Motorcycling: A small grasp of freedom

Some say the car liberated the horse. In the suburban sprawl of America’s major cities, can it be said the car also liberated the one behind the wheel? I have lived in cities of many shapes and sizes.

The worst commute I ever had was when I was in the Navy in Jacksonville, Florida. Jacksonville is the largest city in the United States by area, encompassing the entirety of Duval County. I had to drive 20 miles each way in addition to sitting in at least 30 minutes of gate traffic.

I grew to hate my car and the hours I had to spend trapped inside. After work, any errand necessitated a drive of equal length. In the hot Florida sun, my vehicle’s air conditioning struggled to keep my temper cool.

I found myself driving more aggressively, cutting people off, and speeding; anything to reclaim a few precious minutes from the daily waste of liminal time. Modernity is full of little servitudes like this.

Yet something else lurked in my garage. An untamed and unashamed act of rebellion stood stalwart on two wheels: my motorcycle.

A sable black Italian Moto Guzzi beckoned me to mount up and get my knees in the breeze. Everyone will tell you riding is dangerous.

To the body, perhaps; but not the soul.

In a society of increasingly restrictive guardrails in the name of safety, one can reclaim a small portion of agency. Riding a motorcycle is 100% legal, but there remains an element of the outlaw panache.

When perched on the bike, you are no longer insulated from the world. You find yourself trespassing once more into the state of nature. The weather, previously something to be observed passively behind a car’s windshield, grips your psyche.

The pavement flows beneath you in such a way as to make even the mundane speed of 30 mph exhilarating. Trees greet you with the excitement of new growth.

You notice details of your locale you always overlooked. With the throb of the engine and a firm grip on the handlebars, one finds a small escape from the repetitive course of post-industrial America.

When passing another motorcyclist on the road, he will extend a two-fingered salute in recognition of shared fraternity. There is mutual respect for retaining a final element of freedom though you may never see each other again.

America was once a nation of pioneers and explorers. Our gene pool is comprised of the descendants of risk-taking individuals who left their ancestral homelands to make a new start across the ocean.

With the passing of generations, the coddling of the modern world sedated this enterprising spirit. As we collectively struggle in the malaise, I can break the surface tension of the mire for just a moment.

Leaning into a corner, just a hair’s breadth from the rushing surface of the road, I shake hands with my ancestors who knew neither safety nor servitude.

Joe McGraw is a staff writer at the Daily American Republic. He can be reached at jmcgraw@darnews.com.