Machines, Machinery and Life

Machines aren't alive; everyone knows this, except possibly the people who work on and with some of them. 

The machine I'm currently on certainly seems alive; it's spent the last ten minutes trying to spit me off it in some sort of weird, innocent puppy-play way. It wants me to roll on the rug and play tug of war, and isn't going to settle for me sitting on the couch and scratching its ears.

The word, of course, is 'anthropomorphization'; the endowing of non-human animals or inanimate objects with the traits of humanity. It's an illogical kind of thing, and the basis for almost all the really good Disney characters of the last century. I know this, but can't help thinking this new bike has a distinct personality.

I decide it might be safer to play along, then, and so I stop futzing about and start riding with more intent. Puppy-Motorcycle signals its approval by immediately settling into its suspension and roaring toward redline as I downshift and speed up. It certainly seems happier now, and, like seeing a puppy you're playing with enjoy itself, this is making me happier. 

I'm no longer the rider, I'm a co-conspirator, listening to the bad advice getting whispered in my ear and seeing if the footpegs will touch in the corners now that I've warmed the tires up a bit, and turning that pesky traction control down so the front wheel can get off the ground and stretch a bit on the corner exits. I'm still the one turning the bars and pulling the levers, but I'm no longer telling the bike what to do; we're cooperating in all this. It's a partnership, rather than a rider and a bike, a team rather than someone controlling a dumb machine.

I glance down at the dash (a quick one, this is a curvy road) and I'm astonished at the speed that's registering. My instinctive reaction is to slow down-I don't really like hospital food, and don't really feel like bringing in a whole new crop of skin, something the armored gear I'm wearing could never fully prevent if Mr. Puppy-Motorcycle and I were to make some tiny miscalculation at this speed and on this road. But as if sensing this, the bike settles the front end into the next curve even more solidly, giving feedback through the bars showing the suspension working and tire gripping with insane force as it leans over and rails through. "Don't worry", it says, "we've got this. Not breaking a sweat here." I listen, and we continue to speed through these corners faster than I've ever dared on any other bike.

I know machines aren't alive. Every sane person knows that. 

Except for really, really good motorcycles.