A few weeks ago, Bud Miller, the founder of this site, and I went for a motorcycle ride. Bud introduced me to some beautiful, nearly deserted back roads, which were literally minutes from my home. Under his watchful eye I got to hone my skills in this sport I love.
I was not doing very well at first, having not ridden for about a week. I was a bit shaky in my turns. It took what seemed like an eternity to pull away from each stop sign. More than once, Bud had to pull by the side of the road to wait for me to catch up. I was so focused on the mechanics of riding that I had no time or energy to enjoy Andrew Wyeth-worthy country landscapes surrounding me.
Despite my lack of skill and our snail-paced progress on deserted sweepers that begged for more speed, Bud did not display a hint of irritation. Instead, he was completely present with me, offering encouragement, support and complete lack of judgment in a quiet way that is so unique to Bud.
It was Bud’s quiet presence on this relatively short ride that nourished me, changing something within I could not quite put my finger on. After we said our goodbyes at the end of our ride I felt different. As I thumbed my ST to life for my ride home, my heart rhythm did not go into a fast Bossa nova which preceded all previous rides, but stayed in a mellow Rumba. As I pulled away from a stop, horrific crash scenarios were not playing in a loop in my mind. I felt a meditative silence that Bud and I just shared. My death grip on the handlebars relaxed; my hawk-like gaze softened and I began to enjoy the ride. Suddenly, I did not have to think about making turns or shifting gears or whether I would make the next stop. I just rode.
Through our shared silence came a breakthrough of the most unexpected kind. I’ve heard about such breakthroughs from other riders. My friend and the funnyman from BMWON magazine, Jack Riepe, wrote a whole book about the phenomenon, called Conversations with a Motorcycle. A ride with a good friend and a kindred soul quieted my mind to such an extent, that it allowed me to hear my bike speak to me. The ST said: “Trust me, we can do this!” And, trust I did.
About the author: Henry Yampolsky is a new rider and writer who finds motorcycling to be an extension of his meditation. When not riding, writing, meditating or contemplating doing one of the three, Henry spends time with his wife, Juliya, and works as a lawyer in Philadelphia.
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There was a time when I felt shaky pulling away from stop signs or coming into tight curves. I was lucky enough to ride with the guys of the Mac-Pac. They taught me that it is possible to monitor everything, and still be removed from any pressing fear. In some regards — the better ones — I started to ride like I was a kid again. And this was wonderful. But kids believe what they are told. You have to be very careful when listening to a motorcycle.
That's beautiful Henry!!!!!!