THE DREAM THAT MOST PEOPLE JUST WON’T BLOODY UNDERSTAND

I bought a bike… not because I needed transport.

No. I bought it because somewhere, deep in the part of my soul where reason goes to die,
I had a dream.
One day, when I’m old and I mean really old, 
the kind of old where your knees sound like a gravel driveway…
I’ll roll into my garage, unable to walk, but there she’ll be.
My bike.
Not just metal and petrol.
But a trophy.
A monument to the chaos, the freedom, the madness of youth...
...and the fact that I still somehow have both kidneys.

I’ve met people along the way.
Some of them became lifelong mates, bonded by the sacred ritual of shouting over engines and complaining about tyre prices.
Others…
Well, let’s just say I’m thrilled to have the memory of a goldfish.

I’ve been soaked through to the underpants,
I’ve frozen to the point where my eyebrows developed frostbite,
And I’ve also been warmer than a pie in a glovebox on a summer’s day.

I’ve been terrified.
I’ve crashed.
I’ve fallen over, sometimes with great dramatic flair.
But I’ve stood up again, dusted off, and pretended it was part of the plan.
I’ve bled.
I’ve limped.
I’ve laughed so hard inside my helmet that people probably thought I was listening to stand-up comedy through my intercom.

I’ve had entire conversations with myself.
Sung power ballads at full throttle.
Shouted at the wind.
And yes, sometimes, I’ve cried.
(Usually after checking the fuel prices.)

I’ve seen places that would make postcard designers sob.
Lived through moments so good, I wouldn’t trade them for a lottery win.
I’ve taken corners so smooth even Marc Márquez would raise an eyebrow—
and others so wobbly they left permanent dents in my underwear.

I’ve stopped a thousand times just to stare at a tree, a sunset, or a cow that looked like it was judging me.
I’ve spoken to complete strangers and shared more with them than people I’ve known for years.
I’ve left home with a head full of demons,
And returned with nothing but peace—and maybe a bit of mud on my face.

Yes, it’s dangerous.
Yes, I know.
But courage isn’t being fearless—
It’s twisting the throttle even when your brain is screaming, “You idiot!”

Every time I climb on my bike, I think:
This. This is living.
I no longer waste breath explaining it to people who don’t get it.
They never will.
But when I pass another rider on the road, we nod.
A silent gesture.
A sacred language of the mad and the free.

And I’d do it all again, because
this machine…
this bike...
It isn’t just transport.
It’s not just bolts and rubber.

It’s the lost piece of my soul 

The bit of me that refuses to grow up,
The bit that still believes in adventure, in freedom, in rebellion against beige.

So when someone says:
“Sell the bike. Be serious. Grow up.”
I don’t even reply.
I just smile, tilt my helmet ever so slightly, and ride on.
Because only those who’ve felt it can ever understand it.

May the road bless my fellow lunatics
and the glorious machines they ride.
And may the adventure...
always continue.