Throttle Therapy: Where the Noise Finally Stops
FYI: This post is unapologetically romantic. It’s throttle therapy in prose.
I remember my life in London a few years back. I wouldn't bother picking a particular month — even year: they were all the same. My mornings felt like a starter motor spinning but failing to ignite — only draining the battery. My evenings felt like an engine running on fumes. I knew there was a ton of fuel in my tank, but no way to put it to action.
London is a great place, but I was suffocating. Short gulps of freedom on holiday only made it worse — because you inevitably come back. Low-voltage life.
Any of that rings a bell, huh?
I was very lucky to find my cure — the spark in my plugs. I never felt any attraction to motorcycles, considered bikers pretentious assholes. But three years ago I was in the mood to try something new, and a one-day motorcycle “Compulsory Basic Training” sounded cool.
That’s where my ride began.
Oh, I remember the first training day — just one day for fun, no plans to continue. It looked as easy as riding a bicycle. A 130kg bicycle where I need to twist the throttle with the right hand, gradually release the clutch with the left hand, slightly engage my rear brake with the right foot, and balance a low-speed wobbly takeoff ('cause I have no guts for any speed yet).
Then there was the first ride on a rented scooter back home — 15 miles through busy London roads with zero road experience, and “what the hell am I doing with my life?!” screaming in my head all the way. I was terrified... but awake. Never been so happy to get home. Everything felt sharper for the rest of the day — even the air.
Then came my first rented motorcycle (with gears), missing an intersection sign, van cutting across my path, with no time to brake, miraculously twisting the throttle and shooting centimeters in front of the hysterically beeping van. It took ten minutes and two cigarettes until I could even look at the bike again. It was all totally my fault, and “I must pull myself together and focus” was pounding in my head.
Then came my first ride on big roads, overtaking a massive lorry, turbulence around it pushed me back and forth like a leaf in the wind, I heard the rattling and hammering of this metal beast — literally at arm's length — the air smelled like engine oil and my own fear. I didn't feel brave. But presence was the reward. My brain shut up.
I miss the intensity of those first experiences. But somehow the panic turned into focus, and noise — into music.
A couple of years later, I am doing close to 200 km/h on the German autobahn on the blue rhino of a bike. Cars flash by (some even overtaking me, Germany is crazy). There is no panic, just a laser-sharp focus — my heartbeat is strong but steady. I'm relaxed — no way I keep it for a full-day ride otherwise.
This 105 HP beast is my co-pilot. I handle strategy, the bike handles tactics with only a soft touch of my hand. One twitch of a muscle, one mistake, and we pay in blood and oil. It's not reckless — it just demands skill and a calm mind.
Then a car changes lanes right into me without a war declaration (no signal) — the driver clearly didn't see me. Even if the helmet helps, my well-protected head would be very far from the rest of the body. But I anticipated it, planned the exit up front. A swift and precise swerve to jump between lanes, a quick glance over the shoulder just in case (I already knew it's empty) — the lane is mine. I avoided a crash by ~50 cm. I eased off for a few seconds, took a deep breath, and got back to normal cruising. This minor inconvenience can't ruin my good mood today.
I remember I smiled, comparing it to how it felt before — my experience with a van in the first months. I know, the whole thing sounds reckless. But I never lost the lessons the van near-miss taught me. No zoning out. And “ride like a ghost” — as if nobody sees you. I was ready for this car's swerve into me, noticed the danger in a split second ('cause I expected it), and executed the escape plan.
It demands constant focus. It's a deep meditation for hours per day. No thoughts — just the road, full presence, full trust in the bike. At these moments, I feel truly happy.
I'm not advocating for anyone to take big risks to feel alive — just describing the feeling of pure focus when the stakes are high.
It's already a long post, so I'm not going to write about the bike hopping side to side under you off-road, crossing rivers, practicing emergency stops at 80 mph in a corner — and using it on the road a few months later to save my ass. Or riding through 0-2C rain from London to Münster. These were intense three years.
Now I'm going round the world on my 300 cc donkey. Slow, steady pace, camping, exploring remote places, rain on my jacket and bugs in my teeth. It's a different vibe, requiring peace of mind. Mood changed, the focus and clarity stayed.
I didn't get this peace for free. Damn, riding has changed me completely. It taught me to regain composure in the face of fear. To trust. To take firm action when the situation demands, and let go of control when it's not necessary. All the stuff I never learnt before — simply had no reason to. But most of all — I can stay with my thoughts for days. Demons used to show up after minutes. Now they need to book an appointment.
Maybe you can also find something to light you up, to rev your engine. It should be risky in some way, well outside of your comfort zone. That's how your brain shuts up. Modern life's noise can't keep talking over your focus anymore. That's when you feel unapologetically alive.
It's no sermon or spiritual awakening speech. I'm just a dude who found my way through questionable decisions, doing what I love.
Find what works for you — and twist the hell out of its throttle.
See you out there.
If you ever feel like reaching out — whether you have something to share, or just want to talk — I’d be happy to hear from you, stranger. This isn’t about followers. It’s about finding kindness and similar minded people in a loud world.