We’ve all reveled in the glorious symphony of internal combustion—the whirring and rhythmic chatter of valvetrains and clutch baskets, the throbbing basso profundo idle of a big twin, or the soaring wail of a high-revving four “on the pipe.” To enthusiasts, these can be as moving (pun intended) as any musical masterpiece. I still vividly recall my first visit to a racetrack: Loudon, 1991. The sounds literally brought tears to my eyes, and I could feel the resonance of millions of tiny explosions vibrating powerfully within my chest each time the cacophonous pack of riders passed by at speed. Truly awe-inspiring.
It’s easy to think of motorcycles as musical instruments on the basis of their aural magnificence, but I want to consider this from a different angle—that of the rider as musician. This notion originally came to me during another racetrack initiation—my first track day. I was at “Little Talladega” (a.k.a., Talladega Grand Prix Raceway in Munford, AL) on an appropriately also-little Honda Hawk GT. It was the perfect combination for a track virgin: a lightweight, highly maneuverable, modestly powered motorcycle on a small, flat, easily memorized racetrack with almost no visual obstructions. Back then (early 90s) TGPR’s layout was barely over one mile in total length, although it’s been expanded since then. By mid-afternoon, I’d developed a cadence, with my braking, turning and throttle opening points for each corner coalescing into a recognizable, recurring pattern. These weren’t evenly spaced like a toe-tap keeping time, but rather formed an irregularly syncopated sequence of beats more like an intricate series of riffs in a guitar solo. There was much to enjoy that day, but best of all was this quasi-musical element emerging from the repetition of my actions, lap after lap. As my inputs became increasingly automatic, I could start to “hear” the racetrack’s “song” played out in movements (these puns are just too easy!). It was a genuine peak experience, nearly synesthetic and definitely surreal. Upon leaving the track, that pattern continued cycling (sorry!) through my mind like an earworm. I’m guessing racers can recall racetracks in exactly this same way, like the rest of us remember familiar tunes from our formative years.
Of course, there’s another artistic medium using physical movement quite straightforwardly for expression: dance. Maybe that would be an even better metaphor for this phenomenon. However, I can also make the case for similarities to two- and three-dimensional art, with an elegant arc through a corner analogous to a painter’s subtle brushstroke or the delicately precise tracing of a potter’s sculpting tool through soft clay. Any of these parallels might be compelling to a specific rider, depending on how they process their sensations and the art forms with which they’re most intimately familiar. No doubt, there are others beyond what I’ve mentioned here.
My point is simply this: Riding can be an art form, not only in terms of achieving certain technical ideals, but also as a form of individual expression. This is commonly understood as part of customizing a bike, though now I’m referring to how it’s actually ridden. In most cases, there are some constraints placed on the artist-rider. A road or trail imposes limits on motion, not unlike those a cover band must contend with when playing a song written by someone else. Stray too far from the source material and you can end up with a mangled wreck, unrecognizable to the audience and lacking whatever virtues made the piece worthy of imitation; going back to the visual art metaphor, a rider does have to “color within the lines.” On the other hand, there is some room for idiosyncratic modification, as the character of the original is translated through the personality and instrumentation of the covering musician(s), with both layers clearly discernable. Does this make the road, track or trail architect a composer? Is the rider then an interpreter of that work? I guess it depends on their motives and creative sensibilities, but surely one or both might be true.
We can go a little further with this. Some riders are like professional studio musicians, aiming to nail a certain length of dirt or tarmac with conventional efficiency and consistent grace. Other riders could be more improvisational, like a jazz player, always looking for inventive variations on the established theme and delighting in defying expectations with unexpected flourishes. These folks must still adhere, at least loosely, to a minimalistic structure and maintain coherence with certain overarching principles; after all, the laws of physics remain in effect. Obviously, various environments allow differing degrees of freedom, but each rider also decides how much latitude to take. An unfamiliar, free-flowing road will be approached with a specific set of skills and tools, but with no fixed standard of “correctness” many possibilities might be strung together in endless variations, each with a unique aesthetic reflecting a rider’s preferences and proclivities—their signature. There’s probably a fastest line, for example, but that will depend on the bike’s handling and power characteristics, the rider’s risk tolerance, and other factors. And “fastest” is only one criterion for defining an ideal; there are others. While smoothness often serves as the foundation for speed, it can be a goal in itself, likewise with any isolated technique. Just as an artist may use a piece to “study” specific methods and configurations, a motorcyclist may do the same with any particular outing. No artist puts all their abilities on display in a single work, nor does any rider.
