The difference...

Solo © 2024 Mike Moore Studios

Up until very recently, I rode solo. I got lucky every now and again and my son's and my schedules lined up and we were able to get some miles in together. Mostly though, it's just been me and my thoughts. I ride with earbuds, music at a level so I can hear what's going on around me, and  "the voices".

"The voices" typically ramble on about some twist of the same mundanity, "Could I? Should I? Did I? What if? How come?" Their mood changes, but their lazer-like deathbeam focus is most certainly always on yours truly. I've been granted the gift of being absolutely certain I was under the universe's microscope as long as I can remember. Trust me, I'm not so full of myself that I actually believe it, but I do sometimes have that hard to reach itch. Doing it to myself, self-microscopy? That's a special kind of hard to reach. Usually, we all get along just fine, understanding our places. Sometimes, not so much. When the conversations get loud, or uncomfortable, I go harder, turn on the body, try to turn off the brain, don't think, be, do.

As previously reported, a good buddy got a new bike and we've gotten in some rides together. I’ve more than enjoyed it, it's been rad. Laughing, talking, riding. I haven't gone as far, or as fast, as I might go solo, but even with all the talking and laughing, they've been much quieter rides. "The voices" don't come along.

This morning I was back on a non-solo solo mission. "Why are you wearing sunglasses?" Dammit. Shut up. "You should go back to the truck". It'll be fine. "Did that guy call?" "You still need to do that thing" Yeah, yeah, oh shit, big rock, spider web, can't see good, shouldn't have worn my sunglasses, should've gone back to the truck, fuck me...

Stop. Breathe. Ride.

A different voice started in on me, this one missing the nails-on-a-chalkboard-spirit-breaking abrasiveness of the others, but just as demanding, "Why are you doing this?" Because I love it, it makes me happy, it’s fun. "Then stop listening to us and get to it doofus...why's everything gotta be spelled out to you? Geez!"

So, I did. I rode. Eddie Spaghetti and Bon Scott were my wingmen. Negative murmurs from the peanut gallery were ignored in favor of the symphonic flow of two wheeled dirt surfing through Central Texas chunk and moon dust.

The difference between riding solo and riding with someone else? Too much me. I'm not a bad guy I know, but I'm with me all the time...so really, what do I know?

Have Fun!