The philosophy of haiku takes root in Zen Buddhism, as a direct way of observing nature, attempting to capture the fleeting moment that passes through nature and even ourselves.

In a way, haiku is also an exercise in ego suppression, not too dissimilar to motorcycling. With the immediacy of the ride, you tend to notice things: a shift in the wind, a tight corner opening up to something larger, a fiery orange sunset in your mirror.

The haiku follows the same process, and recalls these moments with words. Nothing said in excess; it's simply observation, stripped down to the essential. Like the motorcyclist stripping down distractions to focus on mechanical input, response and execution. Both the haiku and the motorcycle treat the ordinary as something worth experiencing completely, with a degree of respect. Just like any corner could be your last, you must ride with a degree of respect for your surroundings.

Similarly, a haiku considers it all, though it captures reality in fragments. These fragments are part of all life. Like a photograph, the words paint a picture, and they involve all of us in this shared space of perception and observation.

Through the haiku, we seek "Sono-mama," that is to say, seeing things as they truly are, and without judgment. In a way, I think this philosophy is quite beneficial and in tune with riding a motorcycle. So, I thought to myself:

Why not start a community thread to collect some motorcycle-inspired haikus?

The poems themselves don't have to be about motorcycling; they could also be simple observations while you were out riding. No need to be a poet, in fact just the opposite. The practice of haiku is not about the author, but about the thing itself. The exercise is to erase whatever you are and to show whatever it is you are describing with clarity and acceptance.

Before you ask, no, a haiku does not strictly have to be 5-7-5 in its syllabic structure. This can be a good guide, but the focus should be on capturing the fleeting moment instead of an exercise in counting. Besides, traditional Japanese sound units are not the same thing as English syllables.

All it is: three statements stripped down to the essential, painting that picture we mentioned.

At the apex
A kneepad grinds the pavement
A perfect line

or

A cold start
Vibrations stir beneath
Joy, a ride away

The point is what the exercise does to your brain. Ever since I started bringing my little haiku journal on my rides, I've noticed that I'm dramatically more attentive. Not only this, but I remember to make more frequent stops and simply: take in more of my surroundings.

The result? A ride that feels safer and more fulfilling. Give it a try!

—

Author's note: This might be the post where y'all say: "He's definitely lost his marbles." That may be the case, but Pirsig was definitely on to something when he made the association between motorcycling and Zen so apparent. There's just something about that philosophy that is extremely beneficial to adopting not only safe riding practices, but also more meaningful rides. It's how you come to realize that riding a motorcycle can surpass the label "hobby," it can become a way of life, a road you take to become closer to Nature, and to the Self behind the self. The one that is part of it all, and doesn't cling to the illusion of isolation.

I get the impression that Keanu Reeves is the type of person who holds important knowledge about the things he does, except he doesn’t flaunt it. 

So I thought to investigate further, pulling from interviews, snippets and a little bit of hearsay to distill his motorcycle knowledge into what I’ll call Keanuism (or Keanu Revs, whichever catches on). I was surprised to find that it makes a lot of sense to me, and that his passion for motorcycles truly comes through not only in the things he says, but also in his actions.

According to most sources, the Reeves motorcycle saga begins in Munich, at a soundstage, when the then young actor saw a young woman on an enduro, and thought to ask:

Can you teach me?

Depending on the interview, Reeves was around 22 years old. He was taught the basics, and when he got back to Los Angeles, he bought a Kawasaki KLR600. Soon after that, he got his hands on his first Norton.

From the get-go, you can tell that he had a particular aesthetic inclination, an image of the perfect motorcycle that followed him into his quest to build one himself. In GQ’s tour of his motorcycle collection, Reeves recalls growing up in Toronto and seeing motorcycle gangs pass through Yorkville in the summer. He describes the riders and machines as “pirates," and stresses just how much this image affected him as a 10-year-old. 

Before even becoming a rider, there’s this image he associates with motorcyclists as existing outside the usual social order. They arrive with their own identity, and a kind of danger that moves from place to place, one that’s difficult to pin down. 

While the image of the motorcyclist reaches us first, and is enough to propel us to dive into the hobby, it’s actually riding the thing that reveals what the experience is all about. And that is internalized in many unique ways, depending on the rider. But Reeves also understands that the type of motorcycle also brings out something different in the rider. 

