WELCOME TO THE JUNGLE

Exploring Fear, Experience, and the Pursuit of Safe Riding

Miriam Romais

Ever wonder if you’ve lost your edge? That energy and impulse to push past barriers, take the bend a little faster because you knew you could, and ride like the road was yours alone? If you’ve lived long enough you’ve likely felt the shift: the one where you traded boldness for caution, possibly without realizing it. I seem to ask myself that question at the start of every riding season. 

The ride changes as we evolve (isn’t that a better word for aging?). We know that pain hits harder, bodies don’t bounce back like they used to, and recovery takes longer. Careers, relationships, and responsibilities compete for time and attention in infinite new ways. Mistakes and inattention become costly lessons. The comfort of routine, the appeal of early nights, and the reality of declining eyesight replace the desire to chase adrenaline. Nine pm? Yup, I want to be in PJs cuddling on the couch with a blankie. The world feels like a place filled with expectations that are not always our own, and limits––many of which self-imposed—because fear has set in. Not as a full stop, but as another setting on the throttle.

Fear is certainly not about age— but there is a strong tie related to lived experience. After all, we’ve seen time and again what can go wrong, and that knowledge becomes a brake. Sometimes it’s just a hesitancy that’s simply good common sense; sometimes, it’s a drag on our spirit. From the racetrack to the daily commute, riders learn the hard way how the stakes became higher. Yet, there are ways to keep the throttle open without losing control.

I think about racers, the ones who crave fast miles like oxygen. Are they just built differently, or have they learned to tame their fears? Maybe it’s both. These riders, whether young or seasoned, have mastered the art of balancing caution with courage. Their technique—especially through high-speed curves—comes from years of practice and a mindset that embraces challenge. Watching them take every corner with precision, it’s more than a polished skill: it’s a lot of self-trust with a helping of stubborn refusal to let fear win. 

Years ago, there was an extremely cautious rider in the advanced Motorcycle Safety Foundation RiderCourse I was teaching. For as hard she tried to hide it, you could read the hesitation in her face at the beginning of each exercise. The kicker was – she was doing fine and meeting the objective of each exercise. As she rode past me, the clear sign of overthinking was apparent. Not that analyzing is a bad thing on a bike – but for experienced riders, you need to translate the thought into a physical action quickly, to execute whatever maneuver. As this wasn’t happening quickly, she became frustrated. Then, more tense, more stressed, and ended up fighting the bike’s movements through every turn. It was hard to not feel that I was failing her. As the day progressed, she had given up trying to improve – but then, something clicked. 

During the next break, she pulled me aside and thanked me for an earlier discussion about motorcycling being mostly a ‘mental’ activity. She started noticing how, each time doubt sprung up, she lost the ability to execute whatever skill she was trying to improve. Sharing her vulnerability gave us a chance to talk about a frequent missing ingredient to retrain the brain to think and act in a new way: intentional practice. After all, new skills do not function like a light switch you can turn on with a flick. It’s the discipline, hard work on the proper technique, and not giving up that makes the lasting change. Being able to somatically feel it in your body, rather than just intellectually “knowing” what to do. Challenging the fear and adding trust. In the process, in the stickiness of the tires, in yourself. Face it until you make it, they say. 

There are times I deeply relate to that rider. One of my deepest aha moments and hard reset happened during my very first track day. Hell of a way to face my cornering fears, I thought. 

I was extremely nervous and my progress felt nonexistent. By my third run on the track, I knew I had reached the same point my student had. People were zooming past me as if I were out on a Sunday jaunt. I was overthinking every move. Brain meltdown. Overload. Then, one of the instructors pulled up alongside with a hand signal to watch his movements, and I had to fight back tears of gratitude. I followed his line to get a better sense of what to do where. There is a different level of understanding when you experience something with your whole body, and I could feel this difference in my bones.

I soon started noticing that the same people who intimidated me by screaming past had consistently awkward lines, some of which made no sense. I mentioned this later to the instructor, and he smiled knowingly. The experience made me realize the similarities between martial arts or playing an instrument: if you want to know how to do it well fast, you need to learn the technique properly first, which is slow. 

Then, the opportunity to ride on the back of Reg Pridmore’s bike came along (I believe he was doing this as a fundraiser for charity). Judy was the first of us to hop on, and we watched her & Reg zip by with awe and giggles. As Anne Marie and I walked over to ask how it was, our dear friend said with a big grin, “whatever you do, don’t look down!” So naturally, it was one of the first things I did on my turn – and in amazement, watched the pavement blur by unexpectedly close to my face. The soundtrack of that engine provided a most surreal out of body experience, one I’ll never forget. I got to feel the true grace of smooth, skilled cornering at speed, along with the proof of how a rider’s ability gives out way before the bike does. How we let fear dictate and distract us. 

Back on my bike, I kept thinking about quality over quantity (of speed). Pondering if we spend enough time facing and unlearning our fears. How slow is smooth. I was feeling the bike’s movements and responses instead of trying to think my way through it. I began to trust myself in a new way and in that mindful state, I began to relax. A whole new world was waiting for me, and I could sense how this would change my riding for years to come. 

Understanding what changed lets us choose how to ride going forward. Every revolution, every curve, is a chance to balance wisdom and skill with joy and boldness. Think back to when something clicked for you. Take a class. Question your fears and challenge your assumptions. And remember your edge: slow is fast, fast is relative, and safety comes first.