Worst of all, of course, is the extra attention we often receive from the law-enforcement community. Police officers are already wired, by training and inclination, to focus on people who live outside of societal norms, so it's probably no surprise that many of them instinctively see us as scofflaws, already guilty. (I'll apologize in advance to the many fine police officers-many of them riders themselves-who don't look at us that way. It's just that a whole lot of them do.)
Notwithstanding the negatives that occasionally attach to this sport, though, being a motorcyclist is a grand, positive differentiator for most of us. In a world that is becoming more and more homogenized, a world increasingly devoid of personal risk, choosing to ride is a clear and emphatic statement about who we are, what we value and how we look at the world.
I know that for me riding has colored my life more than anything else I have ever done. My entire adult life has been defined by it. The people in my life are without question the most important things in the world to me-being a husband, father, brother, son or friend defines what I am. And my colleagues at work all know what I do, of course, how I relate to the work that they do-there's a tag that comes with that, too. But being a motorcyclist defines who I am. Everyone I know looks at me through that prism.
No one understands that better than my wife, Ginny. Although she definitely got the short end of the stick-having a husband, like most of her friends', who enjoys puttering around the house instead of continually heading off toward some distant horizon surely would have been easier for her-she knows that motorcycles and riding are an indelible part of my identity. They are etched into my soul.
A half-dozen years ago, I pulled up to my house in my pickup truck after a not-so-great track day down at VIR. Hearing me drive up, Ginny walked out onto the deck. Seeing my sad, rueful face, she glanced back at the totaled carcass of my SV650 in the back of the pickup. Looking back at me, she slowly shook her head and offered: "You need to find a cheaper hobby."
We both laughed. We both also knew it was a joke-because it's always been much more than a hobby to me. Indeed, she has long assumed that I'll be out riding most weekends. On those odd occasions when I'm not, she'll be the one to ask if something's wrong. And if I'm in a grouchy mood, she'll be the first to suggest that I go for a ride.
She knows me well.
I suspect that's the way it is for most of us. Riding a motorcycle doesn't call to everyone. It carries a level of risk that is anathema to most. And it demands a level of competence, a degree of engagement that is unusual in today's society. Like an old-time craft, the skills and the wisdom necessary to be successful at it don't come quickly, but emerge only slowly, over time. Most people today simply don't have the patience or the inclination to deal with that sort of thing.
But for those of us who do, to that tiny minority who are drawn to it, the rewards are immeasurable. For us, riding imbues life itself with color, tinges it with adventure. It connects us to a time when people weren't perhaps quite so shy about how they lived. A time when everything wasn't a careful, exacting calculus of risk and reward. A bolder time when a fear of getting hurt didn't stand as an impenetrable shield to the simple enjoyment of life.
So, yeah, those of us who ride are definitely different. But it's a good difference. We carry something that once was common but now is rare. Something of the distilled essence of what got us all here.
We're the last wolves, in a land of sheep.