To this very day I have no pre-programmed response to this question and its cringe-activating variants.
The simple reply would probably be: me. From the virgin touch of my first little die-cast toy I have been hopelessly addicted. It is an addiction that makes a hardcore crackhead look like a pitiful amateur. If those who enjoy the addiction had to explain it, you wouldn’t understand anyway. You will never comprehend the toy-fed coalfire burning in our souls; without which we would surely fall into depressing darkness and wilt away.
Much the same can be said for the love of motorcycles.
“Who got you into biking?”
Copy-paste above response here. Change one or two words, and viola. The two addictions are like a set of Siamese twins who have taken residence within my convoluted soul. Remove one, and the other would surely suffer for it.
If your chosen steed does not turn you into a whimpering, drooling five-year-old with every awakening, do you even have a soul? If every approaching tunnel or underpass does not writhe your expression to that of a teen about to do something very frowned upon, are you even alive?
But how DARE I liken motorcycles to a child’s toy?!
I have witnessed grown men brawling in supermarket aisles over a ‘child’s toy’. Just as you would think twice about getting between a biker and their ride, you would be wise to not get between a collector and their most pervertedly prized Hot Wheels.
Think I’m bluffing? Try it out, but do so on your own prerogative. The priest reading your epitaph is going to have great difficulty keeping a sincere expression.
Flipping the coin over, you will find that the two addictions – we call them ‘passions’; it sounds less like a rehabilitable phase – bring together cacophonies of like-minded ‘passionists’. Both collectors and bikers come together in packs of fanatic mutual love and respect.
Stories are shared, tales are compared, sorrows and joys are relived with compassion that could only stem from an understanding rooted in the deepest gulleys of one’s soul. Soul-gulleys carved for eternity by the flow of love for your passions.
Don’t ever let your gulleys run dry. A gulleyed soul run dry will die a slow, depressed and woeful death.