Maybe I Should Give Up Motorcycles

This morning, on my way to work, I got reminded why I ride the way I do.

I was turning right onto a road while a lifted pickup coming the other direction was turning left onto that same road. It starts out as two lanes before merging into one.

If you've never ridden a motorcycle around one of those ridiculous lifted trucks, let me explain something: They're fucking walls. You can't see around them. You can't see traffic ahead of them. You can't see brake lights. You can't see shit.

So I did what I've done for over 100,000 miles in the last year. I rolled on the throttle and got in front.

Apparently that hurt his feelings.

He hammered the gas trying to beat me to the merge.

Fine.

I twisted mine a little harder and got there first.

Then traffic immediately slowed because there was a slower vehicle where the lanes came together, so I got on the brakes.

That cocksucker damned near rear-ended me.

That's how my day started.

Then I rode home.

Somewhere around Tesuque I saw a tribal police officer about a half mile ahead of me. He had his emergency lights on and was driving on the shoulder.

Weird.

So I slowed down.

He eventually pulled into the right lane and just sat there. I wasn't sure if he wanted me to pass or stay behind him, so I eased up beside him and asked if he wanted me to proceed.

He told me to go ahead.

The second I did, he pulled in behind me with his lights still flashing.

Then he pulled me over.

He told me he'd watched me weaving in and out of traffic and that, by definition, it was unsafe.

I said, "No, it isn't."

Let me explain something he never considered.

It had been raining on and off all afternoon. Welcome to monsoon season in New Mexico.

The pavement wasn't just wet. Every car on the road was kicking up a mixture of water, grit, and sand. I was riding Aurora, my Harley Breakout. She doesn't have a windshield. Everything those tires threw into the air came straight into my face and onto my goggles.

Visibility matters on a motorcycle.

Getting to the front of traffic wasn't just about staying out of blind spots. It was about getting out of the constant spray so I could actually fucking see again.

The officer never experienced that because he was sitting behind a windshield with windshield wipers.

He told me he rides motorcycles and that I should just ride slower than the traffic around me.

I told him he must not ride very much if he thinks the safest place for a motorcycle is behind traffic.

Then came the chest puffing.

He informed me that because he was a police officer, he was an expert.

I said, "No. You're not."

Being a cop doesn't automatically make you an expert on motorcycle safety any more than carrying a stethoscope makes you a cardiologist.

I've put over 100,000 miles on motorcycles in the last year alone. I've ridden through mountain passes, monsoon rains, construction zones, city traffic, and enough distracted drivers to last three lifetimes.

I also survived a motorcycle crash that damn near killed me.

Experience matters.

What really irritated me was that this kid (and yeah, he couldn't have been much over twenty-five) had the kind of absolute certainty that only comes from having lived just long enough to think you've got life figured out.

You know the type. Chest puffed out. Knows everything. Can't be wrong.

I was mouthy.

Absolutely.

If someone confidently starts explaining my own world to me while getting basic facts wrong, I'm probably not going to smile politely and nod.

Then he said something I'll probably never forget: "Maybe you should give up motorcycles."

That was the moment I knew he didn't ride.

Oh, he may own a motorcycle. He may even throw a leg over it once in a while. But no real rider looks another rider in the eye and tells them to give it up.

We don't do that.

Real riders understand what motorcycles become.

They're therapy. They're freedom. They're community. They're peace. They're the thing that gets us through the week.

There are entire nonprofits dedicated to keeping wounded veterans on motorcycles. Men and women who've lost legs, lost arms, suffered catastrophic injuries... and what's the mission?

Modify the bike. Adapt the controls.  

Figure it the fuck out.

Keep them riding.

Because real riders understand something that people outside the community never will. You don't tell someone to give up the thing that keeps them alive.

So when this young officer told me to quit riding, he wasn't speaking like a rider. He was speaking like someone who sees motorcycles as the problem instead of understanding why we ride in the first place.

Let's talk about safety for a minute.

Today, from Pojoaque to Tesuque alone, I had three different drivers drift toward me while looking at their fucking phones.

Three.

This morning a pickup tried to race me into a merge lane because his fragile little ego couldn't stand a motorcycle getting in front of him.

Last year a woman turned left in front of me and nearly killed me.

She didn't get a ticket.

Not one.

But I now have a mandatory court appearance because I filtered through traffic to stay out of blind spots and away from distracted drivers.

Think about that.

The woman who almost killed me? No citation.

The guy in the lifted truck who nearly rear-ended me? He drove away.

The people staring at their phones while drifting across lanes? Business as usual.

Me? I get to stand before a judge.

Maybe motorcycles aren't the problem.

Maybe we've become so accustomed to cars doing whatever the fuck they want that we've decided the easiest target is the person on two wheels trying not to die.

Because from where I'm sitting, it seems perfectly acceptable to mow down a motorcyclist.

Just not to be one.