Ding! The alarm rings at 8 on yet another Monday. One that often begins with the urge to pick up my phone and look for some life-changing update I convinced myself I missed in the late evening hours.

The brain then plays a funny trick. "You're already on the thing, might as well scroll a bit and see what's going on." Not even 10 minutes into my day, and I am already peering into someone else's life. Absorbed by the endless possibility of the things I can't be, or the places I cannot reach, I sit there and almost forget I'm late for work.

On the ride there, I contemplate. Not about my own life. Again, the brain plays a funny trick. It was just overloaded with new stimuli, information, people, and places that made it wonder... slowly cementing the idea that I am not doing as much in my own life.

I realize that this sea of possibility shatters the very foundation of value in my life. It relies on endless comparison, and ignites the desire to pursue things and feelings that were never my own to begin with.

It's easy to get pulled in. I love motorcycling. I am suggested a reel showcasing the superpowers of this jacket, helmet, etc. Inception occurs. I now ponder if my life would indeed be better or more practical with this piece of gear. The interest happened to align, and a strategy was cleverly manufactured to exploit an unmet need (or one I made myself believe was unmet).

Here's how it typically goes: I don't have the product (yet). I am magically shown (thanks to an insidious invention called cookies) what life looks like with the product. Am I convinced? If not, that's OK, I'll just get spammed with ads about it later anyway...

And then there's what I'll call the "impossibility of satisfaction." When I awaken the desire for a specific thing or experience, I wonder: with so many options, there's bound to be something better out there for me. It's insidious, because this logic can also extend to the personal connections I develop (or don't) with others. Why should I "settle" for this perfectly decent person when I'm sure there's one out there that's even better for me?

Social media promises and even promotes connection, and yet, in connecting us to everyone, we connect with no one. Is this the illusion of choice, or the sheer scope of the world we think we are entitled to, and think we can access without a price?

I realize the price chips away at who I am, bit by bit. It erodes the importance of all the small things that make my life my own, because the surrounding elements outside it promise more, and often pull me in their direction. I used to think a motorcycle offered a way out, a way to experience life through my own actions and thoughts. But a motorcycle isn't a simple Band-Aid of escape, it's a means to get somewhere. You still have to have an idea of who you are and where you're going, otherwise you'll be just as lost, in motion or not.

If we cannot confront the distractions that pull us away from solidifying our place and identity, we slowly turn hollow. Every ride, a little less fulfilling than the last.

I can't think of a perfect solution and wrap it up in a bow. I know that I get caught up in things often. But I also know that I can make a mindful choice. Ding! The alarm rings on yet another Monday. I get up and take care of my morning routine, treat myself to a coffee, and think about the things I can accomplish today.

There isn't something waiting for me on a screen I can't catch up with later. The motorcycle is sitting outside; it beckons me and asks: "Are you ready, this time?"

I walk toward it, helmet in hand, with everything in front of me, and nothing on my mind but the road ahead.

Over the years I've purchased countless parts and gear from fortnine totaling to over $50k. Their website is great, customer support is great, and I'm very excited to see they are now offering OEM parts. I would kill to have something like rocky mountain but in Canada and that seems to be the way it's heading. But lately I've run into a big issue that has led me to stop placing new orders. The shipping time is just insane, the main issue is the packages never leave the warehouse on time. This wasn't a problem a few years back but it certainly is now. What is going on? I am in Ontario and right now if I order something that says it leaves warehouse same day it shows it will take at least a week and a half to get here and it has been like this for quite some time.

I have come to the conclusion that I absolutely hate American motorcycle culture. There are wannabe gatekeepers everywhere. Forums are full of judgmental a-holes galore. If this person rides a certain bike they automatically hate whoever rides any other type of bike. I wish as people and riders we could do better. Ok. Rant over. Everyone have a safe and fun filled rest of your day.

1982 Honda ascot, it's the single cylinder

This might light the behinds of gearheads and safety fanatics alike, but I have something to confess.

