How Motorcycles Are a Rite of Passage

My motorcycle story, an anthology.

Motorcycles are dangerous. The chances of you dying if you ride a motorcycle is greater than if you don’t. Let’s get that out of the way right now. No argument there. I don’t want to hear about all the stories you’ve heard about people crashing and dying and how it’s not the motorcyclist but the crazy drivers around her. I’ve heard all the stories. At least twice. I get it.

This article isn’t about trying to convince you they’re safe. I’m not here promote. I could care less if you buy one. I do, however, want to share the journey of becoming a motorcycist. Not just buying one to save gas or avoid traffic or because they have become cool and trendy. I’m referring to the motorcyclists who ride daily no matter the weather. Who go on three hour solo trips. Who would rather be on two wheels than four anytime. It become a part of them. Who they are. Their story.

Volume One.

The Honda Spree.

When I was a kid, I wanted a dirt bike. It was the 80’s and everyone had dirt bikes. They were what Sundays were about. They came in all sizes, from little 50cc dirt bikes to 500's. But my parents thought they were dangerous and refused to buy me one. So I watched my friends wash dirt off their bikes after a weekend of adventure.

I kept begging my parents.

Finally they gave in.

They bought me a little red Honda scooter.

Here it is below. 50ccs. This is the actual model.

While my friends were going to the track and taking dirt jumps, I rode this little fucker up the down the street sporting shorts and sandals.

But even on this little Skittle with wheels I felt something I’ve never felt before. A dettachment from the world. A connection to myself. A complete presence. A strange peace. When I was on my Honda Spree, I didn’t think about anything. I didn’t care about school or homework or what I wanted to be when I grew up. I felt wind on my face and a stirring in my soul. That’s it. Nothing else. And…