Pain is a familiar concept to us all, but we shouldn’t mistake familiarity for comprehension. That little four-letter word encompasses such a vast array of diverse phenomena it can be very difficult to know exactly what anyone else means by it. Is their pain the same as ours? The English language is similarly confusing in the way another four-letter word, “love,” can refer to both our deepest, most cherished life-long relationships and our enjoyment of a ballpark hotdog. Obviously, those are not the same loves. Let’s examine some varieties of pain, especially as they relate to riding our motorcycles.
One way to subdivide this impossibly broad topic into more manageable categories is to differentiate the acute pain of an injury from the chronic pain of a longstanding condition. We might contend with the former in the immediate aftermath of a crash. The latter could emerge as we persist in riding despite a growing list of age-related maladies. Or, by changing the scale of “longstanding,” we could include the sustained suffering endemic to touring, wherein lengthy stints in the saddle yield pains that aren’t part of routine experience elsewhere, or the strenuous demands of a track day or tough trail ride, each of which force the repetitive use of muscles rarely exercised off the bike.
For discussing the pain of injury, I’ll use my most vivid memory of such. (I realize I’m quite fortunate this is the worst example I’ve got, as it’s nowhere near as bad as what some in the audience have endured.) I was leading a trail ride, feeling good about my skills and the gap I’d opened up between myself and the rest of my group. Hurtling down an unfamiliar stretch, I was caught off guard by a series of big whoops and got waaaay out of shape, ultimately slamming into the face of one as I landed from the previous hump with my front end low. I didn’t crash, although it might have been better if I had. Instead, my arms absorbed the impact after my fork ran out of travel, nearly dislocating my shoulders. (An MRI would later reveal damage to both rotator cuffs and a chunk of one humerus yanked off the rest of the bone by a deltoid tendon.) I got off the bike and propped myself up against it in agony, anxiously awaiting my friends. I didn’t know what assistance they could realistically provide in this situation, but I couldn’t think and just wanted help! I got none. As they flew by, I tried to communicate I was hurt, but my weak gesture looked like a sign I was okay and was waving them past. Now, being many miles into the rough and without hope of rescue, I had no choice but to climb back into the saddle and pick my way out of the woods, despite severe pain and limited use of my arms.
Pain is a signal something’s wrong. It’s purpose is to motivate corrective behavior to remedy the problem or at least avoid making it worse. My body certainly did not consider riding a dirt bike over rugged terrain with ragdoll arms as satisfying either criteria. Its demands grew more and more vehement, but I had no idea how to comply, aside from trying to find a still position on the ground that might begin to quiet the alarm. But such a “solution” would only prolong my dilemma; I needed to get out of the wilderness and find help. The required approach involved deliberately interpreting my pain as information, rather than instruction. Think of dashboard warning lights. Although a select few indicate the absolute necessity of quickly shutting everything down, most alert us to the need to get something checked soon. In the meantime, once we’ve registered its prompt, the warning holds no further significance. Of course, it’s immeasurably easier to ignore an amber dash light than excruciating nerve impulses screaming from inside our own body, but the principle is much the same. My pain made it crystal clear I’d been hurt and needed to tend to the damage, but the urgency of getting immediate relief indicated by its intensity was implausible in this scenario. I couldn’t do anything to heal my wounds in the moment, and any remedy ultimately depended upon me reaching safety and then pursuing medical attention. The alarm’s imperative couldn’t be taken at face value; writhing on the side of the trail wasn’t a viable option. I had to treat it like a dash light.
The psychological process involved in reinterpreting pain as merely information instead of an irresistible demand to seek immediate relief is a version of dissociation. (Some pain medications achieve much the same thing: the person is still aware of their pain, but it’s just not as powerfully compelling.) Put very, very simply, dissociation is the separation of emotion from thought (or the separation of both from conscious awareness). For example, a person may be dissociating when they recount a horrific event from their history in a flat, matter-of-fact way, as though it was a story they read in a book. Dissociation can be quite problematic when it interferes with our accurate assessment of the real impact and ongoing influence of past experiences, but it serves a valuable function, too. It’s like a circuit breaker that saves us from overwhelm. It allows us to function, albeit partially, instead of being incapacitated and vulnerable to further harm in a helplessly paralyzed state.
Sterilizing physical pain—stripping away the emotional/motivational component from its informational value—is much the same process as what happens when people use dissociation to cope with psychological trauma. (“Trauma” is best defined as any situational stress that exceeds our resources, internal or interpersonal, for dealing with it directly and constructively. Hence, the threshold is different for each individual and even for the same individual at different times.) In either physical or psychological examples, dissociation can be somewhat deliberate or completely automatic. We might know we’re actively resisting focused awareness, or subconscious processes may keep things sequestered without our witting intent. This can also happen at a purely physical level: the site of a serious injury may go numb at first, perhaps saving us from severe pain that would interfere with our immediate pursuit of safety and assistance. Of course, this phenomenon might obscure the pressing need for medical care and additional damage may therefore ensue (the same holds true for psychological trauma).