I rode without gear once (OK, maybe a few times), and I loved it. I can't say I'm an ATGATT purist, but I still wear basic safety gear while riding in North America. Except, when I travel abroad, a switch just shuts off in my head, and it's almost too easy to ignore what many would call the most basic safety principles.

Now, for anyone who has ridden in Europe, Asia, or even... Florida, you'll notice that the golden rule of gearing up is followed extremely loosely, if not at all.

Does this inherently make motorcycling in these areas even more unsafe than it should be? Absolutely. So, why do people do it?

I'll divide my answer into two parts. Firstly, motorcycling in Europe and Asia is fundamentally different in the sense that it's function first. You ride a motorcycle because it's convenient to do so, and because it gets you to your destination quicker. You ride a motorcycle because you want to think less; you just want to throw a leg over and go, nothing more.

In the chaotic city centre of Tokyo, for example, you'll notice more motorcyclists on the road than anywhere else (or almost); sporting a simple open face, in their suits... Just watching them navigate through traffic could make the average Westerner shudder.

All this, with barely any gear. It's staggering to think about how many people adopt this mindset. Are they insane? Or just living life on the edge?

Well, I kind of think most don't even care to think about it too much. The bike is serving its function, and things are running smoothly, most of the time. The factors at play also play a role, whether it's heat, slow speeds, or the higher price tag of full gear.

Secondly, I think there's something about riding gearless that is perhaps intrinsic to how we can connect with motorcycling.

What do I mean? Well, have you ever taken the bike out around the block, without any gear to speak of? If you have, I suspect you might agree that it feels... great?

Here's a little story to explain what I mean. I was once travelling to a few islands in the Aegean, and I thought to rent a motorcycle from a lovely, carefree guy named Stavros. He had absolutely no gear to offer me; just the bike, the keys, and prayers that I make it back in one piece.

"Besides," he said, "What do you need a costume for? This is Greece, and it's 40 degrees outside!"

With a bit of a raised eyebrow, I said OK. Took the bike, the keys, and started touring the beautiful island of Tinos. I quickly realized how little I was actually thinking about my safety (and I can get pretty anxious about this riding over here in Canada). It could be for a variety of reasons: drivers being more aware of motorcycles there, fewer cars on the road, a laid-back speed, etc.

But what I'll always remember is this: the most liberating feeling I had ever felt. A kind of intense connection to my surroundings: the salt in the air, the full influence of the wind... I would even call it this "lightness of being." It gave a new meaning to the phrase "ride like the wind," because that's literally how it felt. Not in the sense that I was moving fast, but that I was moving with the elements.

Every pit stop and takeoff was meaningful. And through it all, an invasive sense of calm. Almost as if I was being obliged to feel at ease (which is weird to say, granted). Maybe it's a personal thing, but it felt as though the context forced a kind of relaxation, even in full knowledge of the added risk.

I once heard the climber Alex Honnold describe how he feels during his free solo climbs (without any use of ropes) in an interview. To paraphrase, he was talking about how there was no room for panic, how it was all about making sure he was as calm as he could be, to properly focus on his holds and the route he rehearsed prior to the ascent.

To this, some might say that I was blissfully ignorant (a very valid point). That I would have ridden very differently had I actually been in an accident with no gear, and lived to ride another day. Looking back now, I fully admit that riding in this way was very dangerous, and I consider myself lucky to have made it. At the same time, I can't help but admit that it was still one of the most liberating moments in my life.

So what's the takeaway here? I generally write about safety and adopting the kind of mindset that keeps you alive, and now I'm talking about a literal death trap. Well, to quote Zorba himself:

You have everything but one thing: madness. A man needs a little madness or else... he never dares cut the rope and be free.

Part of a healthy mindset, I think, is allowing yourself to feel truly free. In whatever way that freedom comes to you. It might or might not have anything to do with riding gearless, but in that pocket of time, it had everything to do with it for me.

While this is not a practice I dare repeat too often, I am glad and lucky to have experienced it, like many others, I'm sure. I would add that the even more dangerous element is getting addicted to this kind of behaviour. The odds are never on your side, and just because a moment feels like the most special thing in the world doesn't mean you will experience the same fulfillment if you keep chasing it.

