The Right Madness

This article was originally published in Rider magazine.

I am a motorcycle commuter, and so carry the emblems of that profession: a somewhat tatty Aerostich suit, which fits neatly over my business clothes; well-worn, waterproof boots; messenger bag with laptop computer; and of course, an unerring eye for disaster.

I am festooned with so much illumination and reflective gear that I can easily be mistaken for the beginning of a presidential motorcade. This includes a reflective band on my helmet, adhesives on the bike front and rear, headlight modulator, and rear flashing LEDs that illuminate  during braking. This is capped off by my bright yellow ‘stich suit. I am part man, part Christmas tree.

I arrive at work, do my Superman-in-a-phone booth routine to get rid of the ‘stich, and drag a comb through my hair in a vain attempt to banish helmet hand. My helmet occupies a prominent place on my office shelf–my statement of individuality (or derangement)….

When I was employed in the Silicon Valley, I commuted on my BMW R1100R almost every day from my home on the ocean. While the teeming masses lament this drive as one of the worst in the state, I viewed it as a form of compensation that’s better than stock options. Half this ride is over serpentine roads through the redwoods—the very roads the local knee-puck lads ply on weekend sport rides—and I did it as part of my daily regimen. Unlike my colleagues, I arrived at work wearing a broad, stupid grin that endured well into the morning. In contrast, they arrived at work looking like they’re ready to kick the dog, having spent the last hour banging the steering wheel. Now I have a nicer commute along the ocean to Monterey. But the effects are the same; If I am a peaceable influence in the first meeting of the day, thank the motorcycle.

Initially, I made a pact with my wife; I would take the cage most of the time, and the motorcycle perhaps once a week. In this way, ensconced behind an air bag, I would be reducing my exposure to the myriad dangers of commuter traffic. I even purchased a BMW sports car to enhance the driving experience (and it did help). But soon, I found myself taking the twice per week. Then three time a week. Now, each morning when I walk into the garage to pick the day’s vehicle, the choice is no choice at all. I opt for the form of Teutonic transport that is the most fun: the motorcycle.

Of course, as with many of life’s most pleasurable vices, motorcycle commuting has a unique set of risks. At every moment, I am covering the front brake, eyeing escape routes, and riding in the upper reaches of the power zone—guarding against brain-dead maneuvers of sleepy eyed drivers. I am wary of the man next to me who is urgently talking on his cell phone, piloting his Porsche Boxster with just one hand. Just as I register his presence, he makes a menacing lurch in my direction. But I have already marked him as a danger. In an instant I move deftly to the next lane, having already checked to see there was space available.

I was lucky this time, and can declare a small victory, glowering at him through the faceshield. But next time—who knows? Disaster is always there, waiting in the wings.

The irony is that, to my great surprise, I derive a sort of masochistic sense of enjoyment from this Darwinian traffic environment. When I swing a leg over the bike in the morning and thumb the starter, I enter a “hyperaware” state. Every possible bit of information is processed: the pavement quality, the car to my right, available traction, lean angle, visibility, rpm, gear and body position. These things fit into a vast mental matrix—one that requires a thousand decisions, both conscious and subconscious, during the course of a ride. A wet spot in the shadows causes me to roll off the throttle ever so slightly; the abrupt driving style of the dot.com exec to my right makes me register the broad median to my left as a possible escape route; the strong presence of the sun on the evening horizon makes me infer poor visibility for oncoming traffic; and so on. The good thing is that this hyperaware state induces a sort of buzz–one that comes from life lived absolutely in the moment. There is pleasure in the cut and thrust of city traffic.

We motorcycle commuters are bound by our common pleasure and vulnerability. We wave to each other amidst the gridlock as if to say, “Enjoy this privilege, and be safe.“ We are united in our madness. The right madness.

Right now it’s 5 pm, and my thoughts are running to sweeping curves, and the thrum of the BMW’s motor. In a few minutes, I will be threading my way along the backroads, the afternoon sun threading through the redwoods in little snatches, illuminating the road in a mottled sort of way. Work will be behind me, literally and figuratively, reduced to a tiny speck by a twist of my right wrist—and then it will be gone. There will be only the pavement under my wheels, and the way home.

It’s been a good day. Tomorrow will be another. I am on the motorcycle, heading home from work. How could it be otherwise?