Step 2: The Cause

If you've been following along, dear reader, there were three steps. There's always three. The first and the third are self-explanatory. This is about the second one.

To prepare for my motorcycle permit test, I watched a bunch of motorcycle crashes on YouTube. They were obviously terrifying but not because I was watching with tensed muscles and frightened teeth. They were scary because I felt my role as the subject of the video was unavoidable. Not the crashing part; the riding part. If you knew that the possibility of a fatal collision was a near certainty and all you have to do to avoid this danger is stay off the bike, you would have to have a tremendous purpose for getting on the fuckin thing. Let's take a tour, shall we?

Although I'm mildly obsessed with death, I don't have a death wish. It comes up a lot when I write and it sobers me when I take a step back and look around. But I don't want to die on a motorcycle - I don't want to die at all. Not right now.

Maybe then, it's the adrenaline. Near death! I've never been an adrenaline junky although I enjoy the elation of rock climbing, cycling through New York City and traveling to Africa. No, it's not for thrills.

Crotch-rocket. When I think of rockets, I think of the dandruff that falls off a phallus in Cape Canaveral. When I think of crotches, I think of baseball, athletic cups and stink. That one's not for me.

Old bikes? nope. (but maybe)

Big bikes? nope. (but purpose will come up later)

Maybe it's working on the bike. (we're getting closer)

Scooters? Helllll no. (I might not want the 2100cc Harley Tour-master but I'm not riding a fucking mo-ped.)

When I work on my bicycle, the only satisfying part is cleaning and tuning the simplest, strongest, purpose-driven gems. The cassette on my back wheel is fantastic. It does one thing and it does it really really well. Cleaning the grease and dirt off it so that it'll snuggle up with my chain silently... it's magic. It's pure! The rest of the bike maintenance is an exercise in self-control. All the rusted/plastic pieces of shit that shipped with it eight years ago should have died on the idea-table and I have to stop myself from setting the whole thing on fire. So why should I even bother trying to clean something that came out of a suck-fest factory 6000 miles away? It barely makes a difference in the ride and it's going to deteriorate and break no matter what I do to it. But the cassette... Oh the cassette. Rock and roll.

I don't love fixing things unless they are simple, elegant and smart. One purpose, built well. Bicycles can facilitate shifty parts living next to solid ones. Motorcycles don't have that luxury. I wouldn't straddle my refrigerator-with-wheels doing 65mph down a highway unless I was confident in all of the parts that make it run. This is my long-winded way of saying that fixing and taking care of a motorcycle is part of the appeal. Lots of smart, well-built little parts working in harmony, like a band. Yeah, fix it up. Take care of it. Pure. Simple.

Alright, enough is enough. I'll just say why I want to ride a motorcycle so badly:

I want to cruise.

I don't need to ride 100 miles an hour. I don't care about flashy plastic all over my wheels. I don't plan on joining a gang or spending every second working on my bike (although there will be a fair amount of tinkering). Mostly, I just want to roll on the throttle and move through space. Like a dog out a window. They're practically asleep. I just want to cruise.