It's the Bay Area, 2003, I'm riding my second bike, a Honda Nighthawk, 750 ccs on 880, 280, across the Bay Bridge. I was trying to kill myself. My life meant nothing to me. I was at the edge. I had been pushed to the edge.
A particularily rough commute. A very slow merge, car commuters, big rigs, and me, a suicidal lane splitter. I had years of lane splitting, but I always respected the big rigs, gave them room, dared not engage with them. Not that day. I zipped at reckless speeds between the hulking, slow moving transporters, one on each side, sometimes just one between the long line of cars.
The thrill I got, a tiny fly, weaving in the space between, could be smashed at any time. I still respected those big rigs, but I was a different animal. I was fast, nimble, efficient on a different scale. I used the space those big rigs couldn't. Audacious. Zoom, zoom.
This memory recently asserted itself. And while I haven't lane split on a motorycle in many years, I still identify with that past self. I'm still metaphorically lane splitting the big rigs.