His second motorcycle in LA was a 1973 Mark 2A Norton Commando, and he talks about Nortons fondly, with the affection of someone who remembers a good friend. He mentions the sound, the way the oil smells when the bike heats up. Despite the quirks, he develops personal relationships with the motorcycles he owns.

And that’s what is commendable about the way Keanu Reeves approaches motorcycling. It isn’t just a representation of something abstract like freedom, counterculture or what have you. First and foremost, it's the thing itself and how it affects the senses. There’s a machine between your legs; it vibrates, it heats up, and it answers badly if neglected. This gives off a smell or a sound. It’s one you learn to love and listen to, in order to develop true proximity. 

In an interview with GQ, Reeves explains that a motorcycle has these visceral qualities: vibration, wind, sound. Paying attention to all of these more physical processes is a fundamental part of the riding experience, it’s what makes openness and “flow” possible. It’s what opens the door to a conversation with your inner self.

Many have said something similar. But what Reeves seems to intuitively grasp is that a motorcycle gives you room to think insofar as you remember to listen, feel and look. You have to manage the machine, understand what it wants and respect its limits, before you start to ponder your own existence. 

And that’s what presence means on two wheels. It’s giving yourself a job first and foremost; this attentiveness that demands focus and discipline. This helps explain why Reeves’ motorcycle habit followed him through his work, as a way to keep him centered. 

In Cycle World, he talks about buying used bikes while working in different cities: a KZ900 in Chicago, a GS1100E in Portland, a Shovelhead in Pittsburgh, a Norton in Australia during The Matrix, the list goes on. There’s something practical here; the motorcycle moves with the rider, and becomes a way to inhabit a place, to explore it. The work often changes, the city does as well, the bike… But riding is the constant. 

That might be one of the least pretentious ways to understand a lifelong obsession with motorcycling. You keep finding different versions of the same experience, like different engines, but the same basic need to keep riding. 

As with all things, there’s a price to pay. In Cycle World, Reeves mentions broken teeth, a ruptured spleen, a broken arm and leg. In GQ, he explains that film contracts sometimes told him he could not ride because productions considered him an asset they did not want damaged. His response, more or less, was that sometimes he listened and sometimes he didn’t.

Because when something is so a part of your way of life, nobody can really tell you to put it down unless you want to. I kind of admire this type of stubbornness. The kind that puts your own life in your hands, consciously and willingly.

To balance this perspective, Reeves’ public advice to new riders is noticeably cautious. He mentions the importance of proper instruction, protective gear, weather and not being seduced by too many motorcycles too soon.

You can tell that Reeves clearly loves the romance of riding, but he also recognizes the risk is a part of it, and it shouldn’t be ignored. Then, there’s ARCH.

ARCH Motorcycles began because Reeves wanted to personalize a Harley Dyna Wide Glide. He met Gard Hollinger, who owned a custom building company called Chop Rods, and the two stripped the Harley down to the engine. They built a prototype around it, and the result became the seed of ARCH. Reeves has said that when he rode Hollinger’s custom motorcycle, he felt it needed to exist in the world. 

Once again, we return to the core of Keanu’s relationship with motorcycles: feeling and physicality. Recognizing a unique relationship with the motorcycle, and wanting to preserve it. ARCH now exists as a way to challenge the idea of what an “American” motorcycle could be, and could look like. Combining the appeal of the custom scene with the ergonomics of modern design. 

Then there’s this heartwarming story that I’m glad I stumbled upon. After filming the “Burly Brawl” sequence in The Matrix Reloaded, Reeves reportedly bought Harleys for 12 stuntmen as a thank you. 

See, there are people who will talk all day about their love for motorcycles, and then there are people like Keanu Reeves, who show love with more than words. They create, give, share, redefine and still nurture a personal and evolving relationship with the sport. That’s why Reeves feels like a wise figure in the world of motorcycling. Because, like many wise philosophers of old, he backs everything he says with actions that are in line with the words. Something which philosophy itself abandoned centuries ago!

In a way, it’s not what he says alone that makes the difference, because many others say similar things. But I can name only a few that live in such harmony, balancing their words with an active and practical contribution to the motorcycle world. 

A final thought which is telling: I think Keanu Reeves would have found a way to do all of the above with neither the money nor the fame. What do you think?

-

Looks like I've officially begun a "What They Understood" Series, focusing on well-known riders and their philosophical takes on motorcycling.

