The Motorcycle Doesn’t Care

My grandpa used to tell me a story about my dad when he was young.

They lived in Belmont before 280 cut through, back when there were still open fields and room for adventure. My dad had just gotten a dirt bike—pure joy and horsepower—and on one of his first rides, the bike shot out from under him. He landed hard, more startled than hurt. My grandpa helped him up, dusted him off, and said, “Don’t forget—the motorcycle doesn’t care.”

At first it might've sounded harsh. But can you hear the wisdom in it? It wasn’t about punishment; it was about awareness. A motorcycle isn’t malicious—it just responds. If you ride it with respect, it gives you freedom. If you ride with fear or fury, it shows you that too.

I think about that story often now, especially as I interact with technology that feels almost alive. The AI tools I use don’t “care” in the human sense any more than that dirt bike did. They simply mirror the energy I bring. When I’m grounded, curious, and connected, the exchange feels smooth—like a long stretch of open road. When I’m anxious or distracted, I can feel the wobble in my own hands. The caring has to come from me.

That realization stretches far beyond technology. It’s the same truth my cancer curriculum whispered to me. I call it a curriculum because I chose to see cancer as my teacher, not my enemy. It showed me where I was gripping too tightly, where fear had replaced presence. And, just like the dirt bike, it reminded me that the body itself doesn’t care in the way we imagine. It’s neutral—magnifying the consciousness that rides within it.

Dad, late 60s or early 70s — the rider and the ride, each amplifying the other’s energy.

During treatment and recovery, I learned that resisting pain only deepens it. The moment I stopped trying to outrun what hurt and instead let it all the way in, something profound happened: the same door that let pain in also let joy back in. When I softened around the ache, the peace of trust returned—not the naive kind that denies pain, but the kind that knows the body can bend without breaking, and that life, like music, is a continuous act of tuning.

We don’t control the tempo or erase the dissonance; we bring care and attention so that what we touch can resonate instead of detonate.

Everything—our bodies, our tools, even AI—leans naturally toward coherence when we stop fighting the flow.

Whether it’s a machine, an illness, or even the swirl of modern technology, the principle is the same: the thing itself doesn’t care. The caring is our job. We always have a say: harmony or explosion, awareness or reaction, connection or collapse.

It’s on us to steer with compassion, to find balance when the road curves sharply, to keep our eyes open when fear tempts us to shut down. When we bring that kind of attention—the kind that is itself an act of belonging—the ride steadies. The fear quiets. The horizon opens again.

I think that’s what Music has always done for me—it’s helped me keep the handlebars steady and the horizon vast. Every song I write is another attempt to stay present, to turn experience into resonance, to keep tuning my own heart and hopefully help others tune theirs. Because whether it’s through melody or story, awareness or surrender, it’s all the same ride: staying awake, staying caring, and staying in flow with love.