Motorcycles have taken me to some of the most memorable places I’ve ever experienced. And yet for all I’ve seen, I wonder how much I’ve missed.
Motorcycle trips and the occasional perks of the business have taken me from riding the Going-to-the-Sun Road in Glacier National Park on a rented Harley-Davidson Electra Glide with my wife while celebrating a wedding anniversary to hitting the fastest speeds I’ve ever attained on land while testing a Kawasaki ZX-10R at Losail International Circuit in Qatar. Motorcycles have taken me to beautiful sights from the southern coast of Portugal to Big Sur on the Pacific Coast Highway. Unique places from the peak of Mount Washington in New Hampshire to the odd hideout known as La Casa del Inglés en Xilitla, Mexico.
Motorcycles have taken me to many great destinations. Portugal was a delight on every level. Ducati photo.
Of course most of us enjoy the physical act of riding just as we enjoy the sights and destinations. In some cases, even more. But that demands a price. Our attention. And it makes me wonder: For all I’ve seen on a motorcycle, how much have I missed?
One summer, I was riding across New Hampshire when I rounded a curve and saw several cars pulled off onto the shoulder of the rural road. At first, I thought there had been an accident. But then I spotted, 150 yards away and knee-deep in the lake, a huge bull moose lazily grazing on underwater plants. I joined the silent audience and watched the moose eat. For all the tens of thousands of miles I’ve ridden and forgotten, that’s one I’ll always remember.
Another time, I stopped at a lakeside overlook for a rest break. A local rider pointed out two bald eagles. We watched the two birds whirling at each other angrily in the sky, both wanting the same rich patch of lake for a hunting ground.
The moose and the eagles were just two sights I could have easily ridden by and missed entirely. If not for the parked cars, I would have stayed focused on the road and likely not have looked off across the lake long enough to see the moose. How many eagles have I missed while intently choosing my lane position and selecting the best line through the curves, as I should, both to maximize my safety and maintain smooth, brisk, enjoyable progress?
There are dueling attractions at work for me in motorcycling. One is to immerse myself in the outdoors, outside a climate-controlled comfort zone, where I experience more of the surroundings. Another is focusing on the task of riding, trying to come as close as possible to perfect technique while finding my way down a winding road, achieving the best possible balance between fun and safety. The necessary focus on the latter means I have to sacrifice some of the former. Inevitably, I’ll miss some eagles.
And, in fact, I realize the situation would be worse if I traveled by just about any other means. On the motorcycle, there’s no roof to block my view, no shield to insulate me from the sensations of a sudden chill, as I pass through the mouth of a West Virginia holler in spring, or the stinging barrage as an inevitable afternoon Puerto Rico downpour begins. Short of being on foot, I never experience more than when I’m on a motorcycle. And I’m not likely to walk to Mount Washington or southern Portugal.
All of which leads to an inescapable conclusion. There is no such thing as perfection in this world, but a motorcycle is still the closest thing to the perfect way to go see the treasures that world has to offer.