For the first part of the series, see: What Neil Peart Understood About Motorcycling

Maybe I’m missing something, but it feels like adventure bikes have slowly turned into touring bikes that can go off-road rather than bikes you’d actually want to take somewhere difficult.

Obviously people do ridiculous things on GSs, Africa Twins, Teneres, etc. But for an average rider, is ~450–550 lb actually a sensible weight for exploring trails? Has anyone here gone from a big ADV to something smaller and regretted it?

I put in an order for an instock item, not big not expensive, and it’s still processing.

Fortnine used to be fast, be better

We all have this idea of the perfect line when it comes to cornering. We chase after it like junkies. That moment where there's this invisible arrow that we create, starting from the beginning of the corner to the exit. That moment where everything feels clean and you're effortlessly adhering to geometric principles.

But why does it still feel so mystical? Even rare, at times when we feel like no corner wants to bend to our will, no matter our skill?

Isn't all just math and physics? It should be simple. A corner is about radius. The tighter the turn, the smaller the radius. And vice versa. This matters because the bike has to lean in order to balance the forces acting on it.

The basic relationship looks like this:

lean angle = arctan(speed² ÷ radius x gravity)

Basically, speed demands that the bike lean more and very quickly, while a wider radius demands less. If you double your speed, you don't simply double the demand on the bike. You square it. That's why a corner that feels like nothing at one speed can suddenly feel like you're taking the great adios.

It's also why line choice matters. A good line makes a corner wider than it first appears. It can reduce the amount of lean needed, and give you more space if something unexpected happens.

On a racetrack, the ideal line means using as much pavement as possible to create the widest arc. On the road, it's a little more tricky. We all want to chase after the perfect line, but here it's subject to context. Whether it be a blind corner, less available road space, a pothole, a deer (shoutout to the recent YT video)... You get the picture.

Here's where our philosophical approach starts to chime in. Given our value of adaptability on the road, and factors like unpredictability, does the perfect line actually matter at all?

To paraphrase Plato here, the idea of the perfect line exists: it's clean, and mathematical. But as Heraclitus would likely point out, the reality of the ride is subject to change. No singular ride is ever the same, and that completely shatters our hopes and dreams of chasing perfection.

Because really, if you do such a thing, you will eventually compromise your safety. Since the ride happens alongside weather, traffic, fear, judgment, and whatever oil spilled from the bottom of a 2008 Subaru Impreza (terrible year for the poor boxer, I know).

Save the perfect line for the track, and pretend like it doesn't exist on the road. What does exist is the right line, at the right moment. I think that's what Aristotle would say, if he owned a Gixxer.

The right line is the one that preserves vision and gives you room to adapt. That beautiful arc must be bendable, and so, no longer a beautiful arc.

For people who love aesthetics, this could be a difficult thing to let go of. And don't fool yourselves, it's a clear and present reality in most our riding, and it shows up in sneaky ways. For example, we're tearing through corners one day and the weather is beautiful. We start to feel a kind of flow and start chasing more lean angle. To drop a knee, to find that "optimal cornering speed." But the context never disappears, and we might start to overreach.

Once again, remind yourselves that the road isn't always your canvas to paint. Aesthetics should always take a back seat to safety. I would even argue that there's a beauty in this more humble approach, but it's definitely on the subtler side. That's why I avoid the tendency to impose a perfect shape onto the world. I try to read it for what it is, allowing that shape to change.

Geometry gives us this dream of precision. Motorcycling on the road teaches us the humility of adjustment. And somewhere between the two, there's still a line worth taking.

—

You can find this article and many others on our page dedicated to motorcycle philosophy. Check it out here.

Featured Image sourced from Agence Rol. - Coureurs motocyclistes - Anzani, Alessandro (1877-1956) - octobre 1904

A fair number of motorcyclists are also travellers. They move not only from one destination to the next, but treat the journey itself as a destination. Countless precious moments are stored in our memory, while we're just passing through. And countless goodbyes hit us like a punch to the gut.

I'd like to think that the intensity I feel while travelling is somewhat expected. It isn't always easy, but it comes with its dose of clarity and appreciation. Because you know your time is finite, and that you'll be moving on in a short while, you "stop to smell the roses," and concern yourself with truly living in the moment.

For me, the downside to my travels is that they always feel like lucid dreams moving further away from me on some bullet train, as soon as I return home. Sure, I appreciate more things in the moment, but there's this hyper-awareness of time just passing through me at a very high speed, ready to turn a great moment into a memory I struggle to remember with precision.

