The final 3 lessons motorcycling taught me about life

We say that every motorcyclist is an amateur meteorologist. Forecasts and radar are consulted for days in advance of a ride, and watched even more closely over breakfast while on the road. The virtues and limitations of various apps are argued over, and consensus is finally reached: we can’t go that way today.

Sometimes mechanical breakdowns, road closures, illness…any of these things can cause plans to change.

I am, by nature, a planner. My motorcycle catchphrase is “Just In Case”. I’m the guy who brings a full EMS kit on my bike every time I ride. I could splint a broken bone, or stop an arterial bleed with Hemostat powder…it’s all in my first aid kit! I make a spreadsheet of all the hotels we’ll be staying in, with checkmarks for whether breakfast is included, or what parking will cost.

So motorcycling reminds me to be more flexible. You have to take things as they come, and change course if needed. Nothing ever goes completely to plan.

On several occasions over the years, I’ve ridden almost 1600 kms in one day. I am not the most patient person (see my previous blogs). And I get by without a lot of sleep. But having dozed off at 120 km/h in Iowa once (thank God the roads are perfectly straight for 100 miles at a time), I realized I had to get off the bike and have a breather.

Motorcycling reminds you that you should rest when you’re tired. This may sound obvious, but most of us are so overloaded with work, maybe kids, or aging parents, that we’re running out of gas all the time. We need a reminder to take some time out, before we crash out.

Coming home from a ride is a melancholy moment - the ride is over, but what a memory of it you’ll have. To be with friends, or enjoy just your own company, to be in nature, to work on a skill. Just to ride is a blessing. Motorcycling reminds me to be thankful.

Enjoy everything this life has to offer. It’s the only one you get.

The next 3 lessons motorcycling taught me about life

When I decided to ride, I was in my early 20s, and I knew that I would meet with a lot of resistance from my parents. Now, some of you might say: “You were in your 20s. What does that matter?” Clearly, you don’t know Asian parents! Besides, I was still living at home, while going to school, so I was living under their rules.

But my desire to ride was greater than any concern I had about their disapproval. My desire to ride was greater than any fear I might have had of injury. I just had to make it happen.

So motorcycling taught me that “one day” is today. It taught me to have goals, not dreams. To do one action, take one step, to move closer to that goal. It taught me to not make excuses for why things don’t happen; you have to make them happen.

I’ve had moments over the years where I’ve gone into a corner just a bit too hot, and I’m hard on the brakes, leaning the bike over, and praying that I’ll make it around. Always trying to find the upper limit of my skill, which is usually far below the capability of the machine.

I will say that whenever I ride, I’m always just a bit afraid. There’s nothing like a hobby that could kill you at any moment that’ll keep your adrenaline up! Motorcyling has helped me channel fear into action, to realize that if you’re not feeling a little anxiety, you’re probably too comfortable. You have to challenge yourself, and accept that fear is okay. You can’t let fear stop you.

There’s a common parting phrase used by motorcyclists: “Keep the shiny side up!” There’s an obvious meaning: that you’re wishing your friend a safe ride. But to me there was always a second meaning. You have to stay optimistic. There’s always an upside to things. I don’t mean to be a Little Mary Sunshine and say that you can turn any tragedy into a win just by smiling. But I do think that a positive attitude gets people through life more easily.

When my son was little, we’d play games, and he’d sometimes lose, and he’d get really upset. I would tell him: “Well, happiness is a choice. You can choose to be happy that we get to play together, or you can choose to be sad because you lost. So do you want to choose to be happy, or do you want to choose to be sad?” And he would say, crying, his face frowning: “happy…bwaaah!”

We have to coach ourselves into action, out of complacency, into just enough fear to make us feel alive…into happiness.

The first 3 lessons motorcycling taught me about life

I’ve learned a lot about motorcycling over the years. I learned how to ride, and how to do basic mechanical maintenance. I learned about horsepower and torque and camshafts and engine configurations and tire choices and gear choices, and a million other details that creep into your brain as a result of this hobby.

But what motorcycling really taught me about was me.

First, motorcycling taught me to be 100% present at all times. There is no room for sleep-riding. My friend Jim told me about a moment when he was riding in Europe, and after a mesmerizing several hours of twists and turns, he went into auto-pilot mode. As a result, he took a turn too wide, ended up in the opposing traffic lane, and scared himself back to consciousness.

