The song of the motor stills my thoughts. It mutes the chaos around me. I push forward, and with focused relaxation I eye the ground beneath me. The rumble of the wheels gliding across it feels like an act of love. Of silent connection.
All that matters at this moment are my tracks. I’ll just do one more round. Again. Then I’ll turn it off and rejoin society. Maybe two more rounds.
This pattern feels so familiar.
Oh, yes. This used to be the love story between my motorcycle and me. I called it “moving meditation.” She instantly thrust me into a perfect Zen state, where I was focused, yet not thinking; alert, yet not tense.