A woman has to have an obsession. That is, angry, passionate, obsessive women like me need to have an obsession. Motorcycles are mine.
Riding is the answer that makes all the questions go away, and I have a lot of questions that need to go away. I’m the one who lies awake at night, compulsively processing information and calculating all the things I don’t know, monitoring all the things I can’t control. I dream about the problems I have to solve, and about solving things that aren’t even problems. I’m a lawyer, and I’ve been known to draft pleadings in my dreams, only to wake up and have to draft them all over again.
That sort of thing will drive you mad. Trust me.
It’s easy to worry about life so much that you forget to live.
But it’s hard to forget you’re alive as you smash through a hairpin with your knee down and all the forces of nature and physics marshalled and waiting to take you out at the slightest mistake. Hell yes, at that moment you’re alive. And in that moment life is simple: life is adrenalin and physics and petrol and right f**king now.
Even when the adrenalin subsides and you’re not doing silly things – when you’re just fanging towards the horizon on a clear day – there’s nothing else you have to be or do except find out where that road leads you. And maybe find out what your bike can do on the way there.
I’m obsessed. I think about riding when I’m awake, I dream about when I’m asleep.
I own two bikes and I’m stony broke.
I buy my bikes expensive oil for Valentine’s Day.
I’ve never been happier in my life.
Welcome to my obsession.