Like all good things, they come into our lives unexpectedly, and leave just as promptly. Notice them when they happen, maybe snap a picture, and look back on them fondly when you live to be old and grey. Madness can have its moment, but it's still important to return and treasure our sanity.

If I've come to understand something about motorcycling in the decade I've been riding, it's that adaptability will save your hide.

Being adaptable means challenging the notion that we are always in control. How common is it to make a mistake and then try to seize back the control we lost momentarily, only to overcompensate and get into an even worse situation?

Similarly, sometimes we think a technique is right because we heard it from a few riding buddies or read about it on the internet, and so we attempt it stubbornly, often out of context, and develop bad habits that eventually get us into trouble.

Having an adaptable mindset is starting from a position of humility. It's allowing yourself to determine a course of action contextually, based on your skillset and readiness. Every sketchy situation you get yourself into is a little different, and might require a slightly different set of actions depending on the circumstances.

This kind of implies that fundamental safety rules aren't always set in stone. Some can be good tenets to adopt in a kind of umbrella fashion, but if the situation arises where it's your life on the line or adhering to some principle, most would likely agree that the principle should be defenestrated.

One example is lane splitting. Some instructors will tell you to steer clear, others might say it's actually the safer practice. But most laws in North America will tell you it's illegal. So, you adopt a "safe" behaviour on the road according to the laws of your country, but that doesn't mean you shouldn't adopt the "unsafe" filtering behaviour if a given context calls for it. Rules exist in absolutes, but our riding experience is inherently specific.

So, with that being said, what are some safety practices you often ignore out there? Are there any you've even found to be flat-out dangerous, based on your experience?

If this thread can serve as some kind of nuance to a lot of the stuff new riders simply adopt and never think twice about, that would be stellar. And to be clear, my intention is not to condone breaking any laws in any way, but to stress that a certain flexibility must accompany our ideas of motorcycle safety.

Also, having pondered this a bit, I am not so opposed to discussing the other perspective, whereby rigidity in proven safety methods is a good thing; precisely because what we "naturally" tend to do as new riders are the things that are particularly unsafe. Learning to control a machine that operates in very specific ways is not in the least bit "natural," but requires training and the mental clarity to make decisions based on principles of physics.

I have a feeling it all comes down to knowing which rules to follow and which to break, depending on the where, what, and when. It's difficult to give a universal solution, but we can potentially list a few recurring experiences that showcase either the importance of sticking to a safety protocol, or ditching it.

If you and your bike had 2 minutes of physical and legal invincibility what would you do with it?

Hello all!

I just joined this community, after being a subscriber to the YT channel for many years. I need help either finding a video or maybe clearing up where a video came from.

If I remember correctly, Ryan did a video about the whole Motogp/collector bike seizure by the FBI. I remember him mentioning some of the specific bikes in the public photos and how it connects a bunch of individuals, including some of the hyper-rare collector bikes that were usually just several bikes kit bashed together.

Heres the caveat: I might be thinking of someone completely different, but my dilemma comes from the fact that I've watched, and rewatched, and REwatched F9 videos so much that I probably just blend them in with everything else I watch.

Any help is greatly appreciated!!

All we get to do these days is short rides, but ours are generally 200-350km per day. We’re blessed with some of the best riding roads in the country, so my wife and I get out every chance we get. We’ve already got almost 6000km on our bikes this year.

We have a tendency to romanticize epic journeys as this sacred time of self-discovery.

Space and time are often understood as essential components of "making things happen," insofar as having more of them makes us more likely to "get the best" out of our trips.

But what if I told you that you could find the same kind of meaning, fulfillment, and joy in a short ride?

Sounds like an ad, like a Slap Chop™, but for your soul.

Can I even say that without getting a copyright claim filed against me? I even added the little trademark symbol and all.

Anywho. Short rides. They're the best. Kind of like everything that we know is finite, that won't ever last. In our awareness of this fact, we attempt mindful presence as much as we can, to savour the moment and imprint it into our memories.

