Exercising the Id

Savage, primal joy flows. Adrenaline pumps. Subtle inputs to the precision motorcycle generate decidedly unsubtle results. A thousand pounds of man and machine…bone, muscle, blood, and steel, negotiate the utter treachery that is the high-speed commute through this city.

My very life in my hands. My existence riding solely on my strength, skills, and perceptions.

It’s a heady feeling…that.

Eastbound to southbound over the 150-foot high steeply graded sweeping transitions, the speed climbs and the heart races.

Down, down, down…into the valley we fly…the cages around us simply fast moving and somewhat malevolent obstacles.

I’m not going to claim I didn’t howl.

the_id

It’s a need denied in polite society…exercising the id…tapping the instinct and the skill. We’re supposed to be neutered automatons.

No passion in work. No passion in our relationships. No fight. No joy. No way to die.

And no way to live.

A human being doesn’t work that way. Denying us the passion…removing all vestiges of the fight…doesn’t make us more civilized…it makes us less human.

And that’s a very dangerous thing.

I’ll see you on the road.

CUAgain,
Daniel Meyer

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