“One day I just stopped. I just couldn’t do it anymore. I never rode a bike again. It’ll happen to you too. Someday.”
A spectacular view on Highway 1 on the Oregon Coast
Photo by Nathan Sharp
I met Alan at the pickleball courts. He was over 80 years old and his last ride had been on a BMW R69S when that model was still being rolled off the factory floor. Motorcycles, he seemed gently to imply, were not ultimately compatible with a realistic view of one’s life.
Of course, I am aware that I am not invincible, despite the armor that I religiously wear—garments emblazoned with strange words like “Kevlar”, “Goretex”, “CE Level 1 (or 2)”, and “DOT Certified”. Like charms or tinkling milagritos, they enveil me in a story of protection. This helps me, because I am not brave. I have never felt entirely safe on a motorcycle, but I feel that as long as I can summon the courage to face the next mile—and the next bend in the road, the next gust of wind, and the next cold rain—with my hand wrapped around the throttle, I can find the courage to witness the beauty, transitory as it is, in being alive.
The Oregon coast enshrouded in fog
Photo by Nathan Sharp
We rode 700 miles to help lay to rest one whose life ended too soon. I could not understand it. Alone in my helmet, my mind wandered in search of some explanation but could find none.
We left the Bay Area on a warm morning, but as we continued north the temperature began to drop. We entered a thick mist, which gradually turned to rain. Pools of cold water gathered in the bottom of my leather boots, but the rest of my body was protected by a waterproof shield of Goretex and nylon.
As rain beat against my visor, the soft voice of one Edoardo Ballerini spoke soothingly into my ear. I was listening to a recording of The Art of Living, the last book published by the Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh before his death in 2022 at the age of 95. He seemed to be coming to terms with his own mortality.
A flower in Shore Acres State Park, Oregon
Photo by Nathan Sharp
“I am of the nature to grow old. There is no way to escape growing old. I am of the nature to have ill health. There is no way to escape ill health. I am of the nature to die. There is no way to escape death. All that is dear to me and everyone I love are of the nature to change. There is no way to escape being separated from them. My actions are my only true belongings. I cannot escape the consequences of my actions. They are the ground upon which I stand.”
Beneath the words, the engine hummed. From the saddle of my old bike, I watched the rugged Oregon coast zoom past enshrouded in fog. And somehow, with the aid of this cantankerous old machine and proprietary performance fabrics, I think I am offered a glimpse—imperfect, as through a foggy visor—of life for the miracle it is.