I was, and remain, deeply distrustful of power, especially male power – wielded to exclude and twisted by the logic that it is visible in myself only to the degree that it is absent in others. By the age of 12 all boys have lived the wretched calculus of these games. The depths of my failure to so much as rank, much less win, was an incontestable and central feature of my young life. I have yet to find anyone who feels like they won anything worth having. Even more disturbing, some childhood friends have told me that they saw me among the winners. That I am seized by revulsion for my “success” is proof enough for me to condemn that way of living. Riding had already demonstrated other ways to measure accomplishment. 

Given my ambivalent relationship with definitions of manhood handed to me it was a bit awkward to suddenly discover that I really do have a penis, and downright humiliating when I realized how hard it was to keep my hands off of the damn thing. I could already see that twisted wreckage of modern manhood was my inescapable birthright. I wanted out. Power loomed over me, dangerous, somber, and soaked in unwanted obligation. It took over my very flesh; strength and lust came unexpected, unbidden, and unwelcome. Would that I had known there was no way around this blighted land – only through. 

Magic – that a few scraps of metal and rubber became more of an organ than a tool. The agent of action became the path of awareness. As I write I am written. As I ride I am ridden. Pain, sweat, fear, blood, surprise, and delight flowed back up through the wheels, creaky fame, and sweaty bars to be written back upon me. Strength scribbled randomly across the land was repaid a thousand fold in joy, absurd ecstasy and profound belonging. 

Eventually, there was no escape from, only escape into. 

My own path to power was revealed and the penis kind of came along for the ride.

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