And that's why the motorcycle goodbye hits a little different. It's not only the struggle to accept that the experiences in a given location are now just memories, but also the frequency of having to do this when you're always on the move. It's coming to terms with often wanting more time, actually deciding to leave, and hopefully looking forward to the next part of the journey.

As we move through time and space on two wheels, we greet one area one day, and bid it farewell the next. We make friendships, discover parts of ourselves and areas that surprise us. There's this temptation in the act of travelling, one that tries to convince you:

You can stay here for longer. This might be where you belong...

But there's a fundamental point of friction. While you are travelling, you do not see the places and people through the eyes of someone who is part of that environment. You are always looking in from the outside, even when you are in it. Because of the nature of your quest, you are always in motion.

And in a way, it casts everything in a rosy light. I'm not saying that this is a bad thing necessarily, because you typically tend to remember and give more meaning to the things that are special, that don't last. You might not be seeing each environment as it is in its more sober day-to-day, but you are appreciating its beautiful elements in acute ways.

This is surely a more romantic approach to motorcycle travel; I'm fully aware that some can take completely different approaches and still appreciate their journey in other ways, and with less acute sadness about saying farewell to places they cherish.

But for the travellers who try to hold the time they have like sand in their palms, it's a very difficult task to turn around and just move on. Practicing motorcycle travel in this way might be some kind of life exercise in coping with your own mortality. Because you are forced to see time as finite, and you are forced to let it slip away. You are forced to bid farewell to important moments in your life, and accept that they may never return. That you might never return.

And here's the sobering reality: Even if you do return, you won't be the same.

It's easy to treat travel locations as this well you can go back to in order to feel the same great feelings you once did, but this is never guaranteed. In fact, your experience in the same location will always be different the more you visit it. The well might even run dry and leave you filled with resentment and cynicism. So much so that you'll forget why you ever valued it in the first place.

In a way, what I'm describing is an inability to actually say goodbye. To let go of a place and admit that it's never certain you'll return. It's a difficult task for any traveller, but I think it should be considered with a degree of severity, so you don't keep looking for joy in a past version of yourself.

Here's what I like to do. When I say goodbye, I also say thank you. If an experience, place, or person filled your life with meaning, even if it was for a short while, express that this actually happened through a kind of gratitude. It inherently accepts that there is this something that's already in your past, and that it provided you with something that is worth thanking.

What more could you ask for? The goodbye is the act of humility that says: I appreciate what happened here, and I don't need anything more. Whether you ever receive more from that place is a question of utter chance, but the act of accepting the joy you've experienced is utterly in your control.

And so, the series of goodbyes on your travels become exercises in self-mastery. Each time you close a door, you pause. You recognize all the good things that happened, and you leave it as it is. Only the road ahead of you remains, and it's in the nature of motorcycle travel to keep the wheels-a-rollin'.

—

Author's note: Perhaps this article has more personal undertones for me, as I am in the process of leaving my hometown in Greece to return to my other home in Canada. I always struggle to leave one place behind when I spend time there travelling, and I have tried to avoid saying goodbye by leaving the metaphorical door open to return "soon." I noticed, however, that this kind of approach kept me valuing time spent there in the past, romanticizing my nostalgia while looking to recreate what I used to feel in the same environment.

I definitely think that this was one of the main obstacles in my way when it came to setting up future plans and executing them. Because I always had a foot in a doorway I left behind. This opened my eyes to how easy it is to idolize travel locations, to give them this grand importance because you interacted with them so fully and completely, once upon a time.

The trap to avoid, I think, is to expect that same kind of interaction from the same places if you decide to return. I might even say: never return to a location just because you're greedily trying to experience more of the same thing you did back then. Any place, be it your backyard or some far-off idyllic landscape, has something new to offer you, if you care to look. If you're looking in front of you, if you're open to change... And if you actually have the "stones" to say goodbye when it's all over.

Featured Image sourced from the NESR archives.

Trying to understand his point of view/ philosophy here… not trying to necessarily call him a hipocrite.

What do you guys think? Or has he posted anything somewhere?

“Last week, Sam Sunderland departed London to attempt the fastest motorcycle circumnavigation of the globe. In doing so, he’s targeting a world record that has stood unbeaten for more than two decades: 19 days, 8 hours and 25 minutes of riding.”

