My motorcycle diaries

I have a confession to make. Since buying a road bike last August, I have developed an irrational loathing for motorcycles.

I feel my choice of words deserves an explanation. This feeling is irrational because I can't explain it reasonably or coherently. The mere sound of a motorcycle driving past invokes a physical tremble of rage. My pulse quickens and I feel the urge to yell rude things. Which is why I would categorize this feeling as loathing rather than dislike.

Imagine yourself in the position I often find myself in. You are biking up a steep, lonely road. You are surrounded by forest and mountains and other beautiful things. You are moving slowly and working hard. You might kind of be hating the ride right now, but you know that somehow, at some point, you will reach the top and everything will be....


A terrible noise shreds through the quiet sound of your breathing and the wind in the trees. A shiver of anticipation tingles up your spine, disturbing the smooth cadence of your grinding legs.

Then, at at least a 4356 miles an hour, a motorcycle tears past you. You'd think motorcycles would take less space on the road than cars, but they have developed a superautomobile ability to expand as they pass you. You find yourself checking if all the skin is still on your arm.

And then, just as your catching your breath, another one flys by. And another. And another. Because, for some reason, motorcycling can only be done in large groups. Every one of them is wearing an oversized helmet and thick, ugly padding, making them reminiscent of Star Troopers as opposed to real human beings. Faceless, passing so quickly a friendly greeting is impossible.

The smell of gasoline lingers on the pavement behind them.

Will someone please explain the allure of the motorcycle to me? Should I, too, have the urge buy a hunk of loud metal to speed around the countryside on? Would you rather see the world through this lens:

or this on?

I think I'll go get myself some help now.

- The Wild Bazilchuk