Quid rides? Mutato nomine, de te fabula narratur.
Melinda Moore's body was found this week. An apparent suicide, she left her helmet and gloves to mark the way to her resting place. The fervor over her disappearance happened because an abalone fisherman saw the free goods and took them. Suddenly she was a missing person and the bay area motorcycling community went on the hunt.
The search ended, but the effects will likely continue for
some time.
There's a lot of guilt to be handed around in this. Melinda
decided to cut herself free of the mortal coil without tying up loose ends.
That's bad form at best. The abalone fisherman took someone else's property,
compounding the angst and grief her final act caused those around her. That's
grand theft at worst. But it's awfully hard to judge motivation in either
case. I never met Melinda and I can't speak for someone who chose not to speak
for themselves, but I'm guessing we probably had some things in common beyond
riding.
True suicides are a cold, hard thing. These are the ones that are so often obvious in retrospect and just as unsuspected prior. The word that always comes to my mind is calculated, it’s murder-one upon the self. It’s hard to explain how someone who is otherwise rational could think that suicide is the most viable option for a nominally healthy individual. I believe that something rather akin to a short in the wiring of the brain overrides innate survival instinct: the person truly believes things would be better for all parties involved without them mucking up the rest of the scheme. So they decide the most intelligent action all around is to remove themselves from the playing field. This isn't some textbook example I picked up in college. Embarrassing as it is, this is from my own experience.
It's been years since I've had such feelings, but that doesn't mean I can ever forget just how bad they were. There is nothing worse than taking what seems to be a sensible evaluation of existence and coming out in the red, kind of It's a Wonderful Life in negative. Probably the sole reason I am alive today is because I was too much of a coward when I was at my sickest- because I planned well enough to guarantee success. In the end, it wasn’t the people I cared about who stopped me, for I was unstable enough to truly believe they would be fine once the shock passed, but that I had no religion for comfort and I just couldn't face what might be next given how miserably I was failing the preamble.
And that brings me back to a rock along Highway 1. It
probably doesn't look anything like it does in my mind, but the rock is
there. And last week, so was a woman who was a complete stranger to me. But I'd
guess she went through several familiar calculations and came to many of the
same conclusions.
The difference was that she was a racer, so she simply swallowed her fear and
gunned the throttle.
Do I admire her? No. Do I feel saddened by the event? Not really- although I do share a touch for those who suffered through this past week with false and desperate hope.
But I don't blame her, either. In fact, I hope she's found
her peace. I hope those she’s hurt most by her actions do eventually forgive
her her trespass, and remember she was sick.
There will probably be debates and recriminations wherever
riders gather in the next few months, clucking tongues and shaking heads.
But in the end, no one will truly know. Because life is a lot like riding: no matter how many people
are around you, it's always a solo journey.
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