Back when ships were powered by wind, an equatorial region known as the doldrums posed a grave threat because of its peculiar lack of air movement. Sailors could be stranded for weeks, running out of food and fresh water before catching a vital breeze. The term “doldrums” has come to mean a state of depressed inactivity and listlessness, reflecting not only the paucity of life-sustaining wind in this region of the ocean, but also the psychological state of the sailors trapped there. It seems a fitting word to describe the experience of riding deprivation, too.
As I write this in midwinter, I’m suffering from exactly such a malady. I’m fortunate to live in an area typically sprinkled with occasional days of mild weather this time of year. We get snow and single-digit temps, but the usual cold, wet, gray days of January and February are reliably punctuated by sunny days and highs in the 50s here and there, which feels downright balmy! Such moments offer a welcome reprieve from the season’s bleak misery and provide relatively inviting conditions for two-wheeled excursions. This winter, however, has so far been uncharacteristically devoid of such exceptions, and I’ve had to contend with what motorcyclists further north must endure every year—relentlessly inhospitable conditions and an uninterrupted months-long hiatus from riding. I’ll ride in the 40s and I’ll ride in the rain, but not both at once if I don’t absolutely have to—and certainly not 20s or 30s, even if they’re drenched in sunshine; I’m just not that hardcore anymore! Of course, we can all be deprived of our beloved avocation during any season, depending on many variables apart from the meteorological. Work demands and family obligations, illness or injury, mechanical repairs that take forever, etc. can conspire to block our access to saddle time, with a commensurate negative impact on our mood.
When I started on this essay, I wanted to get into words the murky dysphoria associated with riding deprivation, but this is proving harder than I expected. I’ve experienced this numerous times over the years and I’m feeling it right now; surely I can articulate something beyond what I’ve come up with so far—the vague, categorical pronouncement, “This sucks!” After all, it’s a big part of my job as a psychologist to help bring into sharper focus emotions others struggle to define with any specificity. We can all know something feels bad, yet lack clarity about exactly what flavor of badness is plaguing us. Without that knowledge, it’s harder to figure out what to do about our dissatisfaction or distress. We might try to distract ourselves from it, which is sometimes the best we can do, but we need to understand the nature of our discomfort if we’re to have any hope of addressing it directly and effectively. In many cases, part of the difficulty is we tend to look for a single cause when there are actually several converging contributors. We might even be able to name one or two of these, but then we dismiss those explanations because we realize they don’t fully account for what’s going on.
In psychotherapy, it’s extremely common for people to ask—of me or of themselves—whether this or that is really the problem. In most cases, it’s not either/or; it’s this and that—and maybe something else, too. Much time can be wasted laboring over a false dichotomy. People can also stop at the “headline level,” rather than drilling down into the rest of the story, where important details await discovery. In my present dilemma, I can easily identify the basis of my malaise as lack of riding, but that only points toward a singular solution: resume riding! I can’t do that at the moment. If I explore this issue in a bit more depth, maybe other possibilities will become apparent.
First is what I can discern about the feeling, itself. This is the question of “phenomenology,” and its concern is description, not explanation or resolution. We need to establish what we feel before moving on to why we feel it or how to change it. Phenomenology is the study of an individual’s conscious, subjective experience, without regard to any objective assessment of their situation or what anyone else would feel in it. Such experience may be highly idiosyncratic or quite commonplace, overlapping with that of most other people. Perhaps your experience of riding deprivation differs substantially from mine, so don’t take what follows as necessarily applicable to all motorcyclists. Instead, use it as a prompt to freely consider a broader range of possibilities than you may have already noticed and then draw your own conclusions. The trick is opening up your mind to whatever bubbles up, with as little judgment and preconceived expectation as possible.
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.
