Everytime I get on my motorcycle, I am putting my life into danger.
Than again, the same can be said for each time I get into my car. Or cross the street. Or swim in the ocean.
It’s a matter of degrees.
But the degrees matter. The feeling of danger when riding my motorcycle is a visceral one.
I take the proper precautions. I wear a leather jacket, full-faced helmet and riding gloves. I drive with a healthy paranoia and am heightened-sensitivity to the world around me.
Yet. It takes a single distracted driver, a slick spot in the road, or a particularly strong gust of wind to make my life…interesting.
And I love it.
The older I get, the easier it is for me to become insulated from the world. Safe and secure in my study, my car, my cube at work, routine becomes a comfortable cell.
That which makes it impossible for me to get my bearings.
I /need/ to be moving to know where I am.