𝕀 ℝ𝕠𝕕𝕖 𝟙,𝟘𝟘𝟘 𝕄𝕚𝕝𝕖𝕤 𝕥𝕠 ℝ𝕖𝕒𝕝𝕚𝕫𝕖 𝕄𝕪 𝔹𝕚𝕜𝕖 𝕎𝕒𝕤𝕟'𝕥 𝕥𝕙𝕖 ℙ𝕣𝕠𝕓𝕝𝕖𝕞

Mile 0. Los Angeles. 4:47 AM.

The Suzuki's rattling again. That same fucking rattle that three mechanics couldn't find. The one that made me sure this bike was cursed. The one I was convinced would strand me somewhere between here and Phoenix.

I'd already blown $3,200 on a "better" bike that was sitting in my garage. Financing a Triumph because Instagram told me my GS500 wasn't enough. Because every stop light became a comparison. Because I thought the problem was the machine.

This is the story of how 1,000 miles of asphalt taught me what no forum thread ever could: The problem was never the bike. The problem was the rider who couldn't shut up long enough to listen to what it was teaching him.

 

𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕃𝕚𝕖 𝕎𝕖 𝕋𝕖𝕝𝕝 𝕆𝕦𝕣𝕤𝕖𝕝𝕧𝕖𝕤

Every rider knows this story. Hell, you're probably living it right now.

Your bike isn't fast enough. Doesn't corner right. Too heavy. Too light. Wrong sound. Wrong brand. Wrong generation. Wrong wrong wrong.

So you scroll. You compare. You finance. You upgrade.

And three months later, you're having the same conversations with yourself, just with more expensive problems and higher monthly payments.

I spent two years convinced my GS500 was holding me back. Two years making excuses for my shit riding. Two years blaming a machine for my inadequacies. Until I decided to shut up and ride. Really ride. Not to the coffee shop. Not to the Sunday meet-up. But out there, where your phone doesn't work and your ego can't save you.

1,000 miles in 48 hours. Just me, the "wrong" bike, and the truth I'd been running from.

 

𝕄𝕚𝕝𝕖 𝟙𝟚𝟟: 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔽𝕚𝕣𝕤𝕥 ℝ𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕝𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟

Somewhere outside Blythe, California. Temperature gauge says 97°F. The Suzuki's running perfect.

That rattle? Still there. But now I realize it only happens at exactly 4,100 RPM. Not mechanical failure. Just a harmonic vibration from the aftermarket exhaust the previous owner installed. The bike's been trying to tell me this for months. I just never rode it long enough in one gear to figure it out.

First lesson: Your bike speaks. You just suck at listening.

I'd taken this thing to three different shops. Spent $400 on diagnostics. Read every forum post about GS500 engine noise. Created elaborate theories about valve clearances and cam chain tensioners.

The answer was simpler: Ride at 4,000 or 4,200 RPM. Problem solved. Free fix. Just had to actually pay attention to my machine instead of dreaming about different ones.

 

𝕄𝕚𝕝𝕖 𝟚𝟡𝟠: 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔻𝕖𝕤𝕖𝕣𝕥 𝕄𝕚𝕣𝕣𝕠𝕣

Middle of nowhere, Arizona. The kind of heat that makes you question your life choices.

I'm passed by a dude on a fucking Grom. A GROM. 125cc of pure inadequacy, and he's gapped me in the twisties like I'm standing still. Not because his bike is better. Because he knows his bike. Every limit. Every capability. Every sweet spot.

Meanwhile, I'm out here riding at 60% because I'm afraid of scratching the tank I've been planning to replace anyway.

Second lesson: The guy who masters a Corolla will smoke the guy who's afraid of his Ferrari.

That Grom rider probably posts zero photos. Has zero followers. Gives zero fucks about what anyone thinks of his ride. And he's having more fun in one corner than I've had in two years of ownership.

 

𝕄𝕚𝕝𝕖 𝟜𝟠𝟜: 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕄𝕖𝕔𝕙𝕒𝕟𝕚𝕔𝕒𝕝 𝕊𝕪𝕞𝕡𝕒𝕥𝕙𝕪

Flagstaff. Elevation change has the bike running rich. It's stumbling. Hunting for idle. Acting exactly how a carbureted bike should act when you climb 5,000 feet.

Six months ago, this would've sent me into a spiral. Forum posts about rejetting. YouTube videos about altitude sickness. Probably would've turned around, convinced the bike was dying.

Instead, I adjust my riding. Let it warm up longer. Keep the RPMs higher. Work with the machine instead of against it.

Third lesson: Every "problem" is just your bike teaching you something.

By the time I descend back to Phoenix, I understand this machine's breathing better than I understand my own. I know exactly how it likes to be ridden at altitude. What it needs. What it's saying.

This knowledge cost me nothing but attention.

 

𝕄𝕚𝕝𝕖 𝟞𝟞𝟟: 𝕋𝕙𝕖 ℕ𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥 𝕊𝕙𝕚𝕗𝕥

2 AM. Somewhere between Phoenix and Tucson. Running on gas station coffee and determination.

The headlight sucks. The seat is basically a torture device. The suspension is overwhelmed by expansion joints. Everything the internet said about this bike is true.

