For years, I’ve been on a personal quest: to articulate the inexpressible joy, the precise, visceral feeling of riding a vintage motorbike. It’s an inconsolable longing for we know not what, as C.S. Lewis once wrote—a deep, persistent ache for something real, something that the digital world simply cannot provide. It’s a yearning for connection, for presence, and for a mechanical honesty lost in modern machinery.
A vintage motorbike is a beautifully defiant analog machine in a world saturated with digital interfaces and endless connectivity. It’s a deliberate rejection of the dashboard that looks ready for a moon launch. Your instrument cluster is a testament to simplicity: two honest dials, one for speed and one for revs, providing essential data without distraction. There are no layers of software, no configurable rider modes for rain, road, or track; just the direct, unmediated connection between you, the engine, and the road.
The interaction is purely mechanical. A cable throttle, not a fly-by-wire system, ensures that every millimeter of wrist movement translates instantly into a corresponding engine response. This directness demands respect and focus. There’s no traction control to save you, no sophisticated rider aids to flatter your skills, and certainly no launch control or quickshifter. When you fire it up, there’s no digital ceremony, no screen lighting up like a video game. Just the simple, satisfying mechanical churn of a true engine coming to life
The vintage ride is an act of intentional disconnection. You aren’t strapping a phone to the handlebars, there is no soundtrack but the mechanical symphony of the engine, and no satellite navigation speaking directions into your helmet. You are going out for a ride to be absolutely immersed in the moments. This machine demands your attention, pulling you out of the always-on modern trance. Your focus narrows to the immediate environment: the smell of the pine trees, the texture of the asphalt, the way the light catches the chrome.
Your choice of roads reflects this philosophy: quiet back country roads, twisty state routes, where the pace is set by the curves and the scenery. The highway is anathema to this experience; it’s about the journey and the discovery, not the destination or the efficient consumption of miles. This ride is an escape, a pilgrimage to the open air and the immediate present.
When the specifications are lined up, your vintage bike will probably not be the fastest, the best handling, or the “best” of anything by modern metrics. What it is, is a real motorbike. It is raw, demanding, and profoundly rewarding. It’s a bike that is not only satisfying to ride but also satisfying to wrench on. Every adjustment deepens your understanding and appreciation of its simple mechanics.
And that feeling when you return? It’s a deep, primal satisfaction. You park the machine, and before the engine has fully cooled, that indelible smile is already on your face, and you are already plotting the next escape. The bike ceases to be mere transportation; it becomes a trusted friend you spend days out with, exploring new adventures, finding hidden roads, and escaping the relentless ordinary.
Dennis Ball January 2017