Why Every Motorcyclist Needs Time at Idle

DanF9 | Jan 5, 2026 — We tend to think about motorcycling, or any form of transportation really, as a "thing in motion." Our experiences exist as we move through various spaces, landscapes, familiar corners and unfamiliar destinations.

Being the contrarian that I am, I thought: Why not look into the moments in between, that is to say, the moments in which I experience motorcycling in the lull of immobility, in the space between slowing down and accelerating.

It sounds poetic to me, but is it just philosophy-speak or is there some meat on the bone here? Enough to say that the moments in which we are idle have just as much of an impact, if not more of an impact, on our overall experience of riding a motorcycle? I tend to discount nothing in these types of matters; even if I am mostly in motion, I know that the pleasure I derive from riding is not limited to my relationship with speed.

Immobility Is the Counterpoint to Time in Motion

It's the reset in our loop that provides balance and stretches out time to its maximum. It is the anti-destination, the thing that prevents us from reaching our goal (whether that's work, a vacation spot, etc.).

Practically, this is a pain in the butt. The more time we "waste" being idle, the less effective we are at completing tasks. But if we're talking about the riding experience in and of itself, the destination is just an element among others, and holds practically no primacy in determining the fulfillment we derive from the activity.

Idling is an unusual thing. In a similar vein, so is boredom. It provides a maximum amount of space with oneself, in exchange for time.

It's easy to forget where time goes, but from a zoomed-out perspective, it's the most precious resource we have. Your life is an hourglass of time, and it does not replenish itself. This kind of thought has inspired many schools of thought, the most popular being hedonism, with slogans like "carpe diem," but I'm actually trying to arrive at the opposite conclusion here.

It Can Wait

Many philosophers would argue that because time is precious, you must accelerate into life, do what you can when you can, seize the moments, savour everything, smell every rose, fill your life with moments of action and movement, of purpose.

It's a thought that is charming in a romantic sense, but it lacks balance. If you're always busy seizing the day, what do you do at night? I'd like to think there's room here to simply: wait. Life is just as much about "living" as it is about doing nothing. Some thinkers of old (Montaigne, for example) knew this, but it seems as though the value of boredom has been lost somewhere between industrialism and the invention of the modern man.

What does it mean "to have time on your hands?" Nowadays, the connotation is especially negative, and some are quick to shame you for being slothful if you have too much "free time." Too much of it equates to being aimless, basically: an unproductive member of society. And when all other judgements fail, this one throws an uppercut:

How can you sit there and do nothing if you have the privilege of this freedom?

I might be writing this so that I can read it back to myself. Then again, I might be writing this for others who have posed similar questions—it's completely alright to enjoy idleness, to have a space all to yourself and to feel entitled to it. Without this boredom, we would rarely know how to deal with living. If everything is action, and if everything is in motion, the effect of perpetual movement cascades onto our shoulders and we are left with little to no time to sow the seeds of our future fulfillment. This can be quickly summarized with idioms like "getting caught up" in the moment.

Entangled in Motion

I would also argue that being obsessively entangled in motion contributes to increasing the speed at which we perceive time passing. If everything is in motion all the time, if our lives are moving from goal to goal, the moments in between are typically perceived as uncomfortable impediments that we must quickly dispose of. Thus, we move from one point of arrival to the next, never truly practicing the fundamental act of elongating the space between each point.

Practicing idleness can be a remedy to this. Concretely, this can mean many things:

• Fully coming to a halt at that stop sign and taking a deep breath
• Planning pitstops "just cause"
• Sitting on your bike in your garage for a few extra minutes before heading out

Many moments like these are opportunities to centre ourselves, and to allow the natural flow of time to expand and contract, much like we breathe in and out.

Much Ado About Nothing

You're not "wasting" time if you're doing nothing. You've always had the same amount of it. Creating more or less space for the clock to tick, however, is entirely up to you.

I'd like to think that nowadays, we have too much speed; we are too carried away with immediate things. Things like "place my order now," 1 day shipping times, short videos, dopamine hits available at will, rushing here, sprinting there, and crashing out completely spent and wondering if that's all there is to this tragi-comedy.

Slowing down to a halt is as much a part of the process as it is fundamental to its essence. You can't expect to keep up with this speedy game of life if you don't create those pockets of time that feel endless, that provide you with a sense of balance to propel you forward, and reclaim the open road once again.

May your rides be as memorable as the space in between.

—

Author's Note

Anything with the ability to transport always does so from 1 point to another. But if we frame this cyclically, every point of arrival is also a point of beginning. In this cycle, I would insert a straight line of inaction (my diagram would thus look more like an earring than a circle). This has a dual purpose: it spaces out your arrivals with your starts, so that each voyage is distinct while following the same process. Secondly, the distinction it creates staves off every experiences bleeding into the next; here, you start to lose track of your references and often forget why you're on the journey in the first place. I make this distinction in the abstract, but concretely there is always time between things, whether you like it or not. However, the central theme that preoccupies me is this: Is this in-between ever acknowledged in its importance, or is it just "something that exists?" I'd like to think that being ever the more conscious of these sort of purgatory-like moments, and giving them weight, allows us to better unfold future experiences as we inevitably go through the loop once again.

Have something to say about the matter? Join the Discussion.

Want more tips like these to improve your rider's mindset? Subscribe to The Break-In, FortNine's weekly newsletter!