Truth to tell, motorcycles really startle me. If I’m not paying attention, or I’m deeply focused on something in front of me (lost to the world), the sound of a motorcycle scares the daylights out of me.
It’s been that way my entire life.
But it hasn’t kept me off the back of them.
I’m not a driver. Not a pilot. I have trouble with getting distracted and coordinating my hands and feet. The very idea of working a clutch and shifting gears in the proper order sends images of me pitching headlong over the handlebars flashing through my mind’s eye.
And that’s a good thing, actually, because it keeps me safely off the roads. It saves others from having to deal with me when I’m having a bad day of sensory overwhelm and can’t coordinate putting my pants on, let alone getting on a motorcycle and going somewhere.
Some folks can do it.
And I Know It.
But I’m not opposed to riding. In fact, I think I’m a pretty decent rider. I follow the driver well. So long as I have something and someone to orient to, I’m good.
I just don’t belong in the driver’s seat.