“Holy Jesus! Did I really do that?” he’d mutter,
soaked and naked under the Florida moonlight. “Did
I really strap myself into that Star-Spangled death
machine and fire myself directly into the ether with
nary a second thought at the consequences of not
being entirely successful?”
Yes you did Evil, and you should be proud of your
stupidity; it represents a benchmark level of blind
faith in one’s own abilities that hints at the core of
the human condition; it’s what separates us from
other animals; this perverse desire to teeter on the
brink of oblivion. An elk is smart enough not to surf
a monster bore or dive alone at night in shark
infested waters, but where’s the fun in being an elk?
It is this question that I ask myself as I flick through
the pages of the popular motorcycle press and read
so many articles about the ‘best’ roads to ride in
Spain; the ‘right’ way to enjoy America; the ‘safe
‘ way to experience Africa.
‘Safe’ in this context is not a million miles away
from watching the Discovery channel; but it is a
very long way indeed from the fiery heart of a true
motorcycle adventure.
It is how our friend the elk might approach such a
journey; the elk is a very successful species - there
is no shame in being an elk. But elk do not tell good
stories, unlike the rabbit, which is a natural orator;
that’s why they have such big families. Rabbits will
gather en masse around a grassy hillock on a starry
summer’s night, a big bag of carrots at the centre of
this tranquil auditorium, and swap tales till dawn of
near misses with “huge rumbling moon-eyed beasts
that come swooping down the lanes out past the
hedgerows”.
Pointing out into the darkness, 30 pairs of eyes
follow his bunny paw, towards that special place
where a certain kind of rabbit must go to find peace
with himself; right in the heart of the vortex.
Humans and rabbits are very closely related, in the
genetic sense. We share many mammalian traits: we
are social, smart, and occasionally, balls-out nuts
stupid in our need to rev the heart deep into the
redline.
There is no doubt that rabbits would ride
motorcycles, if only God had not cursed them with
such cumbersome feet. Instead they must get their
kicks from late-night games of chicken on busy A-
roads, far from the safety of the burrow.
There is no safe way to play chicken, that defeats
the point. Similarly, there is no ‘safe’ or ‘best’ or
‘right’ way to undertake a motorcycle adventure, no
matter what the mainstream press might say.
Too m