There is something that happens when you throw a leg over a motorbike, it’s difficult to explain, but you know it when it happens. It’s a deep familiarity with the idea of adventure, and quite simply: you either get it and feel forced to go out and play, or it just passes you by.
It can be faint, almost imperceptible, but when you back a motorbike out of the garage you feel it staring to kick a little, letting you know it’s time to ride. It may be too faint to be understood, but somehow you know you are part of a millennia old tradition, that you are following in the footsteps of millions who set out on a journey to discover what is over the next ridge. And it’s exciting, almost intoxicating, and there is no question that the need for discovery is important, vital even, and not at a personal level, but as a species.
3200 miles later as I pull back into the same driveway I’d left three weeks earlier, my thoughts are not focused on the mundane, but the excitement of where two wheels will take me next time I leave the driveway on two wheels.