Getting back to the woods, I was able to dissociate well enough to make my way to a gravel road where my comrades awaited. While they couldn’t ease my pain and there was no practical way for them to relieve me of the necessity of continuing to ride back to my trailer, I was glad we’d intersected this much smoother shortcut out of the wilderness. There was also tremendous comfort involved in simply being in the company of benevolent others. Part of what had kept me moving was the intolerable prospect of being helplessly alone. In this case, I was confident my buddies would come back looking for me if I failed to show up at the next choice point, where we always paused to ensure nobody took the wrong turn, but the theoretical possibility of being stranded and lost nevertheless loomed large in my mind. Alongside the pain (and also magnifying it), this fear threatened to distract me from the task of piloting my motorcycle over difficult topography, even as it also motivated me to press on. Fear requires management, too. The common denominator is focusing attention on a concrete, pragmatic activity instead of allowing it to lock onto either pain or fear. Achieving such deliberate focus can be extremely difficult, or even impossible if the pain or fear is strong enough. In such a desperate situation, the vital importance of a supportive presence cannot be overstated. Whether we have a flesh-and-blood companion or faith in a higher power, a sense of connection provides hope and makes a world of difference in our ability to deal with the rest of the situation, at least emotionally. It can determine whether an event is experienced as “merely” horrible or genuinely traumatic. Although I was still in great pain, the element of fear was greatly diminished upon reuniting with my group.
What about the other type of pain mentioned earlier, the miseries associated with aging, or being stuck in the riding position for long hours, or the repetitive, vigorous use of muscles during hard riding? These are not “injuries” of the sort in my tale of woe, but they are sources of considerable discomfort or outright debilitating pain. While I might support the temporary disregard of pain in the interest of making our way to safety and finding help, I wouldn’t advise anyone to ignore pain that’s simply inconvenient; there are too many possible causes, some of which could be more serious than the pain’s intensity suggests. Anyone in chronic pain should consult a medical professional about their specific needs. That said, here are some thoughts on dealing with riding aches and pains.
Few riders take seriously the need for physical fitness. I know that not because studies have shown a majority of motorcyclists ignore their own health, but because this attitude is endemic in our society and riders are no exception. Strength and flexibility are both required to operate a motorcycle with optimal ease and effectiveness. Physical conditioning off the bike, involving resistance training and stretching (along with good sleep), can go a long way toward reducing many bodily problems in the saddle. (See the work of Lynda Meyers, RN, a contributor to Owners News magazine and author of the book, Motorcycle Rider Maintenance, available at lyndameyersco.com.) Even folks in great shape experience fatigue, cramps, soreness, stiffness and other musculoskeletal problems on challenging rides. The most common causes aren’t mysterious: hypothermia, hyperthermia and dehydration. The solutions are equally straightforward: stop to warm up or cool down, and drink an appropriate beverage. These are not ailments to “tough out;” we must leave our machismo in the garage.
Dehydration and sustained exposure to extreme temperatures in either direction yield an accelerating curve of both mental and physical malfunction. Such conditions can be deadly, even before we get to the perils of riding a motorcycle while impaired. Our endurance stints should be time-limited, punctuated with restorative breaks. A repeating X-minute goal has several advantages. We’re better able to tolerate discomfort when we know it’ll end at a pre-defined point. The clock doesn’t add minutes just because we think we can last a little longer; it sidesteps our tendency to misjudge such things under stress. And it allows us to zoom out and plan longer term, perhaps shortening the total distance we expect to cover by day’s end. Mile goals don’t have the same relevance to our bodies, even though they hold psychological appeal. With regard to “appropriate” beverages, a hot cup of coffee or a cold beer will actually further deplete the body’s store of water, as both caffeine and alcohol are diuretics (not to mention the latter’s negative impact on judgment and reaction time). While plain water intake is crucial, sports drinks with electrolytes will do more to avert cramping and mental fog.
Likewise, taking breaks to stretch and restore the mobility sacrificed in the riding position can make a huge difference in both the discomfort experienced during the ride and the residual aches and pains that follow later in the evening and the next day. Interruption is key. Pain is compounded by sustained momentum. A surgeon riding buddy always extolled the value of pre-empting pain by taking anti-inflammatory medication (e.g., ibuprofen or naproxen) before a demanding ride, explaining it works best when it stays ahead of the problem. Being proactive beats being reactive. Once in significant pain, we’re at a disadvantage—both mentally and physically—in managing it. Still, challenging rides will require the endurance of some discomfort. We must carefully discern the difference between the soreness of exertion and the pain of an actual injury. It may be useful to ignore the former for a while, but neglecting the latter is apt to be counterproductive and invite worse harm.
The Ride Inside with Mark Barnes is brought to you by the MOA Foundation. You can join the BMW Motorcycle Owners of America quickly and easily to better take advantage of the Paul B. Grant and Clark Luster training reimbursement programs offered by the Foundation.