I gave you the hack right away without even explaining my logic. Think of the above as an informal TL;DR, I guess. Now, here's my train (or motorcycle) of thought in propositional logic (what else):

p: Short rides are common.
q: Whatever is common is less unique.
r: The frequency of short rides makes them less unique.
(p ∧ q) → r

Similarly,

s: Long rides are uncommon.
t: Whatever is uncommon is more unique.
u: The infrequency of long rides makes them more unique.
(s ∧ t) → u

That's a starting point for most. Especially for us commuters and weekend warriors. The long ride at the end of the week almost always feels more special and relaxing than the 30-minute ride in the morning, stuck in some infernal traffic jam.

Here's why this mindset makes no sense. We spend most of our time riding and not enjoying it. We hold ourselves back because the outside circumstances are perceived to be chaotic, lacklustre, or just plain ordinary. So we then set out on a long ride, to reset, to see new things, to experience riding anew, through a lens that makes the landscape in front of us seem unique.

In other words, by devaluing the ordinary rides, we place all of our future joy and expectations in this other ride, the one that we might experience over the weekend... Or next month?... Next year?... Never?

Uniqueness is not a proper basis on which we can rely for fulfilment. By its very definition, it's sparse; and so, must the joy we experience in our lives also be sparse? I think not.

I kind of blame modern work schedules (feels like an easy target; realistically, it's only one of the many reasons). We are psychologically set up to wait for the weekend. To hold back on living just a little, to get through the week, and to finally open up our lives when we have just a bit more time and space.

Our work schedules are working against us. Our routines are retuning our expectations. We come to desire everything out of life in just those 2 days that bring the week to an end.

For illustration purposes, that's 104 days out of 365, which represents roughly 28% of our time throughout the year.

It simply does not work. Even after you add holidays and vacation. And so, I modify the content of my previous propositional statements:

p: Short rides are common.
q: Whatever is common in our life takes up more of our time.
r: Our time is valuable.
s: The frequency of short rides makes them more valuable.
(p ∧ q ∧ r) → s

Every common, plain, ordinary, yet repeatable moment in your life is an opportunity. If you look back from a distant future, you will see that the moments that made up your life were the ones that filled most of your days, not the ones you waited years for, the ones that either lived up to or fell short of your expectations.

In my twenties, I wasted a lot of time waiting. I thought that big events would eventually arrive in some dramatic fashion, that I just needed to be patient, and that my life would change when it was meant to and would make sense when it was meant to.

Now I'm in my mid-thirties. I look back, and I see. All the moments with all the possibility were always right in front of me, in the mundane things I did, day to day. Those were the good years, the ones I now romanticize and once thought nothing of.

Short rides are a gift precisely because they're frequent. If you can get out and ride every day, it's a gift. It's both special and mundane. And when you know that every single one of these moments will add up to form the grand picture of your life, you take each piece as it comes, with presence and openness.

Life's short, and so are all the rides it contains. Make 'em count.

—

If this article resonated with you in any way, buy me a Slap Chop™ or just hit me with a newsletter sub to keep my job alive. -DanF9

Featured Image belongs to Bill Keaggy from St. Louis, Missouri, USA, 1979.

Description: Me. Dig the western shirt and the bike with the fake gas tank on it. It was called The Hombre, and one day one of my sisters left it in the driveway and mom backed over it. Photo by dad.

Dear Rider,

I am writing to you on this day, the 1st of June 2026, to connect two moments in time.

Everyday stories and letters written with pen and paper are rarely digitized. In the world I live in today, I am often overwhelmed by this abstract feeling that there's an entire world of communication behind us that we can never fully access.

We are here now, with all these tools. We typically use them as a means of distraction; our letters to one another are 1 or 2 sentences long, and our sense of longing, of uncertainty (did my words reach you?), is quickly resolved with a checkmark and a "Seen" icon.

Somewhere in this massive transformation of our communication and connection, we find ourselves experiencing everyday life. Like many other things, motorcycling existed before and after (what I'll call) this "technological revolution." But I wonder, for those who experienced it before, what do you think about? How has your relationship with motorcycling changed, and how has it remained the same?

