Motorcycles used to scare the hell out of me. I’m not talking about driving one myself; I can barely manage walking upright. I mean, riding on one. They just look dangerous, moving so fast with no restraint to keep you from falling off. People would try to talk me into going for a ride, but I refused. Sometimes it was because I didn’t trust them, but mostly I was worried I would somehow ride on it wrong, leaning too far to the side and tipping the bike over or something.

It all changed last year when a friend pulled up to the Press Room with a shiny new Triumph and offered me a ride. I resisted at first, but between his coaxing and the fact that Bruce Pingree was laughing at me for being such a chicken, I finally hopped on the back.

It was a short ride, just down the street to my house, but long enough for me to discover what an exhilarating feeling it is to watch the world go by without the constraints of metal and glass acting as a filter. I wasn’t frightened. I just sat still and let the driver worry about keeping the bike vertical. I almost immediately developed a sense for how the bike moved. When we took corners, my body leaned with the bike without thought, as naturally as breathing. After that, I couldn’t believe I had ever been afraid, and accepted rides whenever I could.

This summer, having another bike at my disposal, I decided it was time for a road trip. You know, walk the Earth like Kane … except on wheels. With four days available to us, my boyfriend and I decided we’d go to Canada. We’d travel through Quebec, up along the St. Lawrence Seaway, and back down around New Brunswick, a total of about 1,800 miles.

My chariot? A 1982 BMW R65. It looks like Mad Max might even pass on it. Its parts are all grizzled and oily, but it’s definitely a formidable machine. Other BMW bike owners stare at it in awe. I like to think it’s because it’s so cool, and not because they’re wondering what’s holding it together.

The route was mapped, saddle bags packed and off we went. The first day was the hardest. It was sticky hot and drizzling rain. We had to put our rain gear on, which made it even warmer. I also wore a helmet, because it’s the smart thing to do, but I really hate having one on. It dulls the experience, eliminates my peripheral vision, and makes me feel like I’m wearing a sensory-deprivation fish bowl. Occasionally, a strand of my hair will come loose and float around in front of my eyes like a goldfish.

When you’re on a long bike trip, you can’t help but think of Iggy Pop singing “I am a passenger, and I ride and I ride.” When there’s not much to look at, the lull of the engine beneath you and the white lines dashing by can make you sleepy. A few hours into our trip, I started to get drowsy. One minute, I was staring at a seemingly endless field full of cows. The next, my helmet collided with my boyfriend’s back and I realized I had nodded off.

“Do not fall asleep again!” I ordered my brain. “We’ll fall off, you idiot!”

“Go to ssssssssssssssssssleep,” my brain said back, like Kaa in “The Jungle Book.”

It’s amazing how you can tell yourself that pitching sideways and having the asphalt rush up to meet you at a high speed will surely result in your death, and yet your body continues to drowse. After dozing off a few more times, I resorted to drastic measures: I sang the “Welcome Back, Kotter” theme over and over as loud as I could until we stopped for gas and I climbed down and shook myself awake.

Later in the day, it started raining harder. The hot, insidious precipitation crept into our clothes, making us feel uncomfortable and moldy. Also, never having ridden for any serious amount of time before, my legs were ready to fall off. It was welcome relief when we reached the hotel that night.

There are advantages to being a passenger. Much like being in the back of a car, you’re able to look around. I saw a giant dragon statue, galloping moose, fornicating porcupines. The driver is limited in his ability to observe. Drivers also take the brunt of the bugs.

And being on a bike is more liberating than being in an automobile. You feel the world pressing back on you as you slice through it. I imagine it’s quite close to flying.

But being on a bike instead of in a car also means you’re exposed to weather extremes. It poured so hard the second day that we were unable to leave and instead spent the day in old Quebec City. We looked at castles, ate crepes and drank bowls of hot chocolate.

The delay left us two days to cover 1,400 miles. The third day, the vast majority of the drive was right along the St. Lawrence Seaway. Imagine if the White Mountains and Rye Beach were smooshed together and a road ran right between them. To our left, the Atlantic Ocean crashed on the rocks. To our right, mountains rose high above us, people hang gliding off their tops. The road was filled with steep inclines and drops. Flashing signs alternately warned us of moose in the road and waves washing us off it. My head swiveled like a bobble doll, trying to take it all in.

The last day of our journey, I was sad. I had none of that feeling people get of wanting to be home. I was Peter Fonda now. I wanted to be carried around the continent on this metal beast and see what else is out there. I had gotten used to the idea that each day would be filled with nature speeding by just outside my skin. I’d even miss the camaraderie we shared with other bikers, the barely perceptible wave you make to one another as you pass, as if to say, “Hey, you’re one of the good guys.” (It’s like an air-high-five.) I didn’t want to go home.

But I wasn’t driving.