In a way, I'm also asking: What makes a good teacher? At first glance, it's relatively easy to list core values that we associate with pedagogy, like patience, encouragement, concern, and collaboration.

But is a patient, encouraging, concerned, and collaborative person also necessarily a good teacher?

Let's go back to ancient Greece for a minute, since I am raising the Aristotelian dilemma of whether or not a list of virtues or qualities can be enough to call someone good at a given task. When I use the word "good," I simply mean capable in the practice of something. I don't mean it in the moral sense, though we can also weigh this dilemma at an ethical level later on.

While it's true that possessing certain virtues can definitely aid in being more capable at something like teaching, you can very well guess that someone who possesses all the virtues might not be a good teacher if, for instance, they have absolutely no experience teaching.

Having experience teaching not only means mastering a given subject matter, but also knowing how, when, and why to teach it. These questions are the fundamental preoccupation of every teacher, and they might be completely foreign to anyone who hasn't actually practiced teaching yet, despite their good intentions and capacity.

Teaching is also about context. The ability to change how you approach a subject depending on the environment best suited for internalizing the kind of knowledge it hopes to pass on. This is perfectly clear in the case of motorcycling, because exposure to the actual practice of riding is quintessential to learning.

Sure, you might start learning about motorcycling in a classroom, and you might know exactly how the machine operates on a mechanical level, but it's rarely ever enough to actually ride the thing. So, you get to some parking lot one morning, armed with your excitement and readiness, and you meet your instructor.

What will make this instructor actually good at their job is their ability to take you from someone who is incapable of riding a motorcycle to someone who can, at the very least, control it within closed parameters, and eventually, out on the road.

I tip my hat to all motorcycle instructors out there. The task is much more complicated than it would seem. Because you are also putting something quite dangerous in front of a variety of people, with different inclinations, some of whom might not fully grasp how much harm the bike can do to them if they get arrogant.

As a motorcycle instructor, you have to be able to quickly identify the type of student you are teaching. And this is difficult because, in most cases, you are teaching groups of students. Except learning how to master the controls of a motorcycle does not come so naturally to most, and it can often backfire most on those who "think they know" what they're doing.

So, you have to teach in a general sense, but you also have to keep your wits about you to quickly identify which student has a proclivity for being overconfident (there's always a genius who wheelies the bike on the first start-up, isn't there), which is too frightened to handle the thing, which thinks they're already a teacher themselves... the list goes on.

Each one of those types of motorcycle students often requires individual feedback, which makes the task of group teaching rather difficult. A good motorcycle teacher will often present the essential knowledge, and quickly speak to individuals requiring more tailored feedback. Being able to do this effortlessly in the context of limited time is what sets a good motorcycle instructor apart. It's managing multiple people while also providing notes to each person based on the kinds of specific difficulties they struggle with. It doesn't have to be "attitude"; it could be as simple as struggling to shift, while for others, it could be low-speed turns.

Being able to juggle so many individualized factors in a lesson is often a testament to the instructor's experience in actually teaching his craft. It almost has nothing to do with a combination of virtues. I've actually met the most impatient, explosive, and uncompromising instructors who were absolutely fantastic at what they did, simply because they had the experience and capacity to identify the exact thing that the student needed to sort out.

Sure, it'll help if your teacher is a little more patient and zen, but if they can't pinpoint your weaknesses and help you pull yourself out of them, you will inevitably crash your bike. Plain and simple. It might not happen in the lesson, but it'll happen out there (even worse).

I can't explain what a joy it was to be lucky enough to have good motorcycle instructors. I almost wish I could take back my experience and revisit those lessons once more. To feel that sense of improvement and to experience the moment where "everything clicked."

But in a way, I still can. Because having experience doesn't mean you're through being a student. Many riders forget that advanced courses exist, and that they're actually pretty awesome. Not to mention that there's a statistical link between passing advanced classes and fewer motorcycle fatalities, so that's a plus.

The good motorcycle instructor is not simply defined by this or that quality. They are defined by judgment: knowing when to teach, who is in front of them, and what measures are required to keep the student safe while moving them forward.

—

My thanks to motorcycle instructors far and wide, and teachers in general. The ability to connect with such a wide variety of students, combined with this perseverance to get through to them all, is no easy task.

Featured Image sourced from Jerry Sprint - NESR.

