The true 'freedom obtained via the two wheeled carnivorous steel beast is not found
through the patriotism to ones country and people, or via worship to the marque and
the maker, but through a pure honesty with the self. At sixty miles per hour on a
badly lit, icy frontage road many miles from home, there are no lies. There are no
reservations, no regrets, no distrust in one's self. The frantic blast through cliff
woven canyons leaves no room for cavalier brashness, no space for flailing ego, no
hidden compartment for the fear of the truth that lashes the psyche like the wind
ripping at leathers worn upon the riders back. The truth of mortality, impermanence,
vulnerability and insignificance. Insanity is a disturbingly powerful notion in that
displays how vulnerable our consciousness is. The proof that our minds are fragile
enough to break under their own weight, forever scattered to a thousand unaware fragments.
The rider must reach an inner balance and know thy limits. The penalty of breaking
these rules can mean oblivion.
In the apex of the peg grinding, knee swishing, hiarpin high speed turn there is
no thought grounded in the samsara of reality. Only an intricate understanding in
the forces of nature, the balance of life, the curves of the mind as it contrasts
to the road. Like sculpture of stone, the correct lines must be chiseled, shaped,
brought forth from the raw. Even the slightest mistake can result in disfigurement
or a permanent ruin of the entire work. As the symphony must be in fluid synchronicity
and tuned to perfection, lest the music be thrown to a nightmarish cocoughany of
inarticulate unrecoverable noise. As painter must have a pure river flowing from
the soul to the brush, and a intricate understanding of the spectrum of colors, or
the canvas becomes a mirror that reflects a montage of confusion, or utter darkness.
The purpose of art is for the creator to transcend that which is grounded in mundane
daily existence To find a greater horizon to view, to reach into the uncharted darkness
of the soul and understand the truths and emotions that no worldly surface contains.
To bridge the gap of the inner frontier and return with knowledge of the purity of
self. Not all art may be hung upon a wall or exhibited for others. In fact the purest
of art is that which can only be known and fully understood by the creator. The true
artist will avoid, ignore and even condemn the 'realworld' in favor of the self sworn
promise of inner knowledge and triumph. To slowly starve in the hours of consciousness
so one can feast in dreams. The motorcyclist may go hungry to better pool resources
into the machine. One of the greatest aspirations for the true rider is to leave
the responsibilities and utter confusion of modern life and ride forever. To cheat
death of the countless ticking towards oblivion that civilized society embraces.
The motorcycle is the paintbrush, chisel or musical instrument for the rider. The
canvas, stone and quietness waiting to be shaped and filled and carved are the roads
upon which one navigates. As the classical painters began with a black canvas and
an image in mind, the motorcyclist begins the journey with no knowledge as to the
dynamics of each mile, only a understanding of the destination and the possible distance
to be traveled It is a holistic engagement that fuses the mind, body and machine
to the endless black ribbons of pavement.
The true motorcyclist is an artist of the most self righteous intent, art for the
sake of art, nothing more. Art for the purpose of expansion of self, inner consciousness
and understanding of the heart that beats within.
The masterful works of the gallery of the ride hang in the mind of each and every
rider. The canyons carved, the long roads transcended, the wheelies and burnouts,
the close calls, the triumphs and defeats.The sculptures that build upon one another
create a great temple where the worship of the wind and the offerings to self truth
and sacrifice are intertwined in great ritual.
As the artist does not tire of creation and continues to burst forth with the reflections
of the soul, the motorcyclist continues to ride even though there is no destination.
It is a great literary volume of the mind, dialoging life and experiences across
an entire lifetime. One that is written carefully with elegance and mastery, for
the sole purpose of being read by none other than it's own author.  |
