In April I bought a motorcycle. It was in a neighbor’s garage and while it made its way to my awareness in what seemed to be a predestined series of events, I’m sure I probably would have pounced on anything with a motor and two wheels. I was decided. It’s old and slow and beautiful and finicky and I ride it down the road along the shore while glancing for seals on the rocks. Every time I get on it I think “don’t die, Lola”.
I notice things more without steel or glass protecting me. Rocks, squirrels, porcupines, the smell of manure in the dairy farmer’s field. People stop and wave at me. I cruise by with a friendly look on my face that I hope reads “I’d wave but I’m trying not to die” and then I excelerate because that’s what motorbikes are supposed to do, right? Isnt the throttle connected by a golden thread to my gumption, my courage and audacity? “I’m brave, I’m brave, I’m brave”.
Eighteen months ago I wasn’t brave. I broke. Severe Agitated Depression. I wanted to die.
Now I try not to. Thank you Motorcycle for reminding me of that.
Mostly film from 2018