The Motorcycle Doesn’t Care Who’s Watching — And Neither Should You
There’s something uniquely awful about falling down in public — especially when you're trying to look competent, cool, or in control. Add a motorcycle to the mix and you've got the perfect storm: the gear, the noise, the sheer visibility of it all. Everyone sees it. No one forgets it.
But here’s the truth: you will fall. On a bike. In life. It’s not a matter of if, but when. And the sooner you accept that, the sooner you can get better at doing the only part you can control: how you respond.
Let me tell you two stories about falling down.
Story #1: First Ride
A good friend of mine shared a story that still makes me cringe on his behalf.
He had ridden motorcycles years ago, but life got busy — a demanding career, long hours, shifting priorities — and riding faded into the background. But eventually, the desire came back. And when it did, he jumped in with both feet.
He bought a brand-new BMW from a nearby dealer. Not just any bike — a pristine, top-tier machine. And he did it right: brand-new helmet, armored jacket, gloves, pants, boots. The full high-tech kit. If you’re going to re-enter the riding world, why not do it with style?
So there he was — geared up, proud, maybe a little nervous — rolling off the dealership lot. The open road awaited. But first… coffee.
He pulled into the diner next door. All eyes were on him. That new-bike smell, that fresh gear, that unmistakable whirr of German engineering. He eased the bike up to the front door.
And then… he tipped over.
Right in front of everyone.
He wasn’t hurt, thankfully, but his leg got caught underneath the bike. It took some wriggling to get free. And then came the worst part — the incline in the parking lot made the bike too heavy for him to lift. He tried. And tried again.
Eventually, he had to walk into the diner — the very place filled with the people who just watched him fall — and ask for help picking it up.
Story #2: The “Experienced” Rider
A few years into my adventure biking journey, I had logged over 20,000 miles and was in the middle of my fourth BDR excursion. For this trip, in addition to my two regular riding partners (my brothers, thankfully), we invited two friends along for their first-ever BDR.
As the unofficial "leader" of the group, I had planned the trip, coordinated it, and felt responsible for making sure everyone had a good time. And I was the most experienced rider by far.
So naturally… I was the only one who completely blew a gravel corner and laid the bike down.
It was a low-speed event. I wasn’t hurt at all — at least not physically. The bike took a few scrapes and bent parts, all fixable right there on the trail.
My ego, though? That took a deeper hit.
But to their credit, the guys didn’t pile on. In fact, they were too busy feeling relieved that I wasn’t injured, and then helping me upright the bike. We bent things back into shape in just a few minutes. I don’t consider my story nearly as cringe-worthy as my friend and his BMW caper. In no time, we were moving again.
A year later, I still haven’t been picked on for that moment. I’m not sure if they’ve truly let it go… or if they’re just saving it for the perfect opportunity on the next BDR.
Falling Is Inevitable
Here’s what both stories prove: it’s going to happen. Maybe not today, maybe not this trip, but eventually you’ll find yourself on the ground. You can’t always control that part. You can prepare, practice, and plan — but there are still variables you can’t manage.
What you can control is your response.
Will you get angry? Ashamed? Will you retreat inward and hope no one saw? Or will you laugh, shake your head, and accept it as part of the ride?
Ride On
Motorcyclists like to say, “There are two types of riders — those who’ve gone down, and those who will.” It’s a bit dark, but it’s true. It’s also freeing. Once you’ve dropped the bike — once you’ve been there — it loses some of its power over you.
You stop trying to avoid embarrassment at all costs, and start focusing on growth, humility, and connection.
You learn to be the rider who gets up, dusts off, and keeps going. And that, in the end, is all that matters.
The Real Lesson: Everyone Fails
You can have 20,000 or 200,000 hours of life on Planet Earth under your belt, but it’s going to happen. You’re humming along, navigating your life like a boss. Your work life, your home life, your spiritual life — all is right with the world… and then life throws a slight curve in your path — maybe dusted with a little gravel — and you wind up laying your bike down.
It doesn’t matter how many years you’ve been riding — you’ll drop the bike.
It doesn’t matter how much life experience you have — you’ll fail at something. More than once.
Falling is inevitable. But strangely, it’s also freeing.
You stop clinging to the illusion of perfection. You realize your friends have all fallen too — maybe not in the same way, but deeply and publicly in their own lives. And you learn to focus less on the anger or the loss of control, and more on the humility that follows.
That’s where the growth happens. That’s where character is built.
When I dropped my bike on the BDR trail, I was lucky — I had friends who rushed in, not to mock me, but to help me bend the parts back into place.
That’s life too.
Sometimes we just need a little help standing the thing back up. A few hands. A few kind words. Someone who knows what it’s like to fall, and who shows up not to judge, but to help you ride again.
Ask for that help. Accept it. Then keep going.
Because when you’re out on a trail — or in the middle of a life that doesn’t pause for your pride — the only real option is to carry on.
Pick the bike up.
Patch yourself together.
Keep moving.
You’re not broken. You’re just a rider who fell. And now you're a rider who knows how to get back up.
You can turn your failure into an opportunity for growth, humility, connection with friends and family, and character building. You can be the person who gets up, dusts off, and keeps going.
And that, in the end, is all that matters.
No comments:
Post a Comment