Fear, Gears, and the Rolling Hills of Sonoma and Napa.

There is something mildly ridiculous about trying to appreciate the rolling hills of Sonoma and Napa while simultaneously reminding yourself, Look through the turn. Look through the turn. LOOK THROUGH THE TURN.

Last week, I took the motorcycle out for another day of exploration through Northern California wine country. Sunny skies, green-and-gold hills, twisting roads, vineyards stretching across the landscape—the sort of scenery that normally makes me want to stop every few miles and take a photograph.

I didn't. Mostly because I'm still a new rider, and at this particular stage of my motorcycling career, successfully arriving at my destination remains somewhat higher on the priority list than updating my photo portfolio. So the camera stayed put.

Instead, I experienced most of Sonoma and Napa through that strange, heightened awareness that comes with being relatively inexperienced on two wheels.

It is an odd juxtaposition of fear and awe. One moment, you're thinking, This may be one of the most beautiful roads I've ever traveled. The next: Am I holding up that Subaru behind me? Probably. Sorry, man.

Learning to Look Through the Turn

The roads winding through the hills demand attention.

Lean into the turn. Look where you want to go. Maintain a reasonable speed. Don't fixate on the edge of the road. Remember what you learned. Relax your hands. Whatever you do, stay on the road.

And somewhere among all those instructions, somehow, try to notice the landscape.

It creates a kind of sensory overload that I haven't experienced in quite the same way before. Driving through wine country is beautiful. Riding through it feels different.

You're not looking at the landscape through a windshield.

You're sort of in it. Which feels like a "no duh" kinda thing, but I didn't really think about that aspect.

The temperature changes. The wind changes. The smell changes. The road rises and falls underneath you. And then another corner appears. Right. Back to work.

There is a dopamine rush in leaning the motorcycle into a turn and feeling everything come together; even if my version of "leaning" probably looks considerably less dramatic to the long line of traffic building behind me.

But the feeling is there...Fear, concentration, and exhilaration. And this peculiar realization that you're doing something you weren't entirely sure you could do.

Fear Apparently Comes Standard With Age

As always before every ride, I have a conversation with my friend fear.

As I've gotten older, fear seems to have become something of a constant companion. When I was younger, I feared almost nothing. This was probably less a sign of extraordinary courage and more evidence that the part of my brain responsible for risk assessment was frequently out to lunch.

Youth has an impressive ability to convince us that consequences mostly happen to other people.

Age changes that. Eventually, we've been around long enough to watch a few people come off the road; sometimes literally, sometimes metaphorically.

Friends disappear, plans change; relationships end, and lives take turns nobody expected. We mourn and move forward, and wonder...when's my turn?

You begin accumulating evidence that this whole thing isn't permanent, and suddenly the list of things you've been meaning to do feels a little more important. Things undone, things left behind...Places unseen. Roads unridden. Maybe that's why fear feels different now. It's no longer simply fear of getting hurt. It's the awareness that there is something to lose.

Maybe We Shift Gears as We Get Older

Motorcycles, conveniently, come equipped with metaphors. As I've aged, I've kinda shifted gears. We're not necessarily in as much of a rush. Down to slow down vs. Clown. I think we become more deliberate about where we're going and how we're going to get there.

At twenty, the objective often seems to be faster. Later, the objective becomes something closer to keep going. There is an important difference. That doesn't mean the desire for adventure disappears. If anything, mine seems to have become stronger. But adventure now comes with a passenger; fear climbs on the back seat. Maybe the trick isn't getting rid of it. Maybe the trick is learning how to ride with it.

The View From the Saddle

There were moments riding through Sonoma and Napa when I wished I had stopped for photographs.

A vineyard disappearing over a hillside, a bend in the road framed by trees, Sunlight falling across the valley. Scenes I would ordinarily try to capture. But perhaps there's something good about not photographing everything. Photography can sometimes become proof that we were somewhere. This ride didn't really leave me with much proof. Physical proof.

But now I know I can lean a little further. The sensation of leaning into a corner. The absurd concern that a line of cars might be forming behind me. The warmth of the California sun. The hills. The vineyards. That little surge of adrenaline when the road begins twisting again. Talking to myself in my helmet like a crazy person, and trying to remember this spot, next time I'll strap a tripod on, when I know what I'm doing. Just not today.

The Roads Still Unridden

The strange part is that after thinking about mortality, fear, risk, aging, motorcycles, and my blatant disregard for the convenience of all the drivers trailing behind me like a string of goldfish shit, I've reached an entirely predictable conclusion.

I want to go riding again. Soon. A little farther each time. Maybe a road that's slightly more challenging. Maybe I'll lean a little more confidently into the turns. Maybe I'll even pull over and take a photograph. Each ride seems to move the boundary just slightly. I'm knocking down walls and building neural pathways or whatever.

Each time, going far enough to discover that yesterday's limit wasn't actually the limit. There is something reassuring about realizing you can still learn something completely new. Still be nervous. Still improve. Still surprise yourself. Perhaps growing older isn't about becoming fearless again. I don't think I'd even want that. Fear has earned its place. It reminds me that the road matters.

But it doesn't necessarily get to decide where I go. There are still things I intend to accomplish. Things I intend to say. Places I want to see. And quite a few roads left unridden. So I'll keep shifting gears. I'll keep looking through the turn. And, for the foreseeable future, I'll probably keep apologizing to the cars behind me.

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