I almost always ride alone. It’s not that I’m a misanthropist or friendless, but I prefer the solitude, the ability to go where I will, to stop when I want, to travel at any speed I choose, and to not be encumbered by the need to consider the interests or concerns of someone else. Selfish? Possibly, but there it is.
As the world’s ever-expanding population spreads into every corner of this congested and abused planet, alone-time is increasingly important. For me, riding has become moving meditation. Only a tiny portion of the conscious mind is needed to keep the bike on the road, leaving the rest to wrestle with the problems of the day, or just wander off along its own mysterious byways. Time spent in the seat of a motorcycle, drifting along, barely even aware of one’s own thoughts, is time well spent. And that is a difficult task when you are constantly keeping an eye on your buddy on the bike in front, or watching the one in your mirror.
I understand that riding with a friend provides a level of security in case something goes wrong. Someone to help you fix that flat, to call for aid if you’re hurt, or just to share stories with at the end of an enjoyable day. I get that. I do, and have enjoyed that security and companionship on a few lengthy treks myself. But it’s so easy to find yourself riding the other person’s ride. Perhaps your companion prefers a slightly higher or lower cruising speed than you, so you’re constantly having to adjust to stay in touch. Maybe you like to thread your way through traffic, while they prefer to hang back. No matter how compatible your riding styles, there are always compromises.
Photo: Nick Adams
The pleasure I get from riding alone by far outweighs the advantages of riding with others. Why? Because there is a delicious piquancy to being out in the world entirely on your own. To set your own agenda. To rest when you are tired. To eat when you are hungry. To go wherever the road leads you. Some days I might feel like making distance, putting long hours in the saddle and only stopping when the daylight fades and my body aches. On others, I choose to dawdle, stopping to take photographs, to fiddle with action cameras, to visit places I’ve passed by countless times but never actually seen.
And camping alone, especially in places where there is the potential for wild beasts or banjo-strumming primitives, gets those nerve endings tingling and awakens our most primeval senses. Senses we have almost completely forgotten in our cossetted and risk-averse lives. A couple of years back I was asleep, naked, in my little one person tent when I was awoken by something large and grumbly knocking my tool bag off my bike and rooting around, not twenty feet from where I was lying. I had no flashlight to see with, no weapon of any sort to protect myself with, just the skin I was born in. I listened as something rumbled around, every fiber of my being on high alert. I strained, wide-eyed in the darkness to interpret sound and movement. Eventually, I realized that since I didn’t have anything with me in the tent that a hungry animal might be interested in, I relaxed and went back to sleep. In the morning I found my tank bag had been dragged fifty yards into the forest. Other than a tooth mark or two, it was undamaged. Since it hadn’t been torn to shreds, I assume it was just a raccoon and not the 600 lb black bear of my imagination. That experience, unnerving as it was, would have played out entirely differently had I not been alone. I suspect it would have been far less memorable.
If, like me, you ride an older bike, the occasional hiccup in reliability comes with the territory. I know from comments on my videos and stories that for many people, the idea of something going wrong during a motorcycle tour, especially in the middle of nowhere, is a disaster they’d rather not encounter.
Photo: Nick Adams
Experiencing a problem, troubleshooting the cause, and coming up with a fix is part of the pleasure of riding. I’m not suggesting that one deliberately sets out with an unreliable bike, hoping for a break-down (although I have been accused of that), but successfully coping with any minor problem along the way, using your own resources, makes any trip indelible.
What if I have a flat? What if I misjudge a corner or hit a patch of loose gravel? What if a bear…? The things we fear almost never occur. Most can be avoided by common sense preparation and an adjustment to our riding practices. Take tools and a repair kit. Don’t ride beyond your capabilities, especially when the road surface is loose. Don’t over-estimate your skill. No amount of technology can compensate for stupidity. Don’t take edible or smelly products in the tent with you. Simple stuff.
What if I’m lonely? What if I find the chatter inside my own head isn’t interesting? From time to time I read about people selling their motorcycles because, ‘I don’t have anyone to ride with’ and it always makes me sad. Many people never take the opportunity to find out about themselves. They inhabit a world where their own thoughts are drowned out by the constant chatter around them. Traveling alone gives you the opportunity to really explore what’s going on inside your own head. The sub-conscious can throw up all kinds of deeply buried memories and experiences. They may not all be comfortable, but they’re all yours and part of who you are.
Photo: Nick Adams
One of the reasons I enjoy traveling alone is that it becomes so easy to meet people. When you ride with a friend, or – perish the thought – in a group, you’re traveling in your own little bubble. When you stop, you’re more likely to chat with your partners than to engage with those around you. Alone, you become more accessible.
I’m a big guy, six foot two, the wrong side of two hundred pounds, and usually dressed head to foot in dusty leathers. You might think that Joe Public would shy away, but quite the opposite is true. Elderly ladies, mums-with-kids, delivery truck drivers, well-dressed suburbanites and other motorcyclists all feel empowered to launch into conversation without the slightest preamble. I used to think that because I’m usually riding my tatty old Guzzi, which even those unschooled in motorcycles can tell is old, that the bike is what inspired people to chat. But, not so. Even when I’m riding more modern machines the same holds true. As a solo motorcyclist, you’re fair game to anyone who wants to ask you where you’re heading or tell you about that old BSA they had back when they were young. I’ve had some fabulous and memorable encounters with people on the road, which probably wouldn’t have occurred had I not been on my own. And, second only to the riding itself, that’s why I relish riding alone.
