Motorcycle Driving Tips for Blind People

Hold Up, What?

Yeah, you read that right.

Not “motorcycle tips for the visually impaired.” Not “adaptive riding techniques.” Nope. This is full-send, eyes-closed, Jesus-take-the-handlebars content right here.

Your therapist is already drafting the intervention letter. Your mother just felt a disturbance in the force. Your insurance company’s risk assessment algorithm just achieved consciousness specifically to scream. But you? You’re still reading. That says something about both of us, and honestly, it’s not great.

Here’s what everyone needs to understand: Some ideas are so spectacularly terrible that they loop back around to being fascinating. Like gas station sushi or dating someone who says “adulting is hard” unironically. This is that. Except with more fatalities.

The Pre-Ride Checklist Nobody Asked For

Before you mount your steel death pony, you’re gonna need supplies. And by supplies, we mean “evidence for the inevitable investigation.”

Also grab some of those little tree air fresheners. Not for your bike—for the funeral home. Think ahead.

Finding Your Bike (A Journey)

Garages are basically escape rooms except you’re trying to get in, not out, and the prize is probable death.

Start by the door. Shuffle forward. Kick everything. That lawn mower? Not your bike. That pile of Christmas decorations from 2019? Still not your bike. That thing that just made a very expensive crashing sound? Getting warmer.

Your bike is the thing covered in chrome that feels like it costs more than your kid’s college fund. Which is convenient, because after this, they won’t need college. They’ll need therapy.

Hot tip: If you lick it and taste regret and motor oil, you’ve found it. If you taste blood, you’ve found the chainsaw. Common mistake.

Okay But How Do You Actually Start This Thing

Keys are your first boss battle.

You know those people who can find their keys by sound? The gentle jingle that says “I’m a responsible adult who knows where things are”? Yeah, that’s not you anymore. You’re gonna be feeling up your bike like it owes you money. The ignition could be anywhere. Under the seat? Behind the headlight? In your pocket from yesterday when you chickened out? Mystery is half the fun. (Death is the other half.)

Once you find the ignition, starting the engine is simple:

1. Insert key (after 47 attempts)
2. Turn key (wrong way first, always)
3. Press what you hope is the starter
4. If you hear screaming, that’s either the engine or pedestrians
5. Both means success!

The Philosophy of Speed

How fast should you go? Picture the worst decision you’ve ever made. Now add velocity.

You can’t read the speedometer anyway, so develop a new system based on existential dread:

• Mild concern: 15 mph
• Questioning life choices: 35 mph
• Bargaining with deities: 55 mph
• Achieving enlightenment through terror: 75 mph
• Becoming one with the void: You’ve left the atmosphere

There’s a sweet spot around 45 mph where you’re going fast enough to die but slow enough to really think about it first. That’s your target zone.

Navigation for Nihilists

Streets have names. You’ll never know them.

Instead, you’re gonna navigate like a drunk homing pigeon with commitment issues. Every ride is a surprise party where the surprise is where you end up and the party is everyone else’s insurance premiums going up.

Turn signals are adorable. You really think you know which way you’re going? The only signal you need is the universal signal of chaos: going straight through every intersection at maximum confusion. Left? Right? Yes.

Red lights, green lights—it’s all the same shade of invisible to you. Just assume every light is yellow and floor it. Yellow means “make a decision,” and you’ve already made yours.

Other Drivers: The Supporting Cast in Your Personal Disaster Movie

Traffic is just spicy proximity.

Everyone around you falls into one of three categories:

1. The Panickers (swerving, honking, praying)
2. The Phone People (won’t notice until impact)
3. The Cops (following at a “safe” distance with backup requested)

You’ll develop relationships with regular commuters. There’s Honda Civic Guy who’s been honking the same pattern for three weeks now—it’s almost like morse code if morse code just said “WHAT THE F—” over and over. There’s Minivan Mom who’s definitely calling someone. Multiple someones. Possibly the National Guard.

