I used to have times where I would get very very sad. I still do, but I used to as well.

When the times got very bad, I would fantasize, as many do, about ending my own life. After years of flirting with these sorts of thoughts, the logical part of my brain had a lightbulb moment.

“Hey Didier, if you don’t care if you live or die, why don’t you just buy a motorcycle?”

And so it began.

Now, when the times got bad, I didn’t just lie comatose on the couch for hours, days, on end. I waited until 4 in the morning, slipped into my leather jacket, and hit the empty California freeways.

In the black of the night, the only reality is the small headlit cone of asphalt and concrete whizzing by at a velocity man was never meant to achieve. Doubt its veracity? Reach your foot down and brush it. At every corner, Death whispers flirtingly, tauntingly, from the concrete barriers.

“How about now, pussy? Want to join me now?”

“Not now, Death; I’m cornering.”

“You’ve fantasized about this for years. Just push your left handlebar a millimeter farther, see what it’s like.”

“Maybe the next corner, Death. I’ve got this one.”

And so it continued.

After hundreds, thousands of corners, some executed with precision, some with misjudged entrances necessitating quick manoeuvres to avoid Death’s open-armed welcome, I eventually realized — I don’t want to die. If I did, I’d be dead already.