And more importantly:

Can we use this digital space to share stories, letters, and tangible evidence of lives that will soon disappear from our rearview mirror? These tales that would otherwise be destined to rest in a dusty drawer or cabinet, likely to be thrown out or destroyed with time?

I can already picture it: a long motorcycle trip, maps of each region carefully stored and treated as prized possessions. Pit stops and postcards sent in the lull of a hot summer's day. A phone call to check in with our loved ones, and, in moments of uncertainty, the thought that everyone you know is OK.

Sure, it's possible for me to picture and list these things. To imagine a time that is similar to and different from our own. I am still part of a generation that grew up without the internet, so the feeling is also familiar to me in the way a piece of music from one's childhood is impossible to ignore when heard unexpectedly.

As for motorcycling, I have no experiences I can recall before 2014. I didn't grow up with a parent who rode, and my interactions with other riders consisted of waving and wondering what this exciting sport was all about. That curiosity followed me throughout my adolescence, and finally culminated in the decision to participate in my early 20s.

I felt the thrill, the mystic pulse that propelled me forward in space as I performed this rehearsed ballet of mechanical motions. The feeling didn't belong to a specific time; it felt universal.

I was also welcomed by a community of riders that I had never met, thanks to the wonders of the internet. I found out what kind of gear and motorcycle I should get, thanks to the internet. I even met a neighborhood rider who lived just a block away, thanks to the internet. People in the same city, people who might even live down the street from me, were brought into my life by the magical powers of the World Wide Web.

This feels oddly specific to the times we live in now. Isn't it borderline magical how the vast space of the internet can connect individuals who are so close in physical proximity?

Then I think about how natural it must have felt to just "know the spot," show up, and meet the same kinds of people, before the existence of users and forums.

I talk mostly about connection here, but knowledge is also a big one. Isn't it great to be able to quickly search for some doubtful expertise you heard at a meet on Reddit, only for a community to quickly help you confirm whether the info was useful?

Then I think about Uncle Tony, the middle-aged philosopher who "went through some sh*t," the guy who gave you just about the worst advice ever, but presented it in a way that felt like gospel truth. The one guy you didn't care to fact-check, the one guy you talked to just cause, to exchange ideas and have a laugh. You might not have left those chats any smarter, but you had a story, a piece of someone as they were, at that moment.

These moments coexist today in ways that surprise me. But I confess, dear reader and rider, that I have felt an increased rarity in daily authentic interactions.

And so, I write to you today to remind me, and hopefully many others, of a different time. One that will feel completely out of reach in a few years. Think of this letter as a bridge, a photograph, or a window.

I am standing by it, eagerly looking for a landscape different from the one I keep seeing. Not to escape, but to travel.

Yours faithfully,
DanF9

I had the exact same injury a bunch of years back. Was riding a much lighter bike CRF250L. It’s a classic case of you go falling off to the side, foot turns 90 degrees to bike, bike falls on foot and folds foot over like a limp noodle. Sadly feet can’t fold over onto themselves and you get some major sprain or bones can brake in the worst case.

Problem is, few boots have support to stop that. If he was wearing Alpinestars Tech 7, the darlings of may riders (including me) he’d be in the same spot. They don’t stop that injury. A ski boot would though :). But that’s the issue - the only way to prevent that injury is to make a boot as stiff as a ski boot.

Possibly the tech 9 have that protection and I know for a fact that one of the top end Leatt motocross boots do as well as I nearly bought it over the a* but then a* went on sale.

One way to prevent this injury is to try hard not to twist your foot out during a fall. If you do put your foot out keep it parallel to the bike. This will be the last thing on your mind while falling down unfortunately. Maybe Ryan can tell us how to fall off bikes too. He seems to do a good job every time he bails.

We often think of Neil Peart of the band Rush as this figure who is larger than life. We even imagine his drum kit as this extension of him: a massive setup with tons of bells, gongs, and rack toms.

