We naturally want to share our wonderful discoveries. I imagine most motorcyclists have encouraged some non-riders to join their club, hoping to spread the happiness and enrich their own enjoyment with the added companionship of folks they already like. This seems straightforward, but there is a complication. Motorcycling is a seriously dangerous activity. Riders can and do get hurt (or worse). If I, with the most benevolent intentions, introduce a loved one to the joys of motorcycling and they end up suffering serious injuries on a bike, what responsibility do I bear? What about the guilt of not sharing what has brought me so much deeply felt gratification? Do I really want to deny others the same to avoid the possibility they might pay a high price for it?
I’m reminded of one of the all-time worst experiences in my 52-year tenure as a motorcyclist. Several decades ago, I taught my then-girlfriend how to ride. She was enthusiastic, naturally athletic and well-coordinated, and learned very quickly on a little borrowed bike. After a few months of parking lot drills and small-scale local rides, she wanted to join a group of my riding buddies on a longer loop through the nearby foothills. I was apprehensive, but for what turned out to be the wrong reason. I expected her to be unable to keep up with these advanced riders who usually maintained a swift pace, given the fact I often had trouble doing so; if it was hard for me with vastly more experience, surely she’d soon be left behind. Of course, I’d hang back and keep her company, but I thought she might get frustrated or discouraged. Nevertheless, we met the group at the appointed hour and took off into the hinterlands together.
Positioned at the rear of the group with me riding sweep, I was amazed at how well she rode – we never lost sight of the others – until a sharp righthander proved too much for her nascent cornering skills and she ran wide – very wide. She crossed the oncoming lane – fortunately there was no traffic – and continued into a large gravel field on the opposite side of the road. While braking on this low-traction surface, she lost the front and got slammed to the ground, then tumbled a looong way. I watched in abject horror, knowing what was about to happen and helpless to intervene. She was terribly shaken by the crash but seemed physically intact, albeit quite sore from multiple impacts.
The bike had sustained only cosmetic damage, but she was in no condition to ride it home. This was before cell phones, so we couldn’t call an ambulance from the middle of nowhere. After the group came back looking for us, we knocked on the door of the only house in sight and a kind old lady let her lie down on a couch for the three hours it took one of the other riders to speed home and return with a trailer. My girlfriend insisted she didn’t need immediate medical attention, and although we shouldn’t have honored her refusal, we resolved to drive to the ER once back in town. Thanks to the fact she’d been wearing high-quality full leathers and a good helmet – and the serendipitous absence of any rigid obstructions along her errant trajectory – her worst injury was a hematoma on her hip. All these years later, I can still vividly recall her wreck as though it was a slow-motion instant replay. I was terrified for her safety and felt tremendous guilt for having made this awful event possible, and for having not done more to protect her. I thought I should have, at the very least, ridden in front of her instead of behind, so I could have exercised more control over her speed and modeled appropriate technique. Instead, I’d chosen a position from which I could monitor her more continuously, not fully recognizing this left me zero influence over what happened. I never expected she’d need to go slower.
Psychologists make distinctions between different types of guilt and responsibility. “Reparative guilt” is the kind we feel after hurting or failing someone due to our aggressive or selfish actions or inaction. (This assumes we have a conscience, which not everyone possesses; sociopaths and psychopathic narcissists don’t.) Reparative guilt is based on concern for the other person’s well-being. At a deeper level, this concern has a self-serving element: we don’t want to lose our connection to them as a result of causing them pain. It motivates us to make reparations to preserve our ties. This guilt is learned during childhood. When those we depend upon pull away from us with disapproval or distress in response to our behavior or feelings, we get anxious about losing their support. We develop an aversion to prohibited behaviors and feelings because they put us in danger of rejection by those upon whom we’re utterly dependent, a frightening situation. To reduce our anxiety going forward, we internalize our caregivers’ reproach and use it proactively to inhibit the impulses that put us out of favor with those whose care we desperately need. The self-reproach we come to feel after committing an offense acts as a deterrent; if we voluntarily beat ourselves up enough, maybe we won’t have to suffer caregivers’ distancing again. “Anticipatory guilt” helps keep us from offending others so we don’t forfeit the benefits of our relationships with them.
The induction of guilt is a normal, necessary and unavoidable aspect of socialization in childhood, although there are obviously many ways this can go astray. Without guilt, we would all be sociopaths and there would be no mutuality, no implicit social contract – it would truly be “every man for himself” in a world of unbridled exploitative competition. We would have only the most instrumental interest in others, employ empathy only as a tool for manipulation, and trust no one. In a functioning society, we should feel bad when we violate expectations of peaceful, cooperative coexistence and risk losing valuable connections with others as a result. This gets elaborated in moral terms, but it’s fundamentally pragmatic for both the individual and the group.
