The Joy of Smaller Things

Most motorcycle stories start with the first twist of the throttle. But the seeds of this journey have almost always been sown way earlier. Sometimes it starts with a sound of an exhaust echoing down a street, sometimes with a sometimes with a motorcycle passing by that makes you stop and stare. And sometimes it begins with a kid staring at a poster on his bedroom wall and wondering what it might feel like to ride.

I was that kid. A ten year old boy in 2007 who used to fall asleep every night under the watchful gaze of a bright green Kawasaki poster pinned proudly to my bedroom wall. Night after night, I’d imagine my young self sitting on the saddle, and hitting the throttle. The wind in my hair, the sound, the speed and everything else, it was the coolest thing on the planet for my young self.

So you might ask, now that I’m all grown up, did that boy finally get his green Kawasaki?

No. And that’s not really the point. But also… no, I still don’t own one.

This story isn’t really about that Kawasaki either. It simply felt like the right prologue to everything that came after.

Because the truth is, I’ve never considered myself a hardened biker. That title carries a certain image of a rider who lives on the road, collects kilometers, shoulder pain and back ache, and measures distance in thousands of kilometres and sleepless nights. I’ve never quite believed I belong in that league, and truth be told, I’ve never really intended to. I see myself more as a motorcyclist, someone who enjoys the machines more than the kilometers, someone who has spent time with a few remarkable machines, learned a little about himself along the way, and discovered that the meaning of riding changes depending on where one is in life.

The story, if you must put numbers to it, is about moving from a 650 twin (GT) to a 400 single. In the wonderful world of motorcycling mathematics, that probably seems like a downgrade. Many “bikers” would shake their heads and dismiss this “deplorable mess of an upgrade” considering it a tragic misunderstanding of what progress is supposed to look like. But for me, the language of “upgrade” or “downgrade” means very little in motorcycling. Riding is not about climbing some imaginary ladder of engine sizes or horsepower numbers. It’s about change. If anything motorcycling teaches you that change is the real rhythm of the road. You don’t just keep shifting up through the gears forever, sometimes the magic lies in a downshift, easing off the pace to take in the world around you and leaning into the corner with nothing but the horizon ahead. That, to me, is the spirit of motorcycling. Adjusting to what you need in the moment. Riding the machine that fits your life now, not the one that social expectations insist you should want.

The GT is in fact a fantastic motorcycle and like all great machines, it comes with its own loyal followers and its fair share of quirks. We had some wonderful times together, exploring some of the finest stretches of roads that my otherwise wasted tax money has helped fund. Early mornings…check, empty highways …check, fun adventure ride when I had nothing to do…check. But good things seldom last and the GT and I had to go our separate ways. Part of it was practical. Life has a way of forcing deeply unromantic decisions, and at that point buying a car became unavoidable. But if I’m being honest, it didn’t feel like a breakup with the GT. It felt more like two parties politely admitting that the relationship had run its course. The GT like any romantic partnership needed deep commitment, and I’ve slowly come to realize that I am not really a commitment rider. Riding isn’t my central hobby. I’m more of a spur of the moment motorcyclist/ I ride when the mood strikes, and takes unnecessary detours for no reason, all the while going at it alone simply because coordinating plans with other humans is a significantly harder undertaking than starting a motorcycle.

Despite letting it go, I would never call GT a mistake. If I had the opportunity to go back in time, I would make the same purchase all over again. I’ve always believed that first experiences, even the fleeting ones, are rarely mistakes. They’re simply part of the process of figuring yourself out. They help us understand, what excites us, what fits, and sometimes what doesn’t. For me personally, more often than not these first experiences have turned out to be quite different from what I had imagined them to be. My personal finances, unfortunately, have been the silent victims of my many “valuable learning experiences”.

So after a few paragraphs of philosophical wanderings, it’s probably time to introduce the machine that brought me here. The Triumph, with a much smaller engine, a fairly tall seat and a machine that cares more about personality that bragging rights in performance. My flings with motorcycles were never about performance, not even the GT. They were always about the more subtle experiences entrenched in the “fun” of riding the machine rather than the top speed or the mileage.

The triumph is a different one. It’s not a beast in the traditional sense. It’s a short-geared, scrambler-styled motorcycle. It does not intend to be the dominating head turner on the roads, and is perfectly happy doing a bit of everything while getting an occasional amused glance from a passing stranger. It is the smaller jack of many trades, and an absurdly fun companion on the road.

With this machine, motorcycling was not a commitment anymore. I do not have to think about starting the engine anymore, its just an afterthought. Need to grab groceries? Sure, why not just ride. Gym run? Sounds like a good excuse to stretch the engine. Cool trail someone posted on Instagram? Baby, we’re going. Traffic? Not an issue anymore. Some litre-class guy flying past? Good for him, I hope he’s having fun.

It’s about the experience, the story, and mostly the spontaneity and the indecisiveness of it all. There is a certain freedom without commitment that only gravel bikes and scrambler motorcycles can offer.

Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I’m just an overly excited fellow with a new bike. Well… new to me, at least. Maybe I’m completely off the mark or maybe I’m exactly right. But I really don’t care. For me, it’s come down to whether, at the end of the road, under the setting sun, I’ve had my fun or not.

For me machines don’t matter, experiences do. But then again, that’s just what my greyish pink mush believes in.