“Those things are death traps.”

I was at a business party on behalf of a friend. You know these events. Where the company forces you to go. A memo “suggests” you bring family and friends. Some upper management type then demands you have a good time. This was a barbecue for another nameless company somewhere on the corporate landscape. All the guys and gals who normally wore suits and ties were now permitted dockers and collared shirts. In the name of fun, of course.

I had arrived to this frivolity in jeans, tee shirt, leather jacket, and a helmet. I had been told it was a barbecue. Oh, well.

Small groups of various employees stood in circles eating hot dogs, desperate to not get mustard or ketchup on their polo shirts. They  discussed exciting things like, what was new on television and how hot the summer was. My friend was stuck on the grill. Apparently, he wasn’t high enough up the company ladder to have this day completely off.

So, I wandered the various circles. I wanted to see who might be interesting to talk to. I came upon “Tim” and his group of suits right next to the condiment table. “Tim” was discussing mergers and acquisitions (riveting, to be sure). All the suits would agree with everything he said. When I got there, one of the women in the group spotted me and my helmet. She asked what I rode. I told her anything on two wheels but that I preferred sportbikes. Her eyebrows went up. She asked what was a sportbike. And I told her I’d show her. “Tim” didn’t appreciate this. I guess I had stolen some of his merger and acquisition thunder.

“Sportbike? Those are all foreign made. Couldn’t buy American? When I wanted to ride I was going to get a Harley.” Some of the other suits in the group grunted in approval. Someone forgot to tell them that their company was foreign owned.

I shrugged.

“Tim” grabbed a package of Twinkies and gave me his most serious Dr. Phil face. “How long have you been riding?”

I chuckled. “A long time.”

He ate one Twinkie in two rapid bites. “Have to be careful out there. I was going to get a hog once.”

“Oh, yeah.”

He nodded. “But, you know, I have responsibilities. Wife and kids. I can’t afford the risk.” He ate the other Twinkie in another two rapid bites. “Have to take care of myself.”

“Of course.”

Again, the Dr. Phil face came out.

By now, I had figured out that “Tim” was probably the head muckety-muck at the nameless corporate company. And that he paid way too much attention to himself and the gravity of his words.

“You know what those things are?”

“I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

“Tim” visibly twitched at the way I responded. He leaned in close in order to bring the full weight of his size 50 waist to bear on me. As though he needed his girth to lend weight to his words. “Those things are death traps.”

“Thanks.” I said. Then I told the woman I’d show her my bike any time she wanted. Excused myself from “Tim” and the suits. And left chuckling to myslelf.

Why was I chuckling? Part of the reason, was definitely that I had made “Tim” so uncomfortable that his insecurity came out. The other part, was the ignorance of his statement. The ignorance of his perception of life, in general. I see things from a different viewpoint. I see things from Behind the Visor. It is a view that fellow sportbikers know and understand even if they can’t put words to it. It is a secret.

You see, when we’re born, we  come into the world kicking an screaming. Quickly, doctors and nurses put us into our mother’s arms. Then they put us into a nursery – a box. From that box, our parents took us home in a box on four wheels. Our home was a box, made up of smaller boxes called rooms. As we grew, we were placed in cribs (another box). Then we became old enough to get sent to an over-sized box called school. A teacher placed us behind a box (desk) and made us stare at another box (chalkboard). From there we graduated to different boxes of higher learning. We eventually got our own boxes on four wheels. Maybe we purchased a box to call our own home or at least rent one. We talk into cellular boxes. Watch our shows through boxes. Heat our food in boxes (microwaves). Eventually, we get laid to rest in a box, and placed in the ground. It would seem that life is very box-oriented.

Boxes are not in and of themselves bad. They, in many cases, were created to protect and provide for us. However, a majority of people live in this self contained world of boxes. And think that this is all there is. They see motorcycles as “dangerous death traps”. They don’t see the life in motorcycles. They’re blind to the freedom inherent to riding. Their view of life is fear based and their judgement becomes biased due to that fear. Bikers are frivolous and do dangerous things. Stunters have death wishes. Avoid them. Understand that they don’t know any better.

The reality is that we do know better. We know the secret. And the secret is simple. Life is meant to be lived through experiences. At the end of your life, you are taking nothing with you. Not a blessed thing. All you will have are your memories of your experiences.

When I’m on the road, I hear the sound of the engine and the feel the wind blowing all around me. The four wheel box people, are listening to the radio and getting aggravated at traffic as they text and talk into their little boxes. I am feeling everything around me. The four wheel box people feel their seat belts. I am happy to be on the road. They are unhappy until they get to wherever they are going. I am experiencing the ride. I am experiencing life. The four wheel box people are passing time.

Which brings me to the wonderful world of stunters. I have a theory, every time a stunter does a stoppie, a four wheel box person trips and falls somewhere in the world.

Why do I have this theory? Because I hear how they talk when they see a stunter doing what they do. How could they do that? Don’t they know the risks? They’re crazy!

I am not a pro stunter, but I enjoy what they do and respect them immensely. In my own way, I will answer each question.

How could they do that? I say, how could they not? There is no feeling in the world quite like the first time you successfully do a wheelie. None. You mastered a machine and yourself at the same time. You did something a majority of people will not even attempt. Stunters love that feeling. And they continue to challenge themselves to keep that feeling of living going. I have never met a stunter in my life who mastered a trick to move up the corporate ladder. They did it because they love what they do. They love the experience of it. Translation – they love life.

Don’t they know the risks? Better than you do. Road rash (a term for the wonderful burns and scrapes a rider can get when they lay down their bike on the street), broken bones, cuts, bruises, etc. are a part of the everyday world of stunting. Each stunter I have talked to has always told me that the advice they’d give to new riders is to be careful, wear your helmet, and start slow. You have plenty of time to learn. Don’t rush it. Enjoy it.

What is the “it” they are saying to enjoy? The experience of riding and all it entails.

And finally, the accusation that they are crazy. Most stunters will smile when you call them crazy. And probably agree with you. However, they will not stop. To a stunter, it is more crazy to not stunt, because that would mean giving up all the feelings associated with experiencing those successful stunts. A life not experienced. A life lived in a box, instead of Behind the Visor…

See you on the streets…

~J

Just call him J.

Jaime Valentino is a writer who has a wide background and array of experiences that he relates through his most current endeavor, Behind the Visor.

J. has been published by a diverse group of companies. Whether it was fantasy stories (through Raven, LLC a fiction publishing company) to Wine Blogs for Three Thieves Wine, he has always had an intimate knowledge and unique viewpoint that has translated well to his readers who have followed him over the years.

Sportbikes are the one passion in his life he has always returned to no matter what. He rode his first mini-bike at nine years old and has never looked back.

J. lives in New York City. Though he will tell you he thrives there…

Photos by Skrump & Samuel Rufo.