly.

As for motorcycling, I have no experiences I can recall before 2014. I didn't grow up with a parent who rode, and my interactions with other riders consisted of waving and wondering what this exciting sport was all about. That curiosity followed me throughout my adolescence, and finally culminated in the decision to participate in my early 20s.

I felt the thrill, the mystic pulse that propelled me forward in space as I performed this rehearsed ballet of mechanical motions. The feeling didn't belong to a specific time; it felt universal.

I was also welcomed by a community of riders that I had never met, thanks to the wonders of the internet. I found out what kind of gear and motorcycle I should get, thanks to the internet. I even met a neighborhood rider who lived just a block away, thanks to the internet. People in the same city, people who might even live down the street from me, were brought into my life by the magical powers of the World Wide Web.

This feels oddly specific to the times we live in now. Isn't it borderline magical how the vast space of the internet can connect individuals who are so close in physical proximity?

Then I think about how natural it must have felt to just "know the spot," show up, and meet the same kinds of people, before the existence of users and forums.

I talk mostly about connection here, but knowledge is also a big one. Isn't it great to be able to quickly search for some doubtful expertise you heard at a meet on Reddit, only for a community to quickly help you confirm whether the info was useful?

Then I think about Uncle Tony, the middle-aged philosopher who "went through some sh*t," the guy who gave you just about the worst advice ever, but presented it in a way that felt like gospel truth. The one guy you didn't care to fact-check, the one guy you talked to just cause, to exchange ideas and have a laugh. You might not have left those chats any smarter, but you had a story, a piece of someone as they were, at that moment.

These moments coexist today in ways that surprise me. But I confess, dear reader and rider, that I have felt an increased rarity in daily authentic interactions.

And so, I write to you today to remind me, and hopefully many others, of a different time. One that will feel completely out of reach in a few years. Think of this letter as a bridge, a photograph, or a window.

I am standing by it, eagerly looking for a landscape different from the one I keep seeing. Not to escape, but to travel.

Yours faithfully,
DanF9

We often think of Neil Peart of the band Rush as this figure who is larger than life. We even imagine his drum kit as this extension of him: a massive setup with tons of bells, gongs, and rack toms.

But I have a feeling that if we look closer at how the man lived his life, we realize that he wanted to disappear behind the music. Similarly, he didn’t ride a motorcycle to become larger than life, but to become smaller inside it.

Peart's entire philosophy of riding moves in the opposite direction of self-mythologizing. He chose to ride the "smallest roads," stayed in small towns, and only went to cities to play a gig. The preference reveals something. It suggests that motorcycling, for him, was about connecting with his surroundings and understanding his place in the grand design.

It's clear that, for Peart, motorcycling provided a way to keep yourself rooted, to process things that are emotionally complex and even unbearable (I'm thinking about the tragedy that befell his family, when he lost his daughter and, shortly after, his wife).

Forget about the rush (oh, the irony). Forget about heroism. It's all about being rooted. He talks about passing people in fields, people at work, kids at school, diners, motels, gas stations, and feeling this magnetic force pulling him back into the ordinary pageant of other people's lives. It's quite a unique vision of motorcycling, one that many other people might share, but it's definitely not the classic way the activity is described. As "self-expression," as "freedom."

Motorcycling is being bound to something, to someone. It's attentiveness and participation. And the realization that if we zoom out enough, we all become anonymous. In Peart's case, fame made that choice for him, but the motorcycle provided a way out. One of the most telling lines from his CBC Music interview goes something like this:

>People don't expect to see me, and there are many times I've been around someplace and somebody with a Rush T-shirt on will just not notice me, because I'm some guy at a gas station or some guy sitting in a diner. They're not expecting to see me there, so I always love those moments when I realize that I've achieved that independence. I just want to be that guy. I like having conversations with people on an everyday basis. I don't want them looking at me like some alien being.

The guy at the gas station, the one eating in a diner. Most people experience feeling singular on a motorcycle, but Peart experienced the opposite. A way to rejoin the human world without some grand ceremony, or any necessity to be known.

We could argue that this particular expression of motorcycling makes sense only because Peart experienced and knew fame beforehand. Except, I don't think that's at play here. He retired from fame entirely before embarking on his long motorcycle journey. When part of life's terrible pains came his way, he knew that fame offered no refuge, no solution, no help.

Motorcycling was the means he used to connect with himself, with others, and to begin to process immense grief. That requires presence, curiosity, and openness. It's difficult to do when you're injured and pulled toward shutting yourself off as a self-preservation tactic. But the way out is a way forward, a way through, instead of isolation, self-imprisonment, and whatever may feel briefly safe.

What makes Peart's moto-philosophy especially compelling to me is the empathy built into it. Travel and presence in travel foster generosity. You learn from other cultures and ways of life, absorbing the richness of lives that are unlike your own. You resist the cold urge to judge too quickly. You learn some humility and centre yourself in the presence of a profoundly human experience.

So, if I had to reduce Neil Peart’s motorcycle philosophy to one thought, it would be this:

>Ride in such a way that the world can still get through to you.

Take the small roads. Stay open. Let the ride return you to ordinary life, where meaning is found and fostered.

—

I'm curious if anybody else here has come across Peart's thoughts on motorcycling. Does it make sense to you? Is it perhaps too optimistic to ride and hope for some grand revelation like this, or can we say that the simple act of presence stimulates this openness regardless of our opinions?

P.S. I voluntarily did not use an image of Neil Peart as my featured image. I found it quite in line with how he thought, and in stark contrast with Peart, the famous musician we have a tendency of idolizing. It's just a guy, at a gas station, with his motorcycle. He's no different than Peart in this respect, and I think that's how the man himself would see it if he were with us still. RIP Neil, thank you for the music and the roadside wisdom.