Life would have been just fine without Motorcycles.

I might have bought a reasonably priced sedan or hatchback, got a “real job,” had 2.3 kids and lived happily ever after. Things would have been more, well, predictable. I mean, I used to cringe when I walked past guys wearing Harley Davidson jackets and leather chaps, or guys decked out in full racing leathers. Victims of an under-developed fashion sense, I’d say to myself. And here I am two years later on the peripherals of the club. Now when I pass these guys on my motorbike, we exchange the biker’s salute and chat about our travels in Tim Horton’s parking lots and truck stop restaurants (I wonder: how many people who drive Camaros or pickup trucks wave to each other as they drive by as a sign of respect? I would wager it’s not a high number). Though that’s not to say I’ll ever wear leather chaps.

Until two years ago when I moved to Vietnam, I had never rode a motorcycle. But the minute I opened up the throttle on a 200cc dirt bike, dodging potholes and skimming the tops of mud puddles, I knew my life would never — could never be the same.

Diving a motorcycle at anything over 80km/hr can be really zen-like. Your senses are in overdrive, your body feeling and sensing for any imperfection in the roads. I’ve noticed this especially when driving in hazardous conditions or in developing countries, where stray dogs, school children, and suicidal chickens keep you on your toes. You drive in intense concentration, like you’re using more than the 12% of my brain that they say we use. Every ounce of concentration is working on keeping you from a high speed accident. And it’s weird, because it’s like you’re not thinking at all — like you’re at one with the bike. And then all of a sudden these random thoughts will just pop into your head, like “Oh, that’s why my girlfriend dumped me in 5th grade..” Like your brain has suddenly solved all of these issues that your unconscious has been working on for years but hadn’t been given the time to resolve. Random thoughts like “ Why didn’t Wile Coyote just buy a road runner? I mean, he obviously had enough money to just go to the supermarket and get one, if he was buying ACME rocket shoes and all that other crap.” I think I ‘m beginning to see what this meditation thing is all about.

Finally, I want to share a story to prove my point about the contagiousness of motorcycles. My dad used to have an old Honda 500 before I was born. The bike symbolized his wild, carefree days. He sold it when he settled down to have kids — to become a “responsible adult.” At the beginning of this past year’s riding season, he helped me search the internet for my most recent bike — a 1982 Kawasaki 440LTD (same year as me) — and then took care of it when I was away for a few months in Utah. Of course, he caught the fever. And like Malaria, it hits you even harder the second time. At first it was, “hey Mike, I just want to take your bike out for a spin down the street.” Then when I was away, I would call and he would be working on the bike, tuning up the engine, changing the spark plugs, replacing the battery… I knew it wouldn’t be long. The next time I called, he would talk with the excitement of a teenager about the Harley Davidsons and the Kawasakis he had seen at the showroom. Soon my mom caught the fever: “Your father and I have been looking at this really beautiful Kawasaki Vulcan. There’s also this great Yamaha cruiser. We stop there every other day after work…”  The next time I called, they were brimming with excitement and couldn’t keep hold of their “secret.” They had, just that morning, brought home their brand new 2008 Kawasaki Vulcan 900 (see photo below). Which I’m thinking I might borrow for a little road trip next summer…