By Amanda Knox

Of course, there are other ways than blanking out and bracing oneself to get through a moment of melancholy.

Music has always been a go to. In the first place, I find solace in a song that sympathizes and characterizes my emotion. An allegro, Gipsy Kings-esque song that gets my feet tapping and my hips swaying when I’m happy. A heavy, rhythm-driven, power ballad when I’m angry. A melodic, mournful, Jeff-Buckley-sings-Hallelujah tune when I’m down. It’s satisfying to indulge in my emotions, and comforting to find them channeled through something created by someone else. My emotions are beautiful and in some ways bigger than me.

Especially satisfying is recreating a song. I’m no musician, but I’ve always enjoyed singing and fiddling on my guitar. It’s cathartic to stir up such heartwarming vibrations with my fingertips and feel the breath leave my mouth as my own human-bell-ringing reaches my ears. And then it’s also simply a matter of finding satisfaction in participating in an activity that requires concentration, diligence, intelligence. It’s the satisfaction of overcoming the challenge of interacting with an instrument. It’s the solace of being One with more than myself.

It’ll perk you right up, the purring of a guitar at your fingertips. You know what also purrs? A motorcycle.

It’s a thing if you’re a motorcycle person, have you noticed? Motorcyclists wave to each other, even if they don’t know each other. They ride and gather in flocks. They seem to adore their vehicles as much as a favorite pet...or person. Motorcyclists have their own culture, their own philosophy. Their sense of community is bolstered by a common drive to escape from the mundane and status quo towards the romance of nomadism and freedom.

The complicated and idealist concept of freedom—its value, cost, and the nuances of its responsible application—are a personal and constant concern of mine. If it weren’t for the fact that I’ve lost a family member to a motorcycle, I probably would have caught on to the thrill of the ride sooner.

What that loss first taught me was to fear. But what good is fear? I’ve discovered that, of all emotions, fear is unique in that it shouldn’t be indulged. It alone clouds experience, obstructs compassion and connectivity, and is certainly not conducive to freedom. So, after some reconsideration, I concluded that the trick to the freedom of motorcycles is getting your motorcycle under control. I spent an entire weekend, Saturday and Sunday 7:30am to 5pm, learning to do just that.

I can only commend my instructors at Evergreen Motorcycle Safety Training for their patience and diligence in teaching me. This included actively molding my left hand into a position so that I could actually manipulate the all-important (and all-previously-mysterious-to-me) clutch, and uprighting me when I caused my motorcycle to collapse. It was exhausting, painstakingly acquainting myself with 300 pounds of a whining, grumbling machine, already oft-abused by beginners-in-training such as myself.

But what a reward to learn to make that same motorcycle purr, to upshift to second gear, and weave through the cones of a parking lot at 20 mph. It may not sound like much, but it’s still a ride. It’s THE ride. It’s concentration and coordination alongside the whisper of the wind against your cheeks and the sensitive responsiveness of a large mechanical animal that, if your treat it nicely, becomes an extension of yourself.

What can I say? I’m no musician and no motorcyclist, except that I can play music and ride a motorcycle. And I can look forward to feeling a lot better whenever I do so, no matter what’s getting me down.