Intelligent Idiocy and the Two Wheeled Taboo: Motorcycling in 2013
“Why the intelligent choice isn’t always the smart one”. The novel’s subtitle caught my eye as I was heading toward the car/motorcycle magazines at the B&N on Lexington. Could this be the answer I was looking for? As I held the book in my hands I became hopeful that it would be the bound miracle to answer all of my questions. A Rosetta Stone of sorts, translating the justification of a motorcycle purchase from my deeply innate desires to the language of reason and logic, the largely inarguable tenants that motorcycle detractors most often default to.
My name is Jason and I desperately want a motorcycle. For me and in the bubble like world of which I am a product, this is like admitting to a yearning for meth addiction. In another time, or another place, this desire for two wheels wouldn’t be so out of the ordinary, so deviant from convention. But here, as product of upper class New York Judaism, motorcycles are about as Kosher as bacon fried lobster.
Growing up, I was certainly aware of motorcycles, but with a physician father and Jewish mother, these exotic marvels occupied the same area of my cerebral cortex as drugs or shelled fish. Sure, it might be a lot of fun, but it wasn’t going to happen. Ever. End of discussion.
The age-old argument, or course, is that motorcycles are extremely dangerous, meant for tattooed vandals with a penchant for self-destruction, or as a spousal gift to husbands who’s wives recently upped the life insurance. One thing is for certain though, or so it is widely believed: you will definitely be maimed or killed on a motorcycle. Naturally, there is no shortage of horror stories every time the topic is brought up, the dissenters reveling in the look on your face, daring you to still want a bike after learning of such horrid events.
Naturally, I know they’re dangerous. I didn’t need a fancy private school degree to understand that being exposed on a 450-pound sliver of metal while the average driver is paying less attention to the road than their breathing is a recipe for potential disaster. This understanding is what has abetted my desires for a bike all throughout high school and college. I would go through fazes and do my research, going as far as to get my permit once, but I never followed through out of fear. I know the statistics, I’ve combed the Dept. of Transportation accident reports, and I’ve watched my fair share the gut wrenching YouTube videos. So how can I idiotically still want one?
Perhaps I’m a remarkable example of de-evolution in one generation, but as I’ve aged I’ve attained what I’d like to believe is a quiet wisdom that sees profound meaning in the last-minute trip, the random adventure, the risky decision, or even the fleeting chance. Much more so than when I was younger and wiser. I see people going through life with their eyes not so much closed as blurred, safe and numb, and I wonder just what the hell we’re really doing here. This is where it gets philosophical; if we’re all averting risk and living life in our cocooned bubble of safety and regulation, are we missing out on a long forgotten pinnacle of the human experience- the actual “living” part?
My life long love of cars is the perfect example to portray the phenomena that seems to have formed a bridge from my youth to the current day. Cars are getting measurably better in every way, but many of these advancement have resulted in less involvement, be it automated transmissions, electric power steering, trick suspensions, or even stability and traction aids. Without a doubt these are great innovations, but it seems to me that everything has a cost. As a society we are litigating or collectively admonishing away what little joy we were able to squeeze out of everyday tasks and endeavors, such to the point that I fear for a Wall-E like world in which we ‘re all but immortal for a century or so, free to do nothing that can, heaven forbid, raise our pulse.
Maybe I’m just exaggerating. Perhaps the character flaw of mine that attracts me to motorcycles has been present from the get-go. After all, I drive a manual in New York City, parallel parked a Lotus Elise for two years, and went skydiving during a period of severe illness to clear my sinuses. Could this all be an internal phenomenon?
What it comes down to is that my intrinsic need to get a motorcycle has reached the inescapable point of no return. A chance opportunity to ride an imitation Honda in China for a glorious five minutes all but solidified what I needed to know about my desire for a bike. That segued into getting my license, buying a scooter as a bridge to the real thing, and recently renting a Ducati 848 Streetfighter on an impulse trip to Italy. The challenge is allowing myself to do what I want in the face of extreme anti-motorcycle adversity.
The last months have been marked by a mental journey that has made me question my beliefs and values, asses selfishness and virtue against desire and perceived destiny, and ultimately think largely of death and the quality of the life that precedes it. Is it worth upsetting my family beyond comprehension, making them anguish and worry about me at all times? Am I really that selfish? I’ve thought of not telling them, which seems almost better in my eye, but that leads to the mental hurdle of lying to the ones I love most, even if it will protect their sanity. Then there is the unpleasant possibility of the worst happening. Am I really willing to take the chance? Am I really fighting for what I believe in? Is it more than just 0-60 numbers or the ultimate adrenaline rush?
I’m pretty sure for me it represents everything. It’s my stand against the overregulation of life, against the stagnation of joy, against the risk averse something for nothing attitude that seems to be spreading like a virus. I’m also pretty sure I’m a rather loquacious want-to-be philosopher NYU grad who’s desperately trying to find logic in the irreconcilable, almost unfathomable decision to ride a motorbike in 2013.
Really, there is no justification that can be made on paper, except for the concept that our obsession with paper justifications has brought us to a place that I don’t like in many regards. Maybe there really is sense in being seemingly senseless sometimes. Maybe it’s not oxymoronic to be an intelligent motorcycle rider.
A long conversation regarding my dilemma with an uncharacteristically moral and impartial motorcycle salesmen ended with him telling me I was too intelligent to ride a motorcycle. I’d like to think I’m too intelligent not too, if only I could find a way to aptly express why.
I really ought to buy that book.
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