Perhaps the freest expression is possible on the large, unmarked surface (blank canvas?) beneath the tires of the stunt rider. That “dance floor” allows virtually limitless movement, constrained only by the hardware in use and the rider’s skill and imagination. Is the proper analog some sort of interpretive dance? Breakdancing? Or, back to music—something highly conceptual, wherein the artist is exploring the envelope of what’s possible with their instrument. At the opposite extreme might be a police moto team, riding in uncannily tight, perfectly coordinated formation. Now we may be in the realm of ballet, pointillism, or an orchestral production of the highest order. It turns out the absence of freedom may be just as challenging as the absence of structure, with equally impressive artistry employed in each case.
Similar to how a musician must first learn scales, or a martial artist must first learn katas, motorcyclists have to master basic skills before they can launch more creative efforts. It’s only when foundational elements become second nature that space opens up for self-expression and spontaneity. Technical proficiency by itself yields a rather sterile performance, albeit one that may also be admirably effective. The addition of creative expression brings character and soul to the mix, even as it may involve breaking some of the rules governing an earlier stage of development.
The Ride Inside with Mark Barnes is brought to you by the MOA Foundation. You can join the BMW Motorcycle Owners of America quickly and easily to better take advantage of the Paul B Grant and Clark Luster programs mentioned in this episode.
Whereas a true virtuoso can make any version of their instrument sing, a Stratovarius or Stratocaster—or an M1000RR—allows next-level precision and the most nuanced embellishments. Exotica delivers rarified experiences, but lo-fi hardware may offer just as much fun at the other end of the spectrum, with restricted execution and elements of wonkiness challenging the artist to loosen up and play in a more carefree manner. Jamming on a thrift-shop guitar (with only the finest plastic strings!) or careening around a lumpy field on a clapped-out 100cc kid’s bike will produce plenty of smiles and allow levels of abandon typically prohibited by more sophisticated equipment. You don’t need the finest cutlery to create an extremely tasty burger!
Viewing the motorcyclist as a musician, the bike is merely an instrument being played, a tool for self-expression. One machine may be better suited for this purpose than another, but the more important matter is the rider’s ability to get something internal into an external form. This is true of all art; it is the “ex“ in “expression.” The wordless, ineffable essence of some private experience gets captured in an image, a chord progression, a sequence of gestures, or even a series of arcs and velocity changes on an empty country road. Movement through space on two wheels can mirror an exuberance, a determination, or a serenity defying representation via other means. The motorcycle is a conduit—a vehicle, if you will!—for that which we cannot describe in language. When we get it just right, it’s as rapturously satisfying as hearing perfect pitch, the most exquisite polyrhythm, or the sonic textures of our favorite band. We might as well catch lightning in a bottle.
Whereas a musical instrument serves as a prosthetic voice, motorcycles extend the capabilities of our legs, virtually transforming them into wings. The extra range of motion allows us to reach further toward matching some unspeakable abstraction within our core, something we’re naturally compelled to express, like a songbird’s melody or an otter’s acrobatics. The concrete, physical match is never perfect, never complete, but our desire to make it so is inexhaustible. When we get close, we feel an intense sense of accomplishment and pride—not because of someone else’s admiration, but because it evokes approval from our inner self, like a guitar string brought into tune; it’s akin to profound, existential agreement. The instrument is no longer something separate, but an extension of our spirit.
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.
