Caution: Narrow Bridge

“The bad news is you’re falling through the air, nothing to hang on to, no parachute.

The good news is there’s no ground.” – Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche

“Yeah, darlin' go make it happen

Take the world in a love embrace

Fire all of your guns at once and

Explode into space.” – Steppenwolf, “Born to be Wild”

The motorcycle I used to own came to visit me last weekend. It got me thinking about risk and caution.

Seth Godin, a writer and thinker whose short blog I receive daily, recently sent a piece titled, An Abundance of Caution. In it he distinguishes between “appropriate caution” and “abundant caution.” Abundant caution, which is beyond what is needed, is “wasted.” As he correctly notes, we can always make risk ever smaller, but doing so may increase other risks or limit opportunities and possibility. The challenge, of course, is knowing what is appropriate and what is abundant caution. The line between them is highly subjective and contextual and changes as we or the standards of our culture evolve over time. But we must constantly be on guard that what we call “caution” isn’t really a cover for our own self-limiting fears. That’s why I was immediately suspicious of the voice in my head that told me it was time to sell the motorcycle.

When I got my motorcycle sometime after my 40th birthday, many of my friends and colleagues thought I had lost my mind. “Jews don’t ride motorcycles!” was something I heard a lot. But the level of risk felt appropriate and necessary in order to do something that I had wanted to learn since I was 12 years old and rode home from school on the back of my 7th grade science teacher’s Honda 350. (In 1976 it had seemed an appropriate risk to my parents, who gave their permission, for me to do this (as long as I wore a helmet) and so many other things that would be unthinkable for many parents today.)

As an adult, I made peace with the risk of riding by recalling the words of Rabbi Nachman of Bretslav (1771-1810) who said, “The world is a narrow bridge; the important thing is to not be afraid.”

I understand this to mean that life is an inherently risky journey. Indeed, no one gets out alive. Therefore, you can’t let your fears stop you from moving forward with the things you are called to or which give you joy, or allow your fears to limit those around you and those you love.

Steve Jobs, a founder of Apple Computer, put it this way in his famous Stanford Commencement Address: “Remembering that you are going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose. You are already naked. There is no reason not to follow your heart.”

Still, naked or wearing full protective gear that covered every inch of skin, every time I got on that bike and rode out on to the street, I wondered, “Will this be the day I crash and die on this thing?” It may be just that thought kept me focused and alert. Maybe I was just lucky.

I loved riding both with friends and on my own. Riding a motorcycle may be the closest you can come without leaving the ground to piloting an airplane. After buying the 1996 Honda Magna from its second owner, I joined up with a Jewish Motorcycle group known as The Tribe. The Tribe was a chapter of the nationwide Jewish Motorcycle Alliance. (Jews do ride motorcycles!) Once a month we’d meet for breakfast, recite the traveler’s prayer in Hebrew and English, and head out on the highway, stopping soon after for lunch before riding home. Truth be told, restaurant time exceeded time in the saddle as often as not. I am still hauling around those bagels in my proverbial saddlebags.

Then last year, the friend who got me into riding back in 2004 had a low-speed crash while riding with her dad, a vintage British bike enthusiast. She broke several ribs and punctured a lung. She has recovered but was in intensive care for more than a week and had to have follow-up surgeries. This gave me pause and forced me to think again about the risk vs. the reward of riding. But I realized that giving up the bike was not giving in to fear. The truth was, I had gradually lost interest. My riding club had fallen apart. I had spent five years working in Rochester, N.Y. while the bike was in Maryland, and, as has been previously elucidated, geography is the better part of love. Perhaps the Magna was sick of spending so much time in the shed and was also seeking a new relationship. So last November, my neighbor, John, who is also my insurance agent and who also rides, connected me with a friend of his who had just gotten his license and I sold him the Magna and all my gear for a song.

Every day of our lives we are called upon to decide what is appropriate caution: the caution that allows us to mitigate risk while still enjoying life to the fullest - and what is abundant caution, irrational fear that keeps us from reaching our fullest potential as human beings. We know that our perception of risk is often out of whack with reality. We may fear getting in an airplane, while jumping in a car without a thought.

My grandmother, of blessed memory, was afraid to leave her apartment in her safe neighborhood in Queens. I’ve known parents who refused to allow their adult college-aged children travel to Israel on a fully chaperoned trip. I had students who were afraid to be outside in nature, so unaccustomed to being outdoors were they. I have neighbors who fear that a bike connection from our town to the metro will draw thieves and murderers into our town even though we already have more than 10 pedestrian and vehicle entrances to our town and studies show that such paths actually reduce crime (and increase home values!).

The new owner stopped by last weekend to pick up a spare set of mirrors for the bike. I had found them in the shed and offered them to him. Hearing the familiar rumble of the shiny red, black, and chrome Honda Magna in the driveway, I felt a pang and remembered the thrill and excitement I had had when heading out on a ride. Then I saw the joy and pleasure on the face of the new rider and I knew my decision had been the right one.

I am glad I learned to ride a motorcycle and enjoyed the years I rode. I am grateful for the sights and the smells of those glorious spring and autumn days carving up the back roads of Maryland and Virginia alone or with friends. I know that giving up the bike was not giving in to fear. I had conquered (mostly) the fear of riding. It was just that other things had become more important. I’m delighted that the bike is warm and purring between the legs of someone who loves her, rather than sitting cold and lonely in the shed.

I’m traveling at a more leisurely pace these days. Walking across the narrow bridge rather than riding. Still trying to remember the important thing is to not be afraid.