Speeding Motorcycle

A funny thing happened on the way home from writing class

I witnessed a motorcyclist crash, get up, and run away from the scene. I found myself writing a witness statement for the police who later informed me that the man I had tried to help was running from the law, with several outstanding warrants. I’m a type that always looks to my life experiences to decode the symbology and the deeper meaning. The search for meaning in random events always gives me greater insight and clarity into the deeper mystery of my life.

So here I am in my role as a witness, a symbol that is also discussed in meditation. The observer, the witness. To witness your thoughts, or anything, is to be apart from the action rather than being a part of the action. In meditation, there is power in the role of the witness, because the witness is the aspect of the Divine within.

Motorcycles are powerful, potent symbols, recalling freedom, masculinity, and excitement. There is always something just a little bit dangerous and forbidden about a motorcycle. That is probably why they are so alluring. The relationship of the rider with the bike is also mythic in proportions. This is not just an object, this is a subject. This is something that someone loves. The bike and rider are one. When they are parted, there is something shattering in the experience. The separation of ‘the one’ into ‘the two’, leaves an indelible image in the mind.

The wildness and disorientation of the event caused the man to run in the opposite direction, away from his bike and his escape route. He was already trapped by his cage of fear. It is only a matter of time until the police catch him, as the determined, yet kind, officer assured me that they would. The rider was already caught before he was even found.

So what does this mean for me, a non-motorcycle driving, law-abiding woman? Maybe that the chaos I feel around me is not mine, I just happen to be in a good place to see it for what it is. To know that the wild dash in the opposite direction is a symptom of a deeper problem. To know that there is strength in my role of observer as I am removed from the action even though it appears as though it is happening to me. To know that my instincts are right, to be cautious when getting out of the car and cautious with injured people. To know that some injuries are hidden, locked away by years of trauma. The wild, wide-eyed, look is a sure sign of stress and trauma even in those who appear fine externally.

And to acknowledge that I do not do what other people do. I do not follow the crowd. I got out. I offered help. I stayed. I helped again. I was the only one. I was the only witness, of at least 8 to 10 people to stay at the scene until the police could arrive.

So perhaps, more than anything, I am proud of myself. I am proud of my instinct to help, even though it was an inconvenience. I am proud of my ability to keep a cool head, protect myself, and give instructions to others to call 911. I am proud that I could help the police, in a small way, do their job. I am proud that I stayed. I am proud that I was a friendly face in a sea of chaos.

I am different. That is good.

 

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