This morning I received yet another reminder of why I love motorcycles. It came in the form of a small gesture. A different kind of gesture than the ones we normally associate with congested Bay Area roads and stressed-out commuters and people who drift from lane to lane while yakking on cellphones.
Maybe it’s because today was a Sunday.
Or maybe I just came into contact with someone who believes in the power of small, random acts of kindness.
In either case, the winds were calm and the sun was climbing the clear sky when I threw a leg over my motorcycle. After ten minutes on the freeway I caught my exit and headed for the hills. It wasn’t until the end of my first hour that I became conscious of how fortunate I was today in my riding. I was setting a brisk pace on the hills and back roads I favor, encountering far less traffic than usual. A quick glance down at my temperature gauge showed 73. Immediately I decided that 73 was the perfect temperature for riding, and was pleased at having made a last-minute swap to my lighter mesh jacket. As the air penetrated the mesh and cooled my torso, I decided this too felt perfect.
I dropped into second and leaned to the right, then came out of my turn on the throttle. Now I was climbing.
There are two hills where I ride that might be called small mountains. To reach the crest of the hill I was on now takes maybe five minutes of aggressive riding. Another three or four minutes of twists and sweeping turns lands me alongside horse stables and a smattering of houses. In total, my journey over the hill takes only eight minutes max, but it’s eight minutes of sustained focus, spent coaxing the motorcycle to go just where I want it, at exactly the right speed, while steering clear of the ripples and occasional patches of gravel dotting the tarmac. It’s a challenge, one that requires me to remain conscious of the rocky hillside on my left and the drop-off to the right of me.
The lower section of the hill slipped past easily. Just as I approached the meat of the hill, a long incline leading into numerous twists and turns and ending in a sharp left at the crest, I caught up with a much slower pickup truck. The way I read it, I had two options. I could gnash my teeth and stay tucked in behind the pickup, bemoaning the change in fortune that had me blocked by a slower vehicle at the high point of my weekly motorcycle ride, or I could goose the throttle and pull around him, ignoring the solid yellow line. Neither option was appealing.
It was then that the truck driver offered me a third choice. After looking in his rear-view mirror, he slid over enough to let me slip past easily, at no danger to either one of us. It was nothing, really, other than a simple courtesy. And while it cost the pickup driver little, it was both thoughtful and much appreciated. As I throttled past, I raised my left hand in thanks and continued on up the mountain.
During the remainder of my ride, I thought about how often on Sundays I come up behind motorists and am forced to slow due to a solid yellow. Occasionally I’ll slow way down or pull to the side to put some distance between us. More often I’ll simply follow in their wake and wait for passing to become legal.
But two or three times each week I’ll have drivers do what the pickup driver did and allow me to slip by. I make it a point to always wave. To let them know that I’m aware they’re under no obligation to make my Sunday ride more enjoyable. But that they’ve done so just by extending me a small act of courtesy. A simple gesture is all it took. A random act of kindness that allowed my perfect morning to remain perfect.
