Some people ride motorcycles for sport, others for recreation and still others as a hobby.
I ride for two reasons: Transportation and therapy.
Transportation is why my 2009 Super Glide — purchased 18 months ago — has more than 32,000 miles on the odometer.
Therapy is why I can head out early in the morning — rain or shine — without have any idea where I’m going or how long I will be gone.
Someone once noted that you never see a motorcycle parked in front of a psychiatrist’s office — unless the psychiatrist rides.
Riding is therapeutic. It is liberating. It is fun. It clears your head. On a bike you can’t hear your cell phone ring or feel it vibrate. The sounds and smell of nature assault your senses and you feel closer to your surroundings.
I ride because I can. I ride because I need to. I ride because it helps me maintain some sense of sanity in these insane times.
Those ride understand this. Those who don’t never will.
Some of my friends don’t understand my love of riding. They argue that a 62-year-old man shouldn’t ride. I met an elderly couple from Oregon on the Blue Ridge Parkway. He was 84, she just turned 80. They rode matching Harley Heritage Classics. I rode about 20 miles with them and both rode well.
Others claim that riding is too risky for someone with my history of injuries to hips, knees and ankles. Ha! So is walking up and down steps, crossing the street or driving a car. A fall down steps could easily destroy the pins, screws and other mechanical devices that hold various parts of my body together. I’m not going to become a shut-in over what “might happen.”
I’ve always been an adrenaline junkie. Still am.
A Harley marketing “expert” coined the cliche: “Live to ride, ride to live.”
I prefer another H-D marketing slogan: “Screw it. Let’s ride.”
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