The Gloom and the Urge
It’s another shade of gray outside my window. The sky is low, the light is flat, and the trees stand stark and miserable against the relentless damp. We’re only halfway through the month, and the forecast promises nothing but more of this cold, soul-crushing gloom until spring.
It’s on days like this—days that seem designed to keep the world indoors—that the frustration really sets in. I find myself staring at the garage, thinking: I don’t ride my motorbike enough.
Every day the calendar turns, the clock keeps ticking. I know, logically, that a day will come—likely sooner than I want to admit—when I’ll simply be too old, too stiff, or too frail to swing a leg over the seat anymore. And every hour I spend looking at the rain feels like wasted time I can never get back.
Yet, there is a powerful counterpoint to that dread. Each time I leave the cancer center after a treatment, I can’t help but feel a rush of gratitude. To be in as good a shape as I’m in, to have the strength today to grip the throttle, feels like an immense, undeserved blessing. The clock may be ticking, but right now, the motor still runs.
The Reckoning (Time and Age)
The truth is, the weather is only an excuse. My real anxiety lies in the realization that the fuel in the tank of life is finite. When I stare out at the relentless gray, I’m not just grieving a lost Saturday ride; I’m grieving a lost opportunity—a page torn from a limited calendar. For riders, getting older doesn’t just mean few more wrinkles; it means the eventual, definite loss of freedom.
That feeling of leaning into a curve, the physical demand of navigating a long day on the highway, the almost meditative state achieved after hours in the saddle—these are physical gifts. They are gifts that require strong knees, sharp reflexes, and the kind of endurance that youth takes for granted. I know I’m not alone in looking at the veterans of the sport, admiring their spirit, but watching their gradual physical limitations take hold.
It’s a stark reminder that while the machine can be rebuilt and maintained indefinitely, the pilot cannot. The cold, hard truth is that every day I choose not to ride, or every day the weather forces me not to, is a day I may regret when all the roads in the world are open, but my body finally says, “No more.” The need to ride isn’t just a hobby; it’s a race against the calendar.
Perspective and Gratitude
But then, just as I let that anxiety settle in, the perspective shifts. It usually happens the moment I step out of the cancer center. All the minor frustrations—the gray skies, the damp roads, the thought of being stuck inside—shrivel and fade.
Leaving that facility, I feel an overwhelming wave of gratitude wash over me. I see others facing battles far more grueling, dealing with limitations that make a little rain seem ludicrously insignificant. And I realize, with a sudden, sharp clarity: I am blessed. To be in the shape I’m in, to feel the fundamental, bone-deep strength that allows me to plan the next trip, to walk briskly to the car, to feel the cold air on my face—that is the victory.
My ability to ride tomorrow, or next week, is a profound gift that has been fought for and, frankly, earned through resilience. When you are confronted with life’s real challenges, the trivial concerns fall away. The “ticking clock” suddenly doesn’t feel like a countdown to weakness; it feels like an urgent reminder to act now. The cold weather will break. The gloomy forecast is temporary. But the health and strength I have today? That is the opportunity I must honor. Every clear bill of health is a license to ride. Every ounce of energy is fuel for the next mile.
Ride Every Chance I Get
So, what is the takeaway from this midwinter reflection? It’s not to wait for the perfect day, because the perfect day rarely aligns with the perfect health. If I wait for the forecast to clear entirely, or for my schedule to align flawlessly, I will simply watch precious riding months—and riding years—slip away.
The dread of being too old to ride one day, combined with the profound appreciation for the health I have been blessed with today, creates an undeniable imperative: Seize the ride.
When the temperature breaks just enough, when the sun peeks out for an hour, or when the forecast offers even a marginal window of opportunity, I must take it. That little bit of discomfort from the cold is a small price to pay for the enormous reward of the open road and the affirmation of life I feel when the bike rolls beneath me.
The motor still runs. The body is strong. The clock is ticking. I know exactly what I need to do. I hope you do too.