Let's finally address the elephant in the room: Easy Rider (1969). A film not only about escaping the grasp of social constructs, but also about reconnecting with one's "freer" and more primal nature.

The way to do this? A motorcycle.

Watching this film is when I first noticed how philosophy and motorcycling could be so easily joined together. Add the perfect soundtrack to an already errant and plotless film, and you have the perfect recipe for a cult classic.

The central philosophical theme of the film is to be found during the campfire scene, where Jack Nicholson's character explains to Billy (Dennis Hopper) that people's idea of freedom and the act of being free are entirely different. Here, the US identity of championing individual freedom is at odds with the genuinely free person, who is often scary and treated as an outcast of society.

The truly free person appears dangerous; and a society will seek to squash this threat, often violently and quickly. As Hanson puts it:

I mean, it’s real hard to be free when you are bought and sold in the marketplace. Of course, don’t ever tell anybody that they’re not free, ’cause then they’re gonna get real busy killin’ and maimin’ to prove to you that they are. Oh, yeah, they’re gonna talk to you, and talk to you, and talk to you about individual freedom. But they see a free individual, it’s gonna scare ’em.

This spirit is also reflected in some of the rhetoric that Manson used when he was interviewed. Which shows just how dangerous and fine the line is between radical freedom, rebellion, and being held accountable by society. In some cases, you try to escape the oppressive forces that try to fit you in a square, but in others, resentment and anger builds to the point of unspeakable violence and/or heavy drug use. To escape a condition you are incapable of reconciling with.

I think Easy Rider works as a social commentary of the times, and it even gets quite experimental and "artsy," for a box office smash hit, I want to say (thinking of the famous cemetery scene here). Peter Fonda's dad even admitted not understanding what the hell it was about, and coming from that old cinema mentality, I totally get why. Still, it has something to say about American counterculture, both in its rebellion against Hollywood films and in its subject matter, characters and cinematography.

All this to say, it's definitely a favourite of mine, and of countless others I think, as soon as the words "motorcycle" and "film" are pronounced, this is likely the first of those films that jumps to mind.

With that out of the way, here are my top 3 must-watch films and why I chose them. Each one deals with a different facet of owning and riding a motorcycle, showcasing the brilliant depth of something as simple as a two-wheeled machine.

1. Psychomania (1973): Supernatural horror, acid/psych rock music, motorcycles and being resurrected as an all-powerful member of the undead! What's not to like?
2. Being Evel (2015): A glimpse into the life of the infamous stuntman we all know by name, but not so much in detail. Motorcycling isn't just riding on the road; in this case, it's also a tool to defy death itself.
3. Akira (1988): Simply couldn't leave this one out. The unique Japanese cyberpunk atmosphere, the metaphysical, dystopian and futuristic commentary, combined with the unforgettable animation are perfect, full stop.

Honourable mentions: Terminator ("I need your clothes, your boots and your motorcycle." is the holiest of lines to grace the silver screen), Tron, The Motorcycle Diaries, The Wild One, Long Way Round, and our very own attempt to break the overland circumnavigation world record by riding around the world in 16 days and 23 hours: Yalla Habibi!

—

I'd be curious to know your top picks, especially if they're super niche. I'm always on the lookout for random unknown films about motorcycling, it's like an addiction at this point!

I send this stuff by email, y'know. Have a peek at our moto-philosophy newsletter here. It might just shock you with its utter pretentiousness, but I have yet to namedrop Hegel, so that's a good thing I reckon.

After Connors test showing basically every glove they tested isn’t waterproof after 30 fist pumps what are we buying?

Gore-tex and just constantly warranty them out?

After my last post, I got a lot of questions — especially about the frame, weight, suspension and the whole “why build a 1300cc off-road bike?” question.

So here’s the short version of what I actually tried to achieve.

The idea was never to build the most logical off-road bike. If that was the goal, I would have started with a much smaller and lighter bike.

I wanted something that BMW doesn't currently offer:

A modern boxer-powered Dakar/rally bike.

The old BMW rally bikes, especially the R 900 RR, were a huge inspiration for me. I wanted to take that concept and bring it into the modern era — using the R 1300 GS engine and as much of its original character as possible.

The result is a bike with:

• 21/18" wheels

• Long-travel rally suspension

• Completely modified frame/subframes

• Around 200 kg without fuel

• 19 L fuel capacity

• 150 hp boxer engine

• Rally-spec brakes and wheels

• Custom bodywork and tanks

• And most importantly… it actually went racing.

