Different types of psychotherapy place various levels of emphasis on feelings (as opposed to thoughts or behaviors). In general, however, there is an attempt to balance a) an empathic recognition that emotions are of crucial importance in a person’s experience of themselves and the world around them, and b) a pragmatic recognition that emotions can be misleading as reflections of current reality. An example of such dual acknowledgements would be appreciating the validity of an emotion in a past situation while also noting that its application in a present situation isn’t supported by available evidence. A person may have been perfectly justified in adopting a mistrustful stance in a prior relationship, but the current relationship actually appears to be trustworthy. They may continue to feel mistrustful anyway, and this is understandable as a self-protective measure, but maintaining this orientation will unnecessarily preclude the enjoyment of relational benefits and may even provoke unfairly destructive conflicts. Psychotherapy might help such a person better discern when their caution is an asset and when it’s a liability, and give them space to carefully weigh the risks and potential rewards of changing their approach.
A feeling may not accurately reflect the current state of affairs, but it almost certainly exists for good reason, even if that reason isn’t readily apparent. It’s very often essential to first understand how the feeling actually does make sense before trying to address how it doesn’t. This allows a person to maintain a realistic faith in their own intuitive and emotional reactions while also exercising enough analytic review to improve their accuracy and avoid counterproductive repetition and overgeneralization. In other words, any feeling probably has some legitimate justification, even if that justification comes from the past rather than the present. It would be unwise—and possibly quite dangerous—to ignore lessons learned, especially painful ones. Feelings can provide early alerts (positive or negative) before deliberative cognition catches on, so it’s important to not dismiss them out of hand. Yet it’s also quite problematic to ignore new information that indicates old learning ought to be updated and refined. Teasing apart past and present is key to optimal navigation of current events.
Feelings can be erroneous in other ways, too. They might be based on inaccurate perception or faulty reasoning. An example of this would be the fear of falling that new motorcyclists often experience when leaning their bikes. In other situations, their natural apprehension about defying gravity might be spot on and help them avoid unwanted contact with the ground, but their innate alarm system needs recalibration to account for the special physics of a single-track vehicle. Neural reeducation will likely involve incremental physical experimentation to test intellectually recognized principles, like an explanation of countersteering. Reflexive reactions, both physical and psychological, gradually accommodate the accumulating evidence of repeated experience at odds with previously held expectations. The person doesn’t forget how to avoid falling over while on foot, they just learn that a different set of rules applies to movement on two wheels. Consequently, they perceive lean angle while riding in a new way and their reasoning about it changes accordingly. Once again, feelings have been sorted on the basis of situational context, with more nuance and diversification.
Here’s yet another way feelings can diverge from facts. My sense of speed can be at variance with an objective measure of my pace. I may feel like I just turned in my very best lap during a track day practice session, but the stopwatch shows I was actually faster during a different outing. This might simply be a matter of inadequate precision, with my own organic timer being unable to match the performance of an electronic or mechanical device; no doubt I’ll have a larger margin of error. But that’s not the only issue. My subjective sense of speed will be the aggregate result of myriad data streams, not just the passage of time. I may have indeed reached a higher peak velocity on the back straight, and that stood out to me because it was exhilarating. However, I may have also been slower around several corners—maybe not enough for me to notice as I savored my performance on that back straight, but enough to offset that achievement in terms of my final lap time. There are other indirect sources of information I might factor into my calculation incorrectly. For instance, I might interpret a certain squirm from the bike as evidence I’ve found the edge of available traction, and therefore expect a superior result across the line. In actuality, that squirm may have been a manifestation of sloppy technique that slowed me down.
Likewise, one motorcycle may feel faster, but be slower. If I equate a hard lunge off the bottom with brute strength (and therefore speed), I may experience a torque-rich big-bore V-twin as quite mighty and perhaps even intimidatingly quick, even though it runs out of breath at relatively low rpm and really doesn’t generate a lot of velocity. Conversely, a high-revving inline four may feel puny and sluggish throughout the bottom half of the tach, but become extremely fast as it approaches redline. A machine can be deceptively fast or slow depending on how smoothly it accelerates and how stable and confidence inspiring it is at speed. Ironically, a genuinely faster bike can seem slower because it operates with less drama; it doesn’t set off the rider’s internal alarms and therefore feels more tame. Obviously, speed isn’t the only dimension we consider in our enjoyment of riding; it’s just the easiest for contrasting subjective and objective assessments. Another example would be weight. A heavier bike can feel lighter—maybe much lighter—depending on where it carries its heft and the specifics of its steering geometry, among other factors. Would you rather have the bike the scale says is lighter, or the one your body and mind consider lighter? This brings us to the next point.
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We can talk about discrepancies between subjective and objective assessments in terms of the former’s “error,” but that doesn’t do justice to the value of feelings to a particular individual. I might prioritize an experience over cold, hard data. For example, I could have more fun on a bike that feels fast than one that is measurably faster (setting aside the fact no motorcycle is faster than its rider). Maybe I’d rather get my speed fix at 70 mph instead of 100 mph. More isn’t necessarily better, unless I’m competing on the racetrack where objective measures are all that matter. If I’m just interested in extracting maximum pleasure from my motorcycle, I’ll do well to ignore its spec sheet and concentrate on how I feel while riding it. As the old saying goes, “It’s more fun to ride a slow bike fast than to ride a fast bike slow.” My feeling may not be strictly factual in some way that could be measured with instruments and proven consistently across other riders’ evaluations, but that’s irrelevant. This is no different than how we judge relationships; Friend X may not tick all the boxes on some list of objectively desirable features, but we can still prefer their company over someone with a better scorecard.
Finally, here’s one more way feelings can be deceptive. We can opt for the feeling of power over genuine efficacy. If I’m working on a mechanical project and get frustrated by my difficulty getting two parts to fit together properly, I could bolster my sense of dominance and control by simply applying more force. I may break something as a result, which would ultimately prompt regret, but in the moment before causing damage, I’d feel ascendant, like I was showing those parts who’s boss. I’d feel that in my body, too, as my muscles flexed and strained in the struggle to make those parts submit to my will. But who really won that battle? I sure didn’t, even if we rule out the possibility those parts experienced any victorious joy. My feeling of power came at the expense of actually getting my way. Now I have to go buy new parts or repair the ones I broke. I’d have been much better off figuring out exactly what was wrong and tending to it. Maybe a little filing on a slightly misshapen edge would have allowed the slip fit I wanted. In the longer run, that would have fortified my sense of power, but in the moment it may have felt like submission, like I was bowing to yet another demand instead of making a demand of my own. This kind of thing certainly happens outside the garage, whether we’re talking about ham-fisted riding technique, impatient scheduling negotiations with riding buddies, or reckless line selection through a rock garden. We can indulge our desire to feel omnipotent by barreling ahead, even though there’s a high likelihood of not only causing damage, but taking damage ourselves. Ignoring potential consequences fortifies our sense of invincibility—until it doesn’t. Is it really a sign of weakness to approach problems and challenges with care? No, but it can feel that way to the more primitive, animalistic part of our psyche.
Ideally, we take the time to step back from our emotional reactions and see how much agreement exists between our minds and our guts. Some deep breaths can help in the heat of the moment, and conferring with trusted others might supply valuable consensus about the realities of the current situation. Our feelings deserve our respect and understanding, but not necessarily our obedience.
Mark Barnes is a clinical psychologist and motojournalist. To read more of his writings, check out his book Why We Ride: A Psychologist Explains the Motorcyclist’s Mind and the Love Affair Between Rider, Bike and Road, currently available in paperback through Amazon and other retailers.
