I started riding the motorcycle to the random villages as a way to escape my mind, but it helped me in a way I hadn’t anticipated. The past couple of months have been a mental battlefield, marked by restless days and even more restless nights. At the office, hours drifted by as my mind wandered into the labyrinth of thoughts and memories — fragments from the past that no longer held meaning but still carried an inexplicable emotional weight. The impact of these thoughts, though rooted in moments long gone, remained powerful. Nighttime was even worse. The isolation was profound, and the absence of someone to share the internal turmoil with made everything feel heavier. Escaping from these thoughts felt nearly impossible, as if the mind had its own agenda of dragging me back into these murky depths.
But oddly enough, salvation came in a way I didn’t anticipate — through the hum of the motorcycle and the open roads. Riding through the highways and winding through the random villages and fields of Punjab became more than just an escape; it became a conversation—a conversation with myself. There’s something about the rhythm of the engine, the blur of the countryside, and the vastness of the open road that allowed my thoughts to flow freely but without drowning me. The isolation that felt suffocating at night somehow felt liberating on those solitary rides.
What surprised me even more was the act of talking to strangers. Being an introvert, I’ve never found it easy to strike up conversations, let alone with people I don’t know. But there was a strange comfort in connecting with someone who didn’t know my story, who had no expectations of me. I found myself speaking to people in dhabas, by the roadside, or in quiet little villages. These brief exchanges with strangers reminded me that human connection doesn’t always have to be profound or deep — it just has to be real. And in those small, spontaneous moments, I felt more connected to myself.
These rides helped me peel away from the inner noise. I had to push beyond my introverted nature to open up, to let go of the constant self-reflection that often became overbearing. And it was worth it.
In “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance,” the author explores how maintaining a motorcycle is a metaphor for life. The act of paying attention to small mechanical details, of being present in every moment, is a way of finding peace. Much like Pirsig’s reflections on the importance of “quality” in everything we do, my rides became more than just about getting from point A to point B. They became a practice in mindfulness. When you’re on a motorcycle, you can’t let your mind drift entirely; you’re forced to be present, aware of the road, the turns, and the sounds of the machine. This presence helped me stay grounded when my mind felt like it was constantly spinning out of control.
Lately, I’ve been feeling better. The local rides have become more frequent, and they’ve helped me regain a sense of focus. It’s not that the internal turmoil has disappeared, but the overwhelming pressure of it has lessened. The long stretches of weekend solitude that once felt excruciating now have some structure — an aim. Riding the motorcycle at night or on quiet afternoons has turned into a ritual, a way of reconnecting with the world outside while making peace with the world inside.
Motorcycles have become more than just machines to me. They’ve been companions through this mental journey, through nights of sleeplessness and long weekends. The road ahead may still be uncertain, but at least now, I have a way to navigate it — one ride, one conversation, one mile at a time.