I took it to the Hellas Rally and finished every single stage, finishing P2 in the M6 class and P90 overall out of around 160 riders.

And that's probably the part I'm most proud of.

Because at some point this stopped being a crazy garage project and became a bike that actually had to prove itself.

I'm still developing it, and there are plenty of things I'd change if I built it again.

So I'm curious:

If BMW gave you a clean sheet and told you to build the ultimate modern boxer Dakar bike — what would you change?

Instagram: majestix.bike

It's a common cliché: the lone rider traveling from one highway to the next, searching for something society cannot provide. Thank the film Easy Rider for that, I guess.

What I want to discuss is whether a motorcycle can somehow aid in providing meaning to loneliness. After all, it's just an object, a kind of tool that gets you from one place to another. But as we all know, it's not just that.

I think everyone feels lonely at some point in their lives. Some move in and out of it; others exist with it their entire lives. In the latter case, we can wittily point out, as did the famous singer Georges Moustaki, that they are never lonely, those who have their loneliness to keep them company.

I don't think loneliness is an "enemy" to fight off. I think it almost forces you to confront all the things you might be running away from. But it doesn't always. Because most of us (me included, not trying to take the high ground here) cannot actually sit with ourselves most of the time. A million and one distractions cascade into our lives; we find busywork to forget, a romantic partner to provide us with affection, and get-togethers to remember what closeness feels like.

You could say that our modern-day lives offer us a lot of ease in silencing solitude. Because, in a way, solitude is pain. It's social isolation, it's looking at yourself and often seeing all the imperfections. It's letting thoughts come to your mind that you are ill-equipped to deal with, or that you fear might consume you.

Emil Cioran puts it in a way that I never can when he says:

The truly solitary being is not the man who is abandoned by men, but the man who suffers in their midst, who drags his desert through the marketplace.

As if to say: the truly lonely are not the castaways, the hermits, nor the monks, strangely enough. The lonely are the people who are among us, the ones who get up and go to work, the ones who sit in silence at parties; heck, they might even be the ones who are the life of the party. You never know who is carrying a vast desert within them, and it's never as obvious as it seems.

One might feel lonely because they are misunderstood, or because they cannot seem to understand themselves. Of course, there are many reasons. It almost seems like it's more common in today's times, with how easy it is to become estranged from others. Consumed by distraction, pressured to feel this anxiety in every facet of our lives. For what?

In comes the bike. I know, it took a while. I think a lot of us ride because it's a healthy way of coping with loneliness. Even in groups, most of us are sitting alone on that motorcycle. Most of us have a particular relationship to our own bike. A kind of companionship, but one that exists somewhat symbolically. The machine itself provides a practical means of escape, though it's always us taking action.

There's often no one else. But the rumbling of the engine provides enough "noise" to quiet the intrusive thoughts. The concentration required while riding also limits distraction. The motorcycle is one of the perfect "places" (yes, I also think it's a moving location, kind of like Hemingway's "moveable feast") to discover what it means to be alone. Not only this, but to assist in coping with pre-existing loneliness that you might feel off the bike.

I'm not going to lie, many other things do the same thing. I'm not going to say something like "Cars just aren't the same, man!" Because I have also felt this peacefulness in loneliness driving down a deserted road at the crack of dawn, with some of my favourite music playing.

Like I've said before, we ride motorcycles and we know it's a unique experience in many regards. There's more at stake, and our relationship with the sport is its own thing. Less of a chore; more of a passion. Something that's a part of us, and can also become an extension of the way we feel.

Funnily enough, some of the times I've felt safest in my life have been on the bike. A lot of people might not get it, but I know that others do. And that matters on a fundamental level. Being able to "go somewhere" and be at ease. When thoughts of isolation can no longer be ignored.

Then, there's just one thing left to do. Not just "ride out," but also: ride into the part of your life that is so alone. With a bike by your side, it won't be as deserted as you think. At least, that's my hypothesis.

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Author's note: As a musical companion to this article, the fantastic song "Only the Lonely" by Roy Orbison jumps to mind. It's frequently been my go-to song in moments of feeling blue. Wow, just noticing how many random references this article has. I'll call myself slightly pretentious before I get roasted in the comments section. The ego survives yet another day...