And I'm having the time of my life.

Because I finally get it. The limitations aren't bugs. They're features. They force you to ride differently. Think differently. Plan differently.

Fourth lesson: Discomfort is data. Data is growth. Growth is the point.

That shitty headlight? It taught me to read the road by moonlight. The hard seat? Taught me to stand on the pegs, which taught me better control. The soft suspension? Taught me to pick better lines, read the road surface, anticipate instead of react.

A "better" bike would've insulated me from these lessons. Would've let me stay mediocre with more comfort.

 

𝕄𝕚𝕝𝕖 𝟠𝟡𝟙: 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔹𝕣𝕠𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕣𝕙𝕠𝕠𝕕

Gas station in Yuma. 4 AM. Another rider pulls up on a beat-to-shit KLR 650. Milk crate strapped to the back. More zip ties than factory parts. 

We nod. He sees my equally thrashed Suzuki.

"How many miles?" he asks.

"45,000," I reply.

"Just getting broken in then."

He's crossed the country six times on that KLR. Never once wished for a different bike. "This thing's taken me everywhere I've asked it to go. Why would I want anything else?"

Fifth lesson: Real riders don't talk about bikes. They talk about miles.

We drink terrible coffee in silence. Two guys who figured out the secret: Dance with the one that brought you.

 

𝕄𝕚𝕝𝕖 𝟙,𝟘𝟘𝟘: 𝕋𝕙𝕖 ℝ𝕖𝕥𝕦𝕣𝕟

Back in Los Angeles. Same bike. Same rattle at 4,100 RPM. Same chicken strips on the tires (slightly smaller now). Same everything.

Except the rider.

I pull into my garage. The Triumph is sitting there. Clean. Shiny. 2,100 miles on the odometer after a year of ownership. Financed at 12.9% APR because I "needed" it.

I post it for sale that afternoon.

 

𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕋𝕣𝕦𝕥𝕙 ℕ𝕠𝕓𝕠𝕕𝕪 𝕎𝕒𝕟𝕥𝕤 𝕥𝕠 ℍ𝕖𝕒𝕣

Your bike isn't the problem. Your bike has never been the problem.

The problem is you're so busy shopping for solutions that you never learned to ride what you have. So busy comparing that you never committed. So busy upgrading that you never evolved.

I watch guys at bike nights. Talking about their next bike while standing next to their current bike. Planning upgrades for problems that don't exist. Financing answers to questions they haven't asked.

Meanwhile, some old timer rolls up on a 1982 Goldwing with 200,000 miles. Parks it. Doesn't say shit about specs. Just drinks his coffee and smiles, knowing something the rest of us are too distracted to learn:

The perfect bike is the one you stop making excuses for.

 

𝕎𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝟙,𝟘𝟘𝟘 𝕄𝕚𝕝𝕖𝕤 𝕋𝕒𝕦𝕘𝕙𝕥 𝕄𝕖

1. Every bike is right for someone. Yours is right for you, right now, or you wouldn't have bought it.

2. Mechanical problems are communication. Listen instead of replacing.

3. Discomfort is education. A bike that does everything perfect teaches nothing.

4. Comparison is theft. Every second you spend looking at other bikes is a second you're not learning yours.

5. Miles matter more than models. I'd rather ride with someone who's mastered a Rebel 250 than someone who's afraid of their S1000RR.

6. The upgrade cycle is a trap. You'll never be satisfied chasing the next thing.

7. Bikes have souls. But only if you ride them long enough to find them.

 

𝕋𝕙𝕖 ℂ𝕙𝕒𝕝𝕝𝕖𝕟𝕘𝕖

Here's what I want you to do:

Take your bike – yes, that one with all the "problems" – and ride it. Really ride it. Not to cars and coffee. Not to show it off. But out there, where nobody gives a shit what you're on.

500 miles minimum. Straight shot if you can. No Instagram stops. No product placement. Just you and the machine you've been blaming for your limitations.

Pay attention. Listen to what it's telling you. Feel where it excels and where it struggles. Learn its language instead of searching for a translator.

I guarantee you'll come back understanding something that no amount of YouTube reviews or forum posts could teach you:

The problem was never the bike.

 

𝔼𝕡𝕚𝕝𝕠𝕘𝕦𝕖: 𝕄𝕚𝕝𝕖 𝟙,𝟘𝟘𝟙

It's been six months since that ride. The GS500 now has 62,000 miles. Still rattles at 4,100 RPM. Still has a shit headlight. Still makes me look poor at bike nights.

Last week, some kid on a brand new R7 asked me when I was going to upgrade.

I just smiled. "Upgrade to what? This thing's not done teaching me yet."

He looked at me like I was crazy. The same look I used to give old timers on old bikes. 

Give him five years and 50,000 miles. He'll understand.

Or he'll be on his sixth bike, still blaming the machine.

Your bike isn't the problem. Your bike has never been the problem.

You just haven't ridden it far enough to realize that yet.

 

Still rattling at 4,100 RPM,

—The GritPalm Collective

P.S. – That Triumph sold in three days to a guy who "always dreamed of owning one." I hope he rides it more than I did. But probably not. That's the thing about dream bikes – they're usually better as dreams.