The Weave

Sometimes when I’m riding, I’ll get stuck behind some slow motherfucker and immediately think to myself: "What a fucking asshole."

And look, I’m a biker. If there’s room, I’m passing your ass. I don’t give a shit about solid yellow lines. Those "no passing zones" were designed around cars, not motorcycles. They assume a vehicle with mediocre acceleration, mediocre braking, and mediocre maneuverability.

A motorcycle is not a fucking Camry.

If the road is clear and I can safely get around you, I’m going around you.

But sometimes traffic exists. Sometimes the opportunity never comes. Sometimes I’m stuck behind your slow ass while a dozen cars stack up behind both of us like a depressing parade.

And while I’m sitting there, I’m probably not admiring your bumper stickers.

In fact, the longer I sit there, the more I begin associating you with every personality trait I dislike in humanity.

It's not fair. But it's happening.

To pass the time, I do what a lot of riders do: I weave.

Not out of the lane. Not into traffic. Just back and forth inside the lane.

Partly because motorcycles are fun. Leaning a motorcycle is fun. Curves are fun. Movement is fun. Partly because it helps distribute wear across the tire. Partly because it increases visibility. And partly because I've already been hit by a fucking car once and I would strongly prefer not to repeat the experience.

What most drivers don't understand is that motorcycles survive through visibility and maneuverability. The safest place for a rider is not trapped in the middle of a pack. The safest place is ahead of traffic where we control our spacing and escape routes.

If I’m weaving behind you, I’m not trying to intimidate you. I’m trying to stay alive.

And yet somehow people constantly convince themselves they know what they're looking at.

Last year, after six years of working from home, I started riding into the office again. Every morning there would be a line of vehicles waiting to get through the gates. While sitting there, I’d do what riders do. I’d weave back and forth inside the lane.

Not out of the lane.

Not into traffic.

Not doing wheelies.

Not setting fire to government property.

Just weaving.

The next day my boss called me into his office. Apparently some concerned citizen had taken a picture of my motorcycle and license plate, then emailed management to report my "distracted driving."

I shit you not. Distracted driving.

Because I was weaving.

On a motorcycle.

While waiting in line.

I remember just staring at him.

"Really?"

At the time I had a new tire on the bike, so tire break-in was a perfectly valid explanation. But honestly, I didn't need one. I never left the lane. I wasn't creating a hazard. I was riding a motorcycle exactly the way motorcycles are ridden.

Thankfully my boss used to ride. So instead of losing his mind, he sent an explanation up the chain describing why riders weave, why riders move around in lanes, and why taking photographs of motorcycles in traffic probably created a bigger safety issue than the motorcycle itself.

The complaint worked its way through leadership.

And here's the funny part. Several people further up the chain were current or former riders. So the final outcome wasn't me getting in trouble. The final outcome was apparently somebody having to explain to a grown adult that motorcycles and cars are, in fact, different things.

Imagine that.

A guy was so confident in his complete misunderstanding of motorcycles that he photographed a rider, tracked down management, filed a complaint, and elevated the issue through multiple layers of leadership. All without ever once considering the possibility that he didn't know what the fuck he was talking about.

Which, if we're being honest, is a pretty good summary of modern society.

But every now and then, some smart-ass driver notices me moving around back there and decides to participate. Suddenly they start weaving too.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

Mocking me.

And holy fucking hell does that piss me off.

Because here's the difference: You are moving a steering wheel. I am moving a motorcycle.

You are sitting in a climate-controlled living room with airbags, crumple zones, power steering, cup holders, Bluetooth, and a sandwich hanging out of your mouth.

I am balancing several hundred pounds of machine on two contact patches roughly the size of a credit card while actively managing traffic, visibility, escape routes, road conditions, debris, weather, and every other idiot currently occupying the roadway.

These are not equivalent activities.

You are not "doing the same thing."

You are performing what I can only describe as interpretive douchebaggery.

And what really irritates me is the confidence.

Because the average driver knows absolutely fucking nothing about motorcycles.

Nothing.

They think loud pipes are about making noise. They don't understand visibility. They don't understand rider positioning. They don't understand escape routes. They don't understand why riders filter forward whenever possible. They don't understand engine braking. They don't understand traction management. Hell, most of them probably couldn't explain the four strokes of an internal combustion engine if their life depended on it.

And yet somehow they feel qualified to explain motorcycles to motorcyclists.

It's remarkable.

Imagine me climbing into an operating room and explaining surgery to a surgeon because I once watched three episodes of Grey's Anatomy.

That's the level of confidence we're dealing with.

So when some dipshit starts weaving his car around because he thinks we're doing the same thing, I immediately begin passing judgment on his entire bloodline.

Not just him. His father. His grandfather. His fucking father's father's father.

Somewhere in the distant past, a poor decision was made, and now I'm stuck behind the consequences doing forty-two in a fifty-five.

And if it were legal, I'd put a fucking bullet in his forehead.

But it isn't.

So instead I'm left questioning his ancestry, giving him the bird, and waiting for a passing zone.

The good news is that I usually find a way around them eventually.

Then I ride off into the distance.

Still angry.

Still judgmental.

But free.