F-Blog – Adrenaline and the motor

There’s a scene in ‘Blood Diamond’ where DiCaprio’s character accuses the female journalist of being an adrenalin junkie, but like it’s a bad thing, as though she’s just a new class of asshole getting in his way. I remember thinking, ‘Fuck, so is Hollywood commoditizing the love of adrenaline now, making it just another category of consumerist desire?’ A notion like that can really knock the wind out of your storm jib for a time.

Since birth, I’ve been a lover and seeker of the adrenaline deluge. On my street it was normal — every guy and many girls were that way. It started with riding our Mustang two-wheelers off plywood ramps we built. It escalated to building ski jumps in the ravine, off which we did aerials — spreadeagles, daffies, mulekicks, backscratchers and helis (most since replaced by less visually interesting moves like… crossing your skis?). Then it was onward to cars, motorcycles, blue-water sailing, mountain bikes, girls, inebreants, rock climbing, freediving, spearfishing, waterskiing and surfing, not necessarily in that order.

For the millions of us who grew up in the pre-metrosexual era, the promise of adrenaline at some point in one’s day was, still is, a hellova reason to wake up mornings. It’s what makes you feel that you have indeed emerged from the sleeping state. It reconfirms your purpose, gives you a reason to travel to failed states in pursuit of some rock or wave or trail. It helps you make friends with eccentric people with whom you’d have nothing in common otherwise, it tests your balls (or ovaries), humbles and teaches useful lessons, like the value of not giving up. It gets you knowing and working with, even enjoying, your most private terrors. Not to mention that a rush of adrenaline is as satisfying as the filthiest sex, especially when you’re able to combine the two. Oh, that afterglow.

Back in Toronto for 11 years, after 11 years abroad, I find myself apathetic, or more accurately, unalive, at times. I came back here, after a feral and adventurous overseas turn, carrying the notion that I’d like to find a wife, move in, calm down and enjoy the contemplative life of a guy who’s lived some and who will now read, write and hold extremely interesting dinner parties, and be satisfied with that. After all, my body’s too worn out to ski, snowboard or play team sports. Thanks to knee and back carnage, I haven’t been able to run any further than across the road for years. Problem is, my desires, my energy levels, my instinct for stirring up a little shit remain undiminished from their peak, if there’s been one yet.

Enter the motor. I mostly drive mine like my mom drives her Honda Accord. Mostly. But when I know there’s a place where the chances of a car, cat, idiot or something else not wanted in front of me are minimal, I opt for adrenaline. I brutalize my throttle. I attempt to scare the daylights out of Paul Fenn for a few seconds. I try to slap fair-to-middling back to the shadows where it cowers in abeyance a few more hours.

So a salute to adrenaline junkies worldwide. Think I’ll go buy me a wingsuit and chute and head off to Norway this weekend. Or maybe the weekend after.

F-Blog – Adrenaline and the motor