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Motorcycle Zen
by Samanthi Martinez

I still remember the day my husband brought her home. I stood in the living room with arms crossed, peering through the slats of Venetian blinds at the hot afternoon sun bouncing off the driveway. She was sleek and curvy, round in all the right places, and muscular, too. I hated to admit she was beautiful. He caressed her and wiped a speck of something off her with his hanky.

Inside, I steamed. How could he? Why had I shrugged it off when he was telling me about doing something he'd always wanted to do, but I had never allowed -- until now. He walked into the house with a little-boy grin, and said, "Isn't she gorgeous?" I swiveled sharply and walked into the next room.

My husband Duane had bought the motorcycle of his dreams -- a nearly-new, beautifully customized Yamaha V-Star Classic cruiser -- all black and chrome, unblemished by gaudy emblems. This sexy machine was cheetah-smooth and growled like one, too.

I hated to admit I had never ridden on a motorcycle before, unless you count the time my best friend's Uncle Alex took us for a ride around the block on his cycle when I was about ten -- all I remember about that experience was that I scorched my leg on the hot tail pipe.

Duane passed a rigorous cycle safety course and got his class M license. He was meticulous with traffic rules. He always wore a helmet and proper footwear. One particularly bright and breezy day, when our daughter was away visiting friends, he talked me into taking a spin. I geared up for the ride, feeling claustrophobic and stiff in jeans, helmet, and boots. We took off down the road; I was keenly aware of the rumbling engine we rode astride and felt cool air washing over my arms and face. We rode around the lake at a gentle clip of 40 miles per hour. It felt good.

In his 1974 classic, "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance", Robert M. Pirsig describes what makes motorcycles different from cars. "You see things -- on a motorcycle in a way that is completely different from any other. In a car you're always in a compartment, and because you're used to it you don't realize that through that car window everything you see is just more TV. You're a passive observer and it is all moving by you boringly in a frame."

On a cycle, you are in the scene, Pirsig explains; you are in contact with it all. How true. It sounds so biker-cliché to say there is no feeling to compare with the freedom of being on the open road, unencumbered by the confines of a metal shell. You only know once you've tried it: the way the wind stirs the tiny hairs on your arm, the way you feel bumps in the road like they're under your very feet, and the way the air cools through stands of tall trees and heats up near grassy meadows, buzzing with insects.

You will smell things on a motorcycle that you'll never smell in a car. Of course, you'll notice odoriferous farms and cattle pastures, but have you ever smelled fresh baked apple pie from a car? Certain woodland flowers fragrance the air when they bloom in profusion, and the scent of freshly mown hay flows in the air around your head and shoulders. In the fall, you can smell apples ripening on trees.

On a cycle, talking is difficult. I'm not particularly fond of bugs smashing themselves on the back of my throat at 50 miles per hour, so I keep my mouth shut during most of the ride. Which is quite a feat. We've developed little signals for communicating important things. Two taps on his right leg mean take the next road to the right and let's see where it leads. Same goes for the left. Two hard presses on the leg means slow down. Rubbing my palm in a circle on his belly means let's stop for ice cream. Wrapping my arms around his middle and squeezing means I am having fun.

Funny things happen with motorcycles. When you meet another cyclist on the road, you extend a greeting by dropping your left arm and pointing two fingers in their direction. They greet you back. Always. When was the last time you greeted every Subaru owner you met on the road? Motorcycle riders often take off in the morning for a day's adventure without the slightest clue where they are going. Sometimes, they just know a direction: north, or east. Along the way, they meander down country roads and make snap decisions at small town junctions. They stop for a cup of coffee or a cold beer. They chat with other riders at roadside cafés. Some have asked when I will have a cycle of my own. Alas, I may never graduate to that point. I am content to be a passenger, to bring up the rear, to be the one with no responsibilities. All I have to do is sit there, and think, and dream, and feel connected to everything around me. A car takes you to your destination but a cycle is all about the journey.

About the author:
Sami Martinez is a freelance writer living in Upstate New York with her husband and a small zoo of pets. They have two grown children and are learning the art of rediscovering each other within their now-empty nest.