At The Free Press, we firmly believe that everyone, for a few days each year, needs to slow down, switch off, and hit the road—and what better time to do it than the last week of August? So this week, instead of The Front Page, we’re running Journeys, a new series about the trips that change us. Yesterday, Christopher F. Rufo wrote about traveling the West Coast by train. Today, the philosopher Agnes Callard writes about her summer riding a motorcycle. Enjoy! —The Editors
Roller coasters do not feel like flying, bungee jumping does not feel like flying, and flying in an airplane most definitely does not feel like flying. Maybe riding a horse or waterskiing could feel like flying, but I was never able to get good enough at either to find out. Having sought out the flying feeling my whole life, I can report that I have only ever found it in two places: swings and motorcycles. It has to be the right kind of swing, with very long chains—the kind they don’t allow in playgrounds anymore. But when I was in my early 20s, I realized something had changed in my brain or inner ear, and I couldn’t swing without becoming nauseated.
A few years later, I discovered motorcycles.
More specifically, I discovered a guy with a motorcycle.