As I relax and peer more closely into my experience of riding deprivation, the first thing I find apparent is a sense of wilting. That word hadn’t occurred to me before, but it rings true now and even more so as I reflect on it. Plants wilt when they lack enough moisture to pump through their vascular systems and create the hydraulic pressure needed to resist gravity. In a metaphorical sense, this is one of the functions riding serves: It allows me to maintain a sort of psychological tumescence in opposition to the gravitational forces of routine existence. In other words, it helps me resist the downward pull of sad, weighty, discouraging aspects of my life and the lives of those around me. Without this resource, I’m more susceptible to glum negativity and ennui, and I end up languishing, even when there’s no new, additional reason to do so. Just as we’re all perpetually covered in myriad germs only affecting our health when our immune system is compromised, I’m always immersed to some extent in difficult, depressing, frustrating, tedious and onerous aspects of living, just like everyone else. Riding somehow helps me cope with these ever-present challenges, and limits their ability to infect my mood; it perks me up, just like watering a thirsty houseplant.
The second thing I notice as I ponder my recent state is a sense of chafing. I’m not only less buoyant, as I just described, but I feel put upon more easily, frequently and intensely. Little things I’d normally take in stride—or maybe ignore altogether—annoy me. I’m more irritable and reactive, more apt to grouse and grumble about minor inconveniences, and quicker to criticize myself and others. I don’t mean I’m constantly angry; it’s just that the threshold for disgruntlement is lower, in large part because of a chronic background sense of helplessness and confinement. Without the joys of riding to counterbalance them, small impingements get under my skin instead of gliding across the surface, leaving behind more wear and tear from ordinary circumstances. It feels like the oil film that’s supposed to cushion and lubricate is missing and the moving parts of life are grinding against each other. If I don’t deliberately correct myself, I can take things personally that have nothing to do with me. For instance, I catch myself feeling persecuted by this weather that “refuses to give me a break.”
I’ll keep exploring this topic on my own, but these two examples will suffice for the purpose of illustration. Identifying the experiences of wilting and chafing helps me imagine potential remedies beyond the simple solution of resumed riding. If I think about motorcycling as a kind of lifeblood that keeps me from drooping—that is, energizes me and supports my mood—I can look for riding-adjacent sources of excitement and inspiration. For example, I might begin planning a spring trip with some riding buddies, knowing this will generate eagerness and motivation. It won’t feel like a chore to map out a route, explore lodging options, take inventory of what I’ll need to carry, and tend to any other preparations needed before launching such an adventure. It’s a strange paradox that getting active can yield an increase in energy, rather than the depletion we typically associate with exertion. Taking initiative on tasks that are intrinsically enjoyable, or are closely connected to something we look forward to, can lift our spirits and pump enthusiasm back into our daily mindset. Remember, the pleasures of riding aren’t confined to the time we spend with wheels turning. The fun of a future event begins as soon as we start anticipating it.
Now I’ve got something to help offset feeling wilted, but what about feeling chafed? This isn’t about being weighed down, it’s about being crowded—imprisoned is a better word. I can’t move without being blocked or scraped. I need some insulation and I need to feel a sense of efficacy, like I can make something happen—the inverse of helpless frustration. What motorcycle-related activities, short of riding itself, might provide such experiences? Escaping the restrictions of winter can be accomplished with some aptly named escapism. Moto-entertainment transports me to another realm. I can watch racing, travelogues and how-to videos, read motorcycle books, magazines and e-zines, and visit shops and dealerships to see the new bikes and gear being rolled out for the coming year. Just as a good ride allows us to leave all our other concerns behind, any of these activities temporarily eclipses everything else occupying our attention, relieving us of our mental shackles, at least for a while. To boost my sense of freedom and power, I can accomplish a mechanical project or work through an online riding skills course to help me jumpstart my rust-shedding efforts, come spring. I might also invest in some enhancement of my physical fitness to a) improve my safety, stamina and enjoyment of future rides, and b) get more concrete, visceral experiences of being strong and flexible, and of making progress on personal goals—victory where there had been a sense of defeat.
The words “inspiration” and “enthusiasm” have their roots in concepts of moving air and being moved by spirit. They are the opposite of being stuck in the doldrums. Unlike the sailors of yore, we have the ability to stir up our own wind if we know which sails need filling.
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.
