It didn't start as me entering the world on 2 wheels like a prodigy.
I didn't grow up on the back of, or even in front of an adult, on a motorcycle.
Old VHS tapes in long-forgotten dusty boxes show one single, shaky, grainy video of me on a little Suzuki; wobbling around the farmyard, not quite stalling it but with a definite fear of the throttle. There was no joy in my face, just a grim determination because my parents wanted a video of me.
When I decided to buy a motorcycle with the COVID payment last year, it wasn't thought out or the realizing of some long-held dream.
I bought it, had someone ride it home for me, and then closed the garage a little firmly behind me. I admit I was secretly pleased with myself. I had a mini mid-life crisis and it didn't push me out of my comfortable little life. In my mind, I was a rebel but it didn't hurt me at all or make waves in my life.
I knew how to ride. 10 years in the outback of Australia with only a dirt bike for entertainment and no neighbors for many miles will do that to you. And still, it wasn't a passion, just a way to keep from growing crazy out there.
I came to the conclusion that this impulse craze was a little too expensive to just leave sitting in storage. So reluctantly, I went to an empty parking lot with a friend, trying to make feeble excuses in order to get out of much practice time around the college campus.
It was sort of fun, but nothing to get excited about.
I dutifully took my Motorcycle safety class shortly after. Wanting to be a responsible motorcycle owner but dreading what I was sure was going to be similar to that high school class you only took for a needed credit to graduate, nothing more.
I struggled through the range time, following each set of skills setup but not feeling like it was second nature. Truth be told, I really struggled.
So it was to my surprise that I aced both the written and the range test.
It was only after I passed the class did I think maybe there was something hiding behind that windshield. All those social media groups I joined just because I thought it would look cool, there was a lot of passion behind the rides, stories and photos. Passion I couldn't figure out.
There had to be something I was missing. I thought I was a smart person. I had my Masters and worked in a difficult financial field. Even I could see there was an obsession there. But I just didn't understand what it was.
Those early days were WORK. I rode because I felt I had to. It didn't come easy to me. I hit a curb, dropped the bike, almost blew a corner and made mistakes early on. But I kept working at it. The area I lived in had ONE 'S' curve out in the country. I rode it back and forth every single day, sometimes 20 times.
I watched youtube videos on how to ride and how to pick up my bike. I watched a fascinating series on riders with a coach critiquing their skills as you watched the video.
But it still wasn't fun. It was learning something I felt was necessary for a hobby that could be deadly.
I joined a few group rides. Casual things. They were nice social outings but I thought there had to be something more to the enjoyment of riding. I just KNEW there was something more but I didn't know how to find it or where to look.
It wasn't until I took a 4 day trip out west to Teddy Roosevelt National Park at the invitation of another rider, did I finally unlock that passion. It was worth the wait. It was worth the effort I put in to get there.
Sometimes the dream finds you, when you weren't even looking. . .