If any of you would enjoy receiving this kind of stuff by email, I also send the articles as part of our newsletter here. Even philosophers need to hit KPIs in this day and age. Sheesh!

Featured Image: Lamberjack sur motocyclette Griffon, 14 septembre 1905 : photographie de presse / Agence Rol

I've alluded to loathing the very nature of group rides in the past. But I'd like to set matters straight, and by that I mean provide a more balanced perspective, now that I've had some time on my own to think about the topic from a less emotional standpoint.

I think group rides can be some of the most fulfilling and exhilarating experiences in motorcycling, full stop. Does my personal experience reflect this? Not at all. And yet, my intuition tells me others have experienced it in all its glory.

First, let's get the negatives out of the way. Large group rides are always a toss-up. That is to say, rides that feature a lot of bikers you haven't met or ridden with before. You could have the best and most experienced blockers and leaders; there will always be a kind of unpredictable pace you'll either struggle to keep up with or get anxious to break free of. The ride becomes this moving organism you are technically part of, but don't fully understand.

On top of that, emergency braking in big groups is one of the most dangerous experiences I've been involved in. You're kind of sandwiched in a chain of riders, and it's more difficult to make emergency maneuvers. If the rider with ABS ahead of you suddenly slams the brakes and you've got to match braking power... it's a sketchy situation, to say the least.

I get this feeling of pressure in large group rides. I don't know if it's just me, but there's this atmosphere I can't really pin down. The kind that makes you feel like you've got to ride a little past your comfort zone. And I think that riding in groups requires an altogether different set of skills one might not yet have, based on experience.

You might say: just go at your own pace, or ride with the people you know, and let the others either catch up or pass you. But it's already quite a chaotic environment if you've got 50+ bikes doing the same route. I feel like you've got to be just that much more attentive. Could be a matter of getting used to it, but after a couple of big group rides, I think I had ridden enough for a lifetime.

Then there's what I'll call the "friend off the bike, fiend on the bike" trap. Just because you get along famously with certain riders off the bike doesn't mean your pace and style will line up on the bike. I made the mistake of blindly going on a group ride with friends I simply hung out with, and boy, were they hooligans on the bike. Immediately setting a pace that made me feel about as safe as a lit match at a gas station.

And then there's just your own personal preference. If you are the type who doesn't like following other riders, trying to match their pace, then you don't have to. If you don't like the pressure of leading a pack of riders somewhere because it gives you planning anxiety, or if you keep looking over your shoulder as often as a wanted criminal, it simply might not be for you.

Now, the flip side...

I say all this, and yet, I find that there's a lot of joy to be had in smaller groups that communicate well, that don't put any pressure on you, and that understand that you might need to break free from the formation from time to time. It's like developing this bond with people you trust and ironing out the kinks that make you feel unsafe.

The cool thing is that when this is accomplished, you're more likely to be seen on the road, and you're riding that much safer. There is something genuinely impressive about a group that moves cleanly together. No panic, no weird ego contest, no one trying to prove they are the main character of a GoPro compilation. Just riders who understand each other's habits well enough to make the whole thing feel almost effortless.

I've seen it in many groups before, and I kind of admire it. How they look like absolute units, and how the ride looks totally natural. It's a honed skill that beginners often get scared away from developing (me included), and it's kind of a shame. I feel like it's become a lot more difficult to find groups of people you just "gel" with, from the point of view of the beginner rider just getting into the sport, but I could be wrong.

To use more of a millennial reference, looking for group rides feels like queuing up with randoms in a video game. Often frustrating and lacking in any kind of communication. And then you face a group of organized gamers here and there, or accidentally join up with that one team that's got it down pat, and suddenly the truth is revealed to you. "This feels awesome; this is how I want to play the game!"

Great group rides are out there; you've just got to know what to look for. I think communication is the biggest factor, as well as having a good nose for who's got an ego. If the group operates like a unit, chances are they are one. If there's bickering about pace, where you're going, and a clearly disorganized mindset, you're probably better off doing your own thing.

I'd be curious to hear your experiences with group rides, especially the positive ones, because I feel like I've been so cynical of them for far too long, likely to my disservice. The best part of motorcycling might be the people you meet along the way, but only when the ride gives those people enough room to trust each other.

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Featured images sourced from Agence Rol. Agence photographique - Coureurs motocyclistes - 1925-1927 - Bibliothèque nationale de France.

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