I cannot think of anyone in my life that does not possess a dream of some kind. For many, realizing those dreams often becomes a tug of war between everyday commitments and the chastising fear of failure in the pursuit of said dream. Lofty goals of climbing Everest, becoming a pilot, or building their own house, car, or motorbike are often cast aside because “I don’t know how to” and are labelled as pipe dreams. But it doesn’t need to be this way.
As a boy, I would often find great reward in tinkering. My innocence afforded me the mindset of being fearlessly curious and failure was not yet a concept that I fully understood. Everything was simple. If you wanted to do something, you had to first try it. Dismantling and rebuilding the black and white antenna tv in my room or the down stairs stereo hi-fi system was just a way to spend a Saturday afternoon when my mum left the house to work.
When we moved to a new house around the age of 11, our new neighbors were a couple named Mike and Nikki. They kept an Avery of parakeets in their backyard which I would feed daily in exchange for pocket money. Not able to have children themselves, I think they took to me and enjoyed having this curious human around. As motorcycle enthusiasts themselves, they would often visit a local hang out spot for a beer where on any given Sunday, 200 riders would show up to burn rubber and admire machines.
If I was lucky, I would be invited on these afternoon excursions to “The Tap” in Eastham Rake (UK), and it was here my love for motorbikes began to take hold. With each trip to “The Tap”, I would learn more and more about bikes and there capabilities. Riders would invite me for a ride with them to which I would eagerly reply “yes”.
Strapping on an oversized helmet that I could barely see through as it wobbled around, we would blast off to 100mph down the long straight road that led away from the pub. I got to know the different styles of bikes, what they were good for, and met people who had built their own masterpiece which they rode with pride. I admired their work and dreamt that one day, I too could build myself a bike.
My parents didn’t much like the idea of me riding a motorbike, they were “death machines” in their eyes. My dad had lost several friends to riding and recovered from a handful of bad accidents himself. He told me to ask again when I was older, and that “now was not the right time”. Not wanting to push the matter further, I locked the dream away in the back of my mind.
Around the age of 16, I asked my Dad once again if I could have a motorbike. He replied; “If you’re man enough to own a motorbike, you’re man enough to move out of home”. I understood the somewhat cryptic message he was telling me. You need to be responsible to ride a bike and being able to support myself without their help was a good benchmark for recognizing the time. Once again, the dream of building and riding my own bike was crushed and forgotten.
That is until recently.
On the morning of my 34th birthday, I sat down in my front room, closed my eyes, and tried to envision which of my dreams had I accomplished, which ones were left, and how long I had to accomplish them.
A sense that my time was escaping me consumed my thoughts. Life suddenly seemed finite. I felt that if I was to accomplish any of my dreams, I had to cast aside doubt, lack of knowledge, and apprehension, and lean into the unknown, just as I had as a boy.
No dreams left behind.