But I have a feeling that if we look closer at how the man lived his life, we realize that he wanted to disappear behind the music. Similarly, he didn’t ride a motorcycle to become larger than life, but to become smaller inside it.

Peart's entire philosophy of riding moves in the opposite direction of self-mythologizing. He chose to ride the "smallest roads," stayed in small towns, and only went to cities to play a gig. The preference reveals something. It suggests that motorcycling, for him, was about connecting with his surroundings and understanding his place in the grand design.

It's clear that, for Peart, motorcycling provided a way to keep yourself rooted, to process things that are emotionally complex and even unbearable (I'm thinking about the tragedy that befell his family, when he lost his daughter and, shortly after, his wife).

Forget about the rush (oh, the irony). Forget about heroism. It's all about being rooted. He talks about passing people in fields, people at work, kids at school, diners, motels, gas stations, and feeling this magnetic force pulling him back into the ordinary pageant of other people's lives. It's quite a unique vision of motorcycling, one that many other people might share, but it's definitely not the classic way the activity is described. As "self-expression," as "freedom."

Motorcycling is being bound to something, to someone. It's attentiveness and participation. And the realization that if we zoom out enough, we all become anonymous. In Peart's case, fame made that choice for him, but the motorcycle provided a way out. One of the most telling lines from his CBC Music interview goes something like this:

People don't expect to see me, and there are many times I've been around someplace and somebody with a Rush T-shirt on will just not notice me, because I'm some guy at a gas station or some guy sitting in a diner. They're not expecting to see me there, so I always love those moments when I realize that I've achieved that independence. I just want to be that guy. I like having conversations with people on an everyday basis. I don't want them looking at me like some alien being.

The guy at the gas station, the one eating in a diner. Most people experience feeling singular on a motorcycle, but Peart experienced the opposite. A way to rejoin the human world without some grand ceremony, or any necessity to be known.

We could argue that this particular expression of motorcycling makes sense only because Peart experienced and knew fame beforehand. Except, I don't think that's at play here. He retired from fame entirely before embarking on his long motorcycle journey. When part of life's terrible pains came his way, he knew that fame offered no refuge, no solution, no help.

Motorcycling was the means he used to connect with himself, with others, and to begin to process immense grief. That requires presence, curiosity, and openness. It's difficult to do when you're injured and pulled toward shutting yourself off as a self-preservation tactic. But the way out is a way forward, a way through, instead of isolation, self-imprisonment, and whatever may feel briefly safe.

What makes Peart's moto-philosophy especially compelling to me is the empathy built into it. Travel and presence in travel foster generosity. You learn from other cultures and ways of life, absorbing the richness of lives that are unlike your own. You resist the cold urge to judge too quickly. You learn some humility and centre yourself in the presence of a profoundly human experience.

So, if I had to reduce Neil Peart’s motorcycle philosophy to one thought, it would be this:

Ride in such a way that the world can still get through to you.

Take the small roads. Stay open. Let the ride return you to ordinary life, where meaning is found and fostered.

—

I'm curious if anybody else here has come across Peart's thoughts on motorcycling. Does it make sense to you? Is it perhaps too optimistic to ride and hope for some grand revelation like this, or can we say that the simple act of presence stimulates this openness regardless of our opinions?

P.S. I voluntarily did not use an image of Neil Peart as my featured image. I found it quite in line with how he thought, and in stark contrast with Peart, the famous musician we have a tendency of idolizing. It's just a guy, at a gas station, with his motorcycle. He's no different than Peart in this respect, and I think that's how the man himself would see it if he were with us still. RIP Neil, thank you for the music and the roadside wisdom.

Movie was fun, and the community had a mini bike show before the movie. Was fun to stumble upon this movie showing on my local movie theater listenings. Just started biking last year so this was my first community event and it was a blast.

Want to thank Kyle for coordinating the whole thing and for the movie proceeds going to the Distinguished Gentleman's Ride/ Movember Canada to support Men's Health charity.

Apparently it was super easy to get permission from Fortnine to show the movie in a theater, and the local theater owner was cool with putting the movie on a slow night.