In life as in motorcycling, you have to concentrate. You have to assess every risk, and be aware of your surroundings. You have to actually show up. You can’t just phone it in.

Second, motorcycling taught me to use all 5 senses. The sights, smells, sounds of the road, the taste of rain on your lips when your visor is cracked open a quarter inch to stop it from fogging in the rain, the feel of twisting the throttle, or squeezing a brake lever, the patter of washboard pavement under your pegs as you stand up and feel an 80 km/hour wind pushing against your chest.

The more you notice every single thing around you, the more immersive and amazing the experience. Savour life.

Third, motorcycling has tried to teach me to be patient. This one I have trouble with. I was born in downtown Toronto, so I’m a fast walker, and I am prone to “sidewalk rage”. Like: “What the hell are you doing walking so slowly? Don’t you know this is the passing lane?!” I have to admit that I have not internalized this lesson very well. But I’m trying.

Motorcycling is a journey inside yourself.

IMT Morocco Adventure 2025

In the desert, as in motorcycling, it’s always about rain.

I just went on a 10 day motorcycle trip to Spain and Morocco. I was on a late flight from Toronto, and arrived late and out of breath at our hotel in Malaga for our 5pm briefing, luggage in tow. Introductions were made: 3 Canadians (including myself), 8 Americans (though only 3 born in the USA), one Czech, and one crazy Brazilian (sterotypes apply!). Our guides, Paulo from Portugal and Juanan from Spain, made us all feel welcome and excited for the trip to come.

A diverse group, from all walks of life: a retired police Sargeant working in mental health; his best childhood friend, an accountant and IT ninja; a retired software mogul; a pair of financial planners; a retired automotive sales manager; a Mercedes salesman to the stars; a marketing exec; a veterinarian; a biomedical devices engineer; a manufacturing exec; a retired prosecutor; and me.

The thing in common of course is that we all love motorcycling. But more than that, to choose a trip to Morocco, a Muslim country, in the face of everything going on in the world today, means we also have in common a taste for adventure, and an openness to other cultures, beliefs and philosophies.

In a foreshadowing of the poor weather that awaited us, Paulo cursed us, and said: “People love Malaga, because it NEVER rains here.”

The next morning dawned grey and gloomy. We rode through misty streets and Malaga traffic, up a slippery ramp into the shadowy hold of an oceanic ferry, for our 1 hour crossing from Spain to Morocco, where in Tanger we were met by equal parts of precipitation and bureaucracy. Several hours of waiting to enter the country, with armed guards and sniffer dogs inspecting every Moroccan family with a minivan crossing back laden with supplies. Vehicles were overflowing with boxes, bags and barrels; not sure if they were for personal use or for resale. But the Moroccans were VERY thorough in their searches.

Our convoy of 12 motorcycles finally rolled out, headed to Rabat, the usual residence of King Mohammed VI. A Harvard educated progressive, the current King mandated school for all children, investing in schools in every small town. He also understood the value of tourism to Morocco, and embarked on improving the infrastructure, such that the roads are mostly well maintained, and cell coverage is virtually 100% throughout the country - better than here in Canada!

Day 3 found us riding to Marrakech, home to the famous medina (market), a UNESCO heritage site. The following day we traveresed the Atlas mountains at the Tichka Pass, at 2260 m elevation, making a stop at the famous Kasbah of Ait-Ben-Haddou. A Kasbah is a traditional adobe walled community, set up as a fortrress, to fend off attack. But the real enemy is erosion. The mud construction is fragile, and many kasbahs have been washed away over time.

We spent the night in a traditional home converted into a hotel called Dar Daif, which translates as “home for guests”. The building itself is an almost surreal warren of narrow, windings staircases and hidden rooms, all beautifully decorated in an Arabic style, with intricate mosaics, pointed arches and calligraphic motifs. We were served a traditional meal of tajine: a stew made in an earthenware pot of the same name, with a conelike lid. Tajine literally translates as “surpise”, and each time the lid was lifted on a new dish, it was like being presented with a gift.

A ride the next morning through the impressive Todra Gorges led us to our lunch stop, with a traditional Berber family, then on to Erfoud, in the Sahara desert.

The Sahara.

Thoughts of Lawrence of Arabia, 1001 Arabian Nights, and Aladdin. (But none of these tales originated in the Sahara.)

Many in our group went on a 4x4 expedition into the desert, followed by a spirited ride on ATVs or side-by-sides, then a camel ride to watch the sun set over the dunes.