And then there’s that one person who sees you every day and just… accepts it. They’ve transcended fear. You’re part of their commute now, like construction or existential dread. Respect them.

Parking: An Interpretive Dance

You know what’s overrated? Knowing where you’re parking. Or if you’re parking. Or if that’s even a parking space.

Your style is more “performance art.” Sometimes you park on the sidewalk. Sometimes in the sidewalk. Once, memorably, through the sidewalk and into the basement of a Baskin Robbins. (They have 31 flavors of ice cream but only one flavor of lawsuit, turns out.)

The secret is confidence. Dismount your bike wherever it stops, walk away like you meant to park inside that hedge, and never look back. Looking back requires turning around, and you might walk into traffic. Or worse, back to your bike.

Let’s Talk About Your Inevitable Relationship With Pavement

You’re going to crash. Not maybe. Not probably. Definitely. The question isn’t if, it’s how many times before lunch.

Good news: After your third crash, you get a punch card. Tenth one’s free! Bad news: The prize is a morphine drip and a very disappointed paramedic named Keith who’s real tired of your shit.

You’ll become intimate with every surface in your city. Asphalt? That’s beginner stuff. You’re gonna discover textures you didn’t know existed. Gravel-embedded-in-flesh is a classic. Fence-through-jacket is avant-garde. Decorative-fountain-surprise is just festive.

The Legal Situation (Spoiler: It’s Bad)

Your lawyer doesn’t return your calls anymore. Your lawyer has blocked your number. Your lawyer has fled the country and assumed a new identity as a sheep farmer in New Zealand, which seems extreme but honestly, who can blame them?

The legal system wasn’t built for this level of audacious stupidity. There’s no checkbox for “client actively trying to become a statistic.” You’re not breaking laws so much as inventing new ones. Future law students will study your cases under a chapter titled “What Not to Do: Everything.”

The judge knows you by name now. Not in a good way. In a “bailiff, prepare the special restraining order” way.

Why This Is Technically Still Your Choice (A Terrible One, But Still)

Free will is a hell of a drug.

Nobody can actually stop you from buying a motorcycle and closing your eyes. That’s the beautiful horror of human autonomy. You could also eat nothing but cotton candy for a year or try to fistfight the sun. Freedom means the right to make catastrophically bad decisions.

But here’s where it gets philosophical—and stay with this for just one second—your right to swing your fists ends where someone else’s nose begins. And on a motorcycle, blind, you’re basically swinging fists in every direction at 60 mph. That’s less “personal freedom” and more “biological weapon.”

The Part Where Reality Has Entered the Chat

Listen. Nobody’s actually doing this.

This entire guide exists in the same universe as “How to Perform Your Own Root Canal” and “Teaching Bears to Use Doorknobs: A Beginner’s Guide.” It’s theoretical in the same way that drinking lava is theoretical. Technically possible? Sure. Good idea? Absolutely not.

If you’ve read this far, you’re either procrastinating something important or you’re genuinely considering this, in which case, please, for the love of whatever you hold sacred, consider stamp collecting instead. Or competitive eating. Or literally any hobby that doesn’t involve weaponizing a vehicle.

Your Actual Best Option

Want to experience the thrill of blind motorcycling without the whole “definitely dying” thing?

Roller coasters. Seriously. Close your eyes on a roller coaster. Same adrenaline, same screaming, same potential for vomiting, but with significantly less chance of taking out a farmers market.

Or try this: Sit on a washing machine during the spin cycle while someone throws tennis balls at you. That’s basically the same experience but cheaper and you’re already near the first aid supplies under the sink.

The truth nobody wants to hear? Life’s already trying to kill you in a thousand different ways. Your cells are dividing wrong right now. Your arteries are plotting. That leftover Chinese food is definitely suspicious. You don’t need to add “voluntary vehicular blindness” to the list of things trying to end you.

But hey, you do