I used to think motorcycling was a solo pursuit. Just me, the machine, and a dramatic montage soundtrack in my head. Pure cinematic heroism — until I stalled trying to exit a gravel car park on a cambered hill in front of a German biker café. With a full audience. Who all came running to help.
Here’s the thing no one tells you when you first throw a leg over a bike: riding teaches you how deeply connected you are to everything around you. The weather, the road surface, the campervan that suddenly forgot how roundabouts work — it’s all part of the ride.
You’re not outside the world. You’re in it, with it, subject to its tantrums and gifts.
The Stoics understood this long before we had ABS or Gore-Tex. Epictetus reminded us we are part of a greater whole. That nothing is “up to us” except our responses — which, I’ll admit, feel significantly harder to manage when you’ve just dropped your bike in front of a herd of sheep and an audience of Welsh hikers.
The Road Doesn’t Care, But It Teaches
One of the fastest ways to humility? Ride a bike in strong crosswinds on a single-track cliff road, five hours into what was supposed to be a “relaxing detour.” The road doesn’t adjust itself to your plans or your mood. It simply is. A gravel-strewn corner won’t get any less slippery just because you’re late or feeling brave.
And yet… there’s freedom in that. The more I stop fighting reality and start riding with it, the more everything opens up. It’s like water-finding a channel. You don’t need to dominate the ride. You need to listen. Feel what the road is saying. Adjust your posture. Ease your grip. Notice the cues.
Sometimes that means letting go of ego. Sometimes it means gritting your teeth and paddling the bike backwards out of a dead-end with dignity entirely abandoned. Either way — you’re learning to ride with the world, not despite it.
You Don’t Ride Alone (Even When You Do)
During the Women Riders World Relay, I rode with women from a dozen different countries. Some of us didn’t share a common language — but we all understood corner signals, helmet nods, and the universally recognisable hand-flap that means “I need a wee.” We rode through sleet, heat, cities, silence. And somehow, despite our differences, we moved together.
Riding with the world isn’t just about merging with nature or reading the tarmac. It’s also about people. The guy who gives you a jump start in the middle of nowhere. The cafe owner who brings out a bowl of water for your dog without being asked. The friend who listens to your mid-tour meltdown and reminds you you’re not actually terrible, just tired and full of Haribo.
Every rider knows the secret: bikes bring people together. Even if you start solo, you end up with stories — and occasionally a WhatsApp group called something like Clutch Sisters of the Pyrenees.]
Flow, Not Force
There’s a beautiful thing that happens when you stop trying to control every bend, hill, and timetable. You relax into it. You let the ride unfold. You let go of the white-knuckle grip and lean into what’s actually happening — not what you wanted to happen, not what you were bracing against.
In Stoicism, this is close to living in accordance with nature — not as tree-hugging nonsense, but as practical harmony with the moment. Not flinching from reality. Not forcing your own agenda so hard you end up in a hedge. On a bike, you learn that harmony means dancing with momentum, not wrestling it. This doesn’t mean you give up ambition or challenge. It means you align with life’s rhythm. You keep your eyes up, your core steady, and your mind open to what’s next — without clinging to the last corner.
In the end, riding with the world isn’t weakness. It’s wisdom. It’s letting the journey shape you — not just where you end up, but how you get there.
This is part of a 12-part series exploring Stoic wisdom through the lens of two wheels. Read the full series or pre-order the book below:
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