We rode on to Fes, where the largest medina in Morroco, built in the 8th century, was originally encircled by a 25km long wall. We were taught by our guide Mohib that medina actually means “community”. Even now 600 000 people live inside the medina, where there are 9000 alleys, none of which have ever been mapped! Mohib led us through countless turns, deeper and deeper into this otherwise impenetrable world. Fruit stands, butcher shops, tailors, trinket and souvenir shops, restaurants, residences, and craftspeople making everything imaginable, including furniture, carpets, bronze lamps and plates. A riot of sounds and smells. A tannery, in particular, left me with olefactory PTSD!

The walls of the alleys are crumbling and pockmarked, but some of the buildings inside are decorated in fine detail that defies imagination. Goods are moved by hand cart or donkey, with men shouting “BALAK!” (“LOOK OUT!”), all the while talking into their cell phones. A true study in contrasts.

Day 9 of our trip had us riding back across the mountains, in driving wind and rain, to Ceuta, an autonomous city of Spain on the north coast of Africa. Another multi-hour delay while we showed our passports 5 times over a distance of 500m: 3 times to 3 different Moroccan officials, then 2 times to 2 different Spanish officials. Many faces were scrutinized, many papers were stamped, and many jobs were justified.

Our final night’s stay was in a Parador in Ceuta. The Paradores are a network of state-run luxury hotels, built in refurbished historical buildings such as monasteries or castles. The accommodations are outstanding in most of these hotels, and the food even better. We had probably the best meal of our trip here, and we had many oustanding meals throughout our journey, so this is high praise.

The next morning, a 40 minute ferry ride took us across the Strait of Gibraltar, back to Spain proper. A quick ride along the coast back to IMT Malaga, where we unloaded our bikes and prepared to head home.

You never know whether a big group of people will gel, but this was a fantastic group, all curteous, prompt, and supportive of one another, with excellent senses of humour. We began coining nicknames for people in the group, and they caught on quickly. “Detour” for the intrepid loner, who would set off on his own every morning, meeting us at mealtimes and at the end of the day; “Special Request” for our one rider who seemed to always need “just one more thing”; and for me, whose nature is to gather information, the name “Many Questions” was fitting.

There is a special camraderie that comes from motorcycling. There are much easier ways to travel: warmer, less wet, less subject to risk or discomfort. But being in the world rather than viewing it from behind the glass window of an air-conditioned car or bus feels more real.

Riding in the rain is better than not riding. And riding in the rain with friends is no hardship at all.

The start of the addiction…

I’m not actually sure how it began. My parents, hard-working Asian immigrants, had no time for indulgences like motorcycles. I’m sure they felt them to be a dangerous waste of money, though we never actually had a conversation about the topic. My friend Svend, whom I’d known since the age of 6, had a motorcycle in university, but I only ever saw him on it once, so I don’t think that was the catalyst.

I simply chose one day to take a Learn to Ride course one wet weekend at Humber College, pushing and then riding a 125cc dirt bike in the college parking lot for 2 days, navigating cones and getting my license at the end of the weekend.

Yup, just 2 days of training and off I went to buy my first bike!

McBride Cycle was started by Percy A. McBride in 1909, selling bicycles and sporting goods on Yonge St. in downtown Toronto. The shop started selling motorcycles, and eventually moved in 1966 to the Junction area, then a gritty manufacturing area full of mills, foundries and meat-packing plants. In 1992 I met the owner, John McBride, grandson of Percy A., and Kai Piechatzek, salesman supreme. They sold me my first bike, the beautiful Kawasaki EX 500 pictured here!

I was apprehensive about the reaction my parents would have when I arrived on my bike one day, but all my mom had to say was: “It’s pretty.”

Pretty.

If there was ever a bike to capture the spirit of the late 80s and 90s, this was it! Racer-boy pretensions dressed in blue/white/pink graphics! Wow. I would say it went well with the Rick Astley hair I was rocking back then!! And, somehow, I felt that a Marlon Brando jacket and cowboy boots were the right look to go with my baby racebike!

For years this was a commuting vehicle, a recreational vehicle, a ticket to freedom.

Like all things fondly remembered, I can’t think of a single serious flaw in that bike. It had enough power, good handling, it was small and light, easy to manoeuvre in downtown traffic, and great on gas.

Maybe it’s not just the graphics that were rose-coloured.