I love my motorcycle. No, really love it.
Motorcycling is much more than just a thing I like doing. That characterization simply doesn’t do my feelings about riding justice.
Even saying the motorcycle riding is a lifestyle doesn’t seem right. Motorcycle-based tributaries spider throughout my life like veins, carrying curiosity, joy, excitement, and passion away from my heart to far beyond the reach of my extremities.
When you don’t ride your motorcycle by choice, the time away feels entirely different when compared to not riding your motorcycle because you can’t (or shouldn’t).
Can’t feels like a loss. It is something removed from you by force. I, like many people, hate the feeling of being pushed to do something against my will. Even if it is in my best interest.
This past week, I wavered heavily over just saying, “fuck it,” and going for a little ride. The devil on my shoulder asked – “what’s the worst that could happen?” I was gently reminded that the nice answer to that is “a hernia.”
A hernia. That’s just what I need. Say the word “hernia” out loud. It sounds moist, odorous, and plump. In other words… gross.
So, common sense prevailed and I parked my lazy ass on the couch and rested instead. Again.
Frankly, it’s getting old.
This week marks a month ago that I had my surgery. Since I came home from the hospital, I haven’t taken a single prescribed pain pill. Sure, I’ve been uncomfortable, but not in any significant pain. I’d call that a win.
But, I do have an ugly pink smile across my belly and if I don’t wear some type of compression garment, it feels like my insides are going to spill out everywhere.
Can you even comprehend the embarrassment of having to pick your own organs up from the floor of the frozen food aisle?
[picks up spleen, blows the fuzz off, pulls off a stray hair, puts it in purse to shove back in abdomen later]
So instead of riding pants, I’ve been wearing all manner of Under Armor for the last couple weeks. While I, of course, look dead sexy each day in my super snug pants (I don’t), I’d much rather be looking like an amorphous blob zipping along on my moto.
I love my motorcycle… maybe a little too much?
Is it a bad thing that an activity like motorcycling becomes such an integral part of your person? When it leaves you, even if temporarily, it feels like something is missing from your universe. It’s like standing at a party where you don’t know anyone and you fidget around not knowing what to do with your hands.