I grew up on a little 60 acre farm in Western Illinois. Learning to ride on dirt and gravel and mud, flipped a switch somewhere that could not be turned off.
These early formative years are where people develop communicative skills. My young years roaming the woods and working with farm implements and reading and tending plants prepared me for a life of communicative silence. Talking to a tractor does nothing. Arguing with a pig is simply futile. Explaining the meaning of the blue sky to a Yamaha is meaningless.
Motorcyclists and farmers share this communications mode. A simple shifting of weight or twist of the wrist can communicate far more that words can. This mode of communication has for the most part been lost by the human race. Whether by hubris or ego or societal pressure or apathy or the desire to define everything in a generally acceptable format, this subtle yet powerful communications mode is not only consciously ignored, but in some cases, shunned.
Maybe this is why I revel in solitude. I communicate well on my terms. Maybe I will farm and bike.
Uraling in the South Valley Park
5 hours ago