On Friday, October 25th I got a call from a very distraught family member. They told me they had found my mom at home, lifeless.
As you might be able to imagine, it was like the ground disappeared from underneath my feet.
I went to the family house, tightly hugged everyone there, and called two people to make personal arrangements. The first one was my manager, to let her know that I wouldn’t be able to work for a while. The second one was my riding instructor, who I had a lesson planned with the day after.
Both of them were of course shocked and accepted that I needed some time.
But… I asked my instructor to keep my next scheduled lesson, three days after this event, on the calendar. “Are you sure?”, he asked. “Yes, I think I might actually have a great need for this around that time”, I replied. My instructor immediately understood this, and we agreed that I’d let him know if this decision didn’t feel well at any time before the lesson.
After these calls, I sort of collapsed into myself, mentally speaking. I shut down. I couldn’t really say anything, or be of comfort to anyone, or do anything other than making coffee and staring at the coffee for hours on end. I felt sorrow, but I couldn’t express it. In a way, I was trapped within myself.
The two days after weren’t much better. I was still mostly silent, staring at coffee for hours again, but even worse: I had seemingly lost my ability to feel emotions altogether. I had become numb, probably due to the intensity of what had hit us.
I realized I needed my own space to process this, because apparently it wasn’t going to come out in the presence of others. So, on day three after the event, I didn’t go to the family house. Instead I put on some Apple Music autogenerated tearjerkers playlist, did some laundry, cleaned the kitchen, sorted through family pictures, and all of this still didn’t pull out a tear. I was still dead inside.
There was no time to worry about this though — it was time to gear up and get to the riding school. Because this was that day.
Shortly after making it there, my instructor and his brother (who owns the place) came walking onto the terrain as well. A really heartwarming moment ensued. We hugged, chatted in earnest for a good 10 minutes, and they made sure that I was really okay to ride.
Then it was time to go out. I put on a learner’s vest and an earpiece, visually checked my bike, and then swung my leg over. A quick fuel check & mirror adjustment, and… I pressed the button by my right thumb to feel this beautiful thing come to life.
We went straight for the highway. First onto an overpass with a longgggggg, delicious curve. And after the curve: a stretch of clear highway before the Van Brienenoord bridge. I got to the fast lane and properly opened the throttle.
The deep 5th-gear roar of the SV650 V-Twin engine is not one you only hear, but it’s one you feel. Literally. When I opened her up, the vibrations seemingly ran from my toes to my chest, strongly reinforcing the feeling of being one with the machine.
Yes, feeling… it was at this moment that I felt an emotion again for the first time since about 72 hours. The roar of the engine seemed to speak on behalf of my suddenly freed emotions, the wind soaring past me while I piloted myself through the dark Monday night. It made me feel determined, in my element.
South of the bridge we got off the highway and did regular training in domestic areas. After about an hour of that, we stopped at a petrol station to fuel up the bikes and ourselves, and to have a short chat about how the lesson was going so far. It was “a neat ride”, according to my instructor. Noticeably more fluent than previous weeks. I was seemingly not ‘thinking’ about doing the right things but just doing them. My instructor theorized that the shock I had endured took my head off worrying about doing things perfectly. In a way, it may have been evidence that my riding instincts were improving, and that overthinking had been in the way of becoming a better biker.
After finishing our chat, we hopped on again to start riding back to the headquarters. When turning onto the highway it started to drizzle. I merged onto the highway, got to the fast lane and opened up the bike once more. It was at this moment that the drizzle changed into normal rain, and almost immediately into an absolute downpour.
It was so incredibly moving. I’m not someone who believes in heaven or gods or the supernatural, but in this moment I felt it was a nice thought that the sky may have been crying for the loss of my mother. It certainly felt that intense.
Simultaneously, I don’t think I’ve ever felt more powerful in my life than in this moment. It felt like I was living the saying “weathering the storm”. Being out on the fast lane of the highway, the rain and wind smashing onto my helmet, the motorcycle’s very familiar sound and contact points keeping me grounded. I was calm. I knew I was in control, and this seemed to tell me: if you can deal with this storm, you can deal with the storm in your life (the grief), too.
And oddly, during this short stormy ride back, it was like I processed some of that grief at rocket pace. In the span of a few minutes the forever unanswered question (“why did she do this?”) made room for an answer: It doesn’t really matter. If she had wanted us to know, she would’ve left us a clue. But she didn’t, so I can only respect that last wish. Instead, I will be grateful for the time we got to spend with her.
Quite the realization to reach, only three days after she passed. Somehow it felt like I wasn’t doing this thinking, but the motorcycle was doing it for me. I wasn’t decisively trying to think about this subject. The ride was automatically sorting my thoughts anyway, without distracting me.
Five minutes later we returned to the riding school’s office. I parked the bike, swung my leg off, and took off my gloves and helmet. “How do you feel?”, my instructor asked. I answered: “This did exactly what I thought it would do.” He smiled, understanding what I meant.
I started this day as an emotionless zombie. I ended this day (finally) crying on the couch. Crying about mom, thankful crying for this night, thankful to have my feelings back. I felt like a human being again.
The ride really broke down the blockade which was preventing me from letting in what had happened, and letting out what needed to be released. It sorted my head in such a way that I was finally able to show up for others and myself in the days and weeks after.
Needless to say, I’ve got an even greater love and respect for motorcycles after this night. These machines have some magical qualities.
Under normal circumstances I already find it nearly impossible to put into words what it feels like to ride out on one.
When you look at something, the bike very gracefully goes there, like it knows what you want. At other times you’re performing a very intentional, joyful dance together through a curvy landscape. As soon as you get going, it’s like the motorcycle disappears and it’s just you hovering above the road with a beautiful soundtrack coming from your center of gravity. You become one powerful entity together. And this is the feeling on a normal day!
On this special day in late October, I didn’t expect such a profound effect on me. I was looking forward to it and I thought it would be good for me, but all this… I don’t think I could’ve predicted it. Although a machine will (and should) never replace professional help, I can only say that these beautiful pieces of art truly are chicken soup for the soul. I will try to not bring them up in every conversation… but it will be difficult. 🫶
This post was rewritten on December 4th to lay out the whole story of this period and lesson.
