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A Restless Existence
by Brian A.
Hopkins
Previously, I wrote:
Lately, I've been starting to think of
mine as a "restless existence" (a term borrowed from Neil Peart, to be
perfectly honest about it). Give me time, and I'll try to put what I mean by
that into words. Essentially, though, I think it all boils down to an
addiction to motion, an affliction in which my brain, my heart, the very
interaction of the molecules that make up my being simply can't sit still.
Let's go somewhere, my soul whispers. Why
are we sitting here at home when we could be jamming to the wind and the hum
of the tires on pavement?
What was I
trying to say?
I'm not entirely sure I know, but as I sit here at my 9-to-5 desk,
absofreakinglutely bored out of my ever-loving mind, listening to those droll,
dedicated minions for whom all this office crap seems somehow important (I just
want to shake some of them and scream, "What the fuck is wrong with you; is this
all you want before you become mulch?!"), I know the easy cure is to get on one
of my bikes and ride. Somewhere. Anywhere. It's pouring down rain
outside and I don't care. Put me on the bike and let me feel the sluice of the
rain channeled through the tread in my tires. Let it run cold and damp down the
back of my neck as I lean over the gas tank. Leak through the zippers and cause
me to shiver as my rain gear fails. Blind me with the glaring double-vision of
headlights refracted in the beads of water streaming over my visor. Let the
lightning find me. Let the wind put me in a ditch. Let those motorists who can't
drive worth a damn on a good day, let alone in a downpour, run me over and break
every bone in my body. Fuck it. It beats sitting here dying a little bit more
with each passing minute.
 
It's more than all that, though. I feel it at home, too. Gotta
go. Gotta be moving. Can't sit there and watch the rest of the family
anesthetize their brains with American Idol, Dancing with the Stars,
The Bachelor, and other boob tube idiocy. (What moron put that
self-aggrandizing peckerhead Simon what's-his-name on television anyway?
Probably the same one who put on Doctor Phil. I'd like to tie a rope around Dr.
Phil's ankles and drag his fat ass behind the ZZR for about 30 minutes in front
of all his adoring housewives. Sorta like Achilles with Hector outside the walls
of Troy: "Is this your hero? Is this the best you can come up with?")
There's something missing around the ol' homestead. The wife of however many
million years it is now (I've lost count) has about as much passion for and
interest in me as I have Harleys out in the garage (which is to say absolutely
none and there's no need bothering to check back for the next billion years or
so 'cause it just ain't gonna happen). This is that phase all women go through,
I'm told by every other 40-something male going through the same thing. Deal
with it. Well, fuck that, too. There's passion to be found in the dizzy,
exhilarating speed of the sportbike, the adrenaline of being on the ragged edge
at full lean, the slippery side-wise movement of a dualsport tire as a steep
rocky trail challenges forward momentum, or the sweet scent of a pine forest at
the top of that very same hill ... the camaraderie of your brothers who share a
love for the same sense of two-wheeled freedom and anarchy ... the wind and its
susurration in your ears at the end of a long day, orchestrating the phantom
motion of the bike still moving under you ...
Or maybe it all has to do with self-worth? There's a satisfaction and
fulfillment in forward motion, in having a destination (or even the utter lack
thereof) and advancing toward it. I can't seem to find that sense of
accomplishment anywhere else these days. It comes only from having chosen the
best line through a curve, in having kept my dirtbike vertical through a
particularly technical section of trail, in surviving another suicidal afternoon
in traffic ... in just one more mile ticking over on the odometer. Anopause is
supposed to be the male equivalent of menopause (personally, I think women
invented the term just so males at a certain age could be told it was normal to
quit having sex), that period where testosterone levels drop and males no longer
find satisfaction and self-worth in the pastimes of youth: sports, sex, killing
one another, etc. This is that time when a man is supposed to quit chasing tail
and put all his energy into his career and/or artistic endeavors, when he's
supposed to come home late and tired, wave to the faithful wife in passing, go
to bed, and get up the next morning to do it all over again. Well, my career's a
real bore (and not going anywhere in this lifetime) and my creative period (that
whole award-winning, self-sacrificing author schtick) was much too frustrating
to even contemplate revisiting ... so I think I'll "get my kicks on Route 66,"
so to speak.
Or is it a recharging of my system? My brain, heart, and soul seem wired to
forward motion. It's as if there's a gyroscopic battery charger in my head, the
sort of thing that kicks in when the front tire's coming up off the ground,
triggering my synapses and overriding the slumber my brain cells slip into while
in sedentary mode. Speed is addictive, but it's also cathartic, rejuvenating,
and inspirational. I'm too lazy to research it for you, but I'm 99% positive
that studies have proven a connection between motion and health. Take away
Grandad's ol' Plymouth and before you know it, you're sizing him up for a pine
box, know what I mean?
Or maybe my restlessness is tied to this whole growing old business and my
failing health? Things just don't work like they used to, it seems. Aches and
pains are the norm these days, part and parcel of growing old. I've broken too
many bones, abused too many joints, and eaten one too many Quarterpounders.
There's also that whole Lymphoma thing, plus the Hepatitus, and treatment
regimens in 2001 and 2006 -- the last of which I totally bailed out of
because I'd simply had more than enough, thank you very much. They weren't
kidding when they said interferon wasn't for sissies ... or moody SOBs like me
either. When I'm riding, there's no doubting I'm alive and no interest in
checking out anytime soon. Depression just doesn't do 120 mph.
A restless existence. Between rides, I'm a pain-in-the-ass. Pacing. Scowling at
maps. Prodding at the Internet to yield up something other than the same
recycled crap. Traipsing through the living room and sneering at the television
(longing to do bodily harm to Dr Phil). Spending money I don't have on gear for
future outings. In short, I'm no fun at all.
So I think I'll go riding now. After all, I've got a brand new rain suit. See
you out there...?
[Addendum. So I wasn't in the best
of places when I wrote this piece, physically or spiritually. I'm much better
now. You can add a third treatment regimen in 2010-2011, which really should
have had me putting a cap in my ass, but I muddled through it, completed it, and
came out healthier and in a much better state of mind. I still haven't found
that elusive "state of grace" that I've written about so often, but perhaps it's
enough to not give up the quest. Anyway, I gave some thought to losing this
piece of angst-ridden writing, but much of it still rings true to me and, more
importantly, I think readers will find much in it that they can relate to. So it
stays. I'm fine, though. Really!] |
