The Motorcycle That Made Me Visible Again

I have come to realise that life has a habit of quietly erasing us.

Not all at once.

Not dramatically.

Quietly.

Life hands you an eraser little by little and encourages you to start rubbing parts of yourself away.

First, motherhood changes.

Your children grow older and no longer need you in the same way. The role that once defined huge parts of your existence becomes quieter. Less visible. Less central. One day you're pushing a pram at speed, hurrying through life with a small hand wrapped around your finger. The next, your child is grown, and you find them encouraging you to keep going instead.

Nobody warns you about that moment.

Then work changes.

If you're lucky, your career grows. If you're unlucky, life has other ideas. Divorce, redundancy, relocation, illness, caring responsibilities. Sometimes in your fifties you find yourself climbing back down the professional ladder at exactly the point you thought life would finally feel secure.

Then your parents grow old.

The people who once carried you suddenly need carrying themselves.

The woman who strode confidently across London every morning for work is now the woman whose hospital bedside I stand beside, discussing living wills and medications and wondering whether she will make it through another difficult night.

Nothing prepares you for becoming the parent of your parent.

And somewhere in the middle of all this, something else happens.

You begin disappearing.

Not physically.

Emotionally.

Socially.

You notice younger people entering the workplace. You realise you are old enough to be their parent. Conversations begin shifting from dreams and possibilities to pensions, care plans, wills and inheritance.

"When I die, I'll leave you this."

I hear those words more often now.

Every time I do, I feel something shift inside me.

Because what people are really saying isn't what they're leaving behind.

They're reminding you they won't always be here.

Then friends start dying.

Not necessarily old friends.

Friends your own age.

People who should have had decades left.

People who remind you that life is finite and that tomorrow has never actually been guaranteed.

And perhaps that is why I ride.

Not because I am having a midlife crisis.

Not because I want to recapture my youth.

Not because I am reckless.

I ride because the motorcycle gives me something back that life had slowly started taking away.

Visibility.

The strange thing is that a motorcycle should make me feel invisible.

Think about it.

A crash helmet covers my face.

A jacket covers my body.

Gloves hide my hands.

Boots hide my feet.

Everything that supposedly identifies me disappears beneath armour and leather.

Nothing of me is actually on show.

And yet I have never felt more visible.

The motorcycle became the opposite of an invisible cloak.

Sometimes I put my headphones on, turn up something completely inappropriate for a woman of my age—Electric Callboy usually does the trick—and climb onto my bike.

Not with aggression.

With assertion.

I am here.

I am still relevant.

I still exist.

See me.

Maybe that is what motorcycling gives so many of us.

Not speed.

Not rebellion.

Not escape.

Presence.

The motorcycle demands space.

Noise.

Movement.

Attention.

It reminds us that we are still part of the world rather than simply watching it happen from the sidelines.

Perhaps that's why so many riders discover motorcycling later in life.

After years of being useful, responsible, exhausted, supportive and sensible for everybody else, we want to reclaim something that belongs entirely to us.

Movement.

Identity.

Freedom.

Visibility.

Road users still fail to see motorcycles sometimes. Riders know that better than anybody.

But perhaps that is why we become so determined to be noticed.

Bright helmets.

Bright lights.

Good road positioning.

We are constantly reminding the world that we are here.

And perhaps that is what many of us are doing off the bike as well.

Refusing to disappear quietly.

Refusing to allow age, circumstance, loss or responsibility to erase us.

Because growing older is inevitable.

Being erased is not.

Every time I pull my helmet on and press the starter button, I am making a simple declaration.

I am still here.

And I have no intention of fading quietly into the background just yet.

Enjoyed this article?

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Whether you're just starting your riding journey or rediscovering yourself later in life, it's a reminder that it's never too late to reclaim your confidence, your identity and your sense of adventure.

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Ride safe, ride often, and remember:

You are still here.