posted: July 11, 2004
Motorcycles--traditional, aggressive mounts of loners and psychos--deserve a better rap. I propose promoting them as "marital aids," or, at the very least, an alternative to relationship counseling.
Most people wouldn't think of a 400-pound vehicle which sports no back seat as romantic. Sexy, in an aggressive, testosterone-hyped way, perhaps, but surely not romantic. Motorcycles are best known for their rebellious, bad-boy image, for being noisy, brash, showy, aggressive and faster than fallen Catholic girls. This hardly equates to porch swings on summer evenings, or picnics by idyllic streams, or even an arm around the shoulder in a darkened movie theater.
But consider this: Only horror movies offer such convenient opportunities to hug your significant other with your whole body in public for a sustained amount of time.
Clinging to the back of your SO (or being clung to) while rocketing along the highway throws a lot of perspective on a relationship. If you can barely stand the blighter, you won't be inclined to wrap your arms around him, no matter how much of a safety hazard the lack of a steadying grip represents. If, on the other hand, you find life rather dreary and dull, but catch yourself grinning like a bear trap and snuggling closer to the person in front as the bike roars along the road, perhaps things aren't as bad as you thought.
I don't believe it's just an element of danger which exposes the intimacy of the motorcycle pillion position. You don't have to go very fast, or take any tortuous roads to feel the inclination to cleave close. Rather, it seems to me, the crux is the nudity of the situation. (No, I don't mean you should ride naked, you pervs.) Motorcycles and their condition are basic: there is very little involved beyond you, the machine and the road. Simplicity. There are few accessories and there is no room on the bike for the emotional luggage. If you bring too much crap, you won't go very far before you have trouble.
And, of course, there is the pure pleasure of flying along at very low altitude, on the back of a growling beast. (I didn't say it played no part.) It's like riding a tiger which you think is tame, but know you should treat with respect, none the less.
Motorcyclists who don't respect their beast get mauled, but that's less important than the joy of moving through space with so little separating you from the sound and feel it. A motorcycle is loud, but it doesn't cover all the sounds of the road. The road itself sings through the tires and the frame and the seat. The irregularities of the road surface pop and grunt and speak strange words. The wind mutters and cries. It rocks you, pokes you, pushes you, lifts you up as if you weigh nothing.
For the passenger, there is relief from the wind in the lee of the rider's back. A place hidden from the blind, groping wind. Then, sticking your head into the stream, again, it shakes you, plays around your body and runs up your sleeves as fresh as water.
Who could remain sullen in the face of this? Terrified a few may be, but not me. For me, the trill of motion, the stir of blood tickled into song by the bounding, sexual purring of the engine and the warmth of my husband's back in front of me, his solid, secure shape, encircled in my arms, hugged by my legs, pressed against my chest, is almost better than sex. I smile and hold him close and marvel at my good fortune have such delicious adventure so close at hand.
It's better than therapy.
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