motorcyclemeditation.com

Riding into London, happening on some motorcycle learners, three plus the instructor, probably first time on biggish motorcycles. Always a good sight to see. Upright and attentive on the saddles, pootling along steadily. Overtaking them, giving a thumbs up, keep at it people.

Parking my motorcycle, by chance on the same road chosen by the instructor for setpiece routines. The riders dismounting, motorcycles put on stands, helmets taken off. All done with awkward deliberateness, novices earnestly trying to look like old hands.

The instructor in foul temper. Shouting, arms waving, fingers stabbing. Unsatisfied with the group’s progress, or perhaps just permanently unsatisfied with everything. The words indistinguishable in the breeze, no doubt along the lines, how many times do I bloody well have to tell you, suchlike. Calm down pal, you shout like that you’re doing your job less well than they’re doing theirs.

The fragile assurance of one learner suddenly disintegrating. Tall, physically imposing, the next thing, sitting down on the pavement, head shaking, handkerchief out. That awful sight, a strong man crying.

Soon surrounded by the other learners, reassuring. My own instinct being to rush forward too, tell him, aw, buddy, don’t do that, sure, it’s a handful, you’ll get used to it. Also tell the instructor, you’re overcooking it pal.

But remaining still, pretending not to notice. Like being a parent, possessing requisite knowledge in excess of what can be communicated. Impossible to explain, that motorcycle strangeness, that intensification of experience, that confusingness of a different medium, those things in the beginning strip away your defenses, get you to the edge of tears, sometimes beyond.

But what you’re feeling is just the queasy rumble as you cross a threshold. At the other side, a new world.

Oh well, he’ll have to find out for himself or not at all. Hope he sticks with it.