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It’s certainly possible for people to feel overly guilt-ridden for disappointing or angering others and need to balance this with concern for their own authenticity, autonomy and welfare. Some aggression is required for self-protection and defending others, and self-assertion is necessary in the pursuit of any goals. “Neurotic guilt” is an exaggerated version that typically reflects early experiences wherein a child’s normal needs, uniqueness and vitality are experienced as injurious or offensive to dependency/authority figures. Now inhibitions and self-reproach get attached to behaviors and expressions that aren’t actually rooted in malicious intent. However, because the child is treated as though they’ve been malicious, they adopt that view to maintain harmony with those they need. Later in life, they will assess their own innocence or guilt based on others’ reactions, rather than what actually happened; if they’re being blamed, they embrace responsibility and work to repair the connection regardless of how unreasonable the other’s judgment may be. They may end up feeling bad about many normal aspects of their own human nature, just because these are deemed objectionable by certain key people. This is not the same as having a conscience that would make them sorry for genuine transgressions. Instead, they feel guilty for simply having needs, holding a different perspective or priority, or pursuing any gratification, even when they’re not doing harm to anyone else – they’re just not as another would prefer. They may also feel guilty for things that are completely beyond their control, just as they didn’t choose to have the normal, expectable needs of a child – needs a caregiver found burdensome and punished. Some people would rather feel guilty than helplessly limited, too. Such guilt is implicitly grandiose, based on an unrealistic fantasy they could have been superhuman if they’d only tried harder.
“Existential guilt” is based on the fact we contribute to certain problems, no matter our intentions or what we couldn’t possibly have known in advance. Whether I do or don’t do something has consequences. I could have no idea such consequences would follow, and they could be 180-degrees from any of my intentions, but my choice was still a factor leading to their occurrence. Normal human limitations prevent me from doing some things others need, no matter how much I care, and accidents do happen. It may not be fair to blame me for what I can’t know or control, but there’s no denying I contributed to the unwanted outcome. Blame and guilt in this case aren’t based on my aggression or selfishness, or someone else’s displeasure, but rather the fact my behavior was integral to a causal chain of events.
All that said, how might we think about our responsibility if someone we introduce to motorcycling gets hurt? In the example of my old girlfriend’s crash, reparative guilt would not apply, as I didn’t do anything to cause harm, nor was I truly neglectful. Existential guilt does apply, as she wouldn’t have fallen if I hadn’t facilitated her entry into the world of riding. I experienced neurotic guilt, too. I felt responsible and blamed myself for an event over which I had little influence. Yes, I could have refused to let her join that ride, or I could have ridden in front of her instead of behind. But neither of these choices would have prevented her from running wide in a corner at some point. Fortunately, she didn’t consider the event my fault, which made it easier for me to eventually shake my neurotic guilt and simply accept the existential version. She took responsibility for technical errors in that corner (too much speed, not enough countersteering), and she had understood ahead of time errors were likely and could result in injuries; she’d accepted this risk knowingly.
To protect ourselves from realistic self-reproach in the event one of our inductees gets hurt, it’s important we explicitly warn them of the dangers involved in motorcycling. We must emphasize rider training and skill practice are life-long necessities, and be careful not to encourage them to get in over their head. Of course, what constitutes “in over their head” is never precisely knowable; even seasoned veterans can find themselves in riding dilemmas that exceed their abilities. But we can insist that, if they’re going to ride with us, they must wear proper protective gear and accept small, incremental increases in challenge. Otherwise, we won’t support their involvement if it escalates the risk of injury unnecessarily. We can’t prevent them from exercising bad judgement, but we can discourage it and distance ourselves from its consequences. We must also recognize not everyone should ride motorcycles. Some are too impulsive, others lack the physical wherewithal or mental focus required. We ought not encourage someone to ride when their constitution stacks the deck against them.
We may want to avoid the guilt of contributing to another’s injury, but what about the opposite source – not sharing something that has proven a rich source of countless joys? They’d miss out on a delicious slice of life because we didn’t introduce them to it, and we’d both lose all the good times we might have enjoyed together. Some of the absolute best moments of my life as a motorcyclist (really, my life in general) were spent teaching my then-nine-year-old to ride, and subsequently conquering trails with him for many years afterward. The thrill of watching him go from my student to my superior was epic, and I got to experience all my own exciting riding milestones again vicariously as he reached and exceeded them. Those memories are priceless and they strengthened our bond immeasurably. Yet none of them would have happened if I’d given in to anticipatory guilt and been too afraid he might get hurt. My awareness of existential responsibility motivated me to continually emphasize safety and self-discipline to him, and I was perpetually vigilant about the risks to which I exposed him. As he earned my trust in his competence and judgement, I transferred more responsibility to him. Were he to get hurt now, I would certainly be upset; but I wouldn’t feel guilty about introducing him to motorcycles.
