Everyone has this idea that the outset of a
motorcycle journey evokes a reaction
bordering on ecstasy. I can tell you this is
rarely the truth. Want to know how you really
feel? Anxious. Spine-chilled. Short of breath.
(Possibly gassy.) You feel like you've
definitely left on the stove or forgot to water
your carpet, and it is certain that, in the power
lacuna brought about by your absence, your
iguana has declared herself Grand Duchess of
Reptiles. You wonder if you've strapped all
your gear down properly. (Spoiler alert: If you're off on your first big trip, you
haven't. Pull over after half an hour and check yo' shit. Packing a motorcycle is a bit
like cinching a saddle girth-strap on a horse, which is to say tricksy.)
Once you've eaten up a good 50 or 60 kilometres of road, your shoulders loosen
and you crack your lips open to breathe. You're now far enough from your point of
departure to actually realize that you aren't about to seize up, that vertigo-feeling
of horrifying uncertainty clenching your throat and heart, and meekly return home
with the declarative and guttural rumblings of your motorcycle demoted to the
lugging cough-and-wheeze of a BINGO caller.
Just relax. You're on your way. You're imagining things — horrible things. Let
'em go. Look around. Yup, that's right: You can and should gaze and even gawp at
the scenery. And the weird things you spy people doing on the other sides of the
windows of cars that you majestically soar past.
It's been an hour or two now. By this point, you're somewhat immune to (or
deafened by) the roaring and whistling wind. The muscles of your right hand are
feeling a mite sore. Really, now. . . did you not train up for this over the past few
weeks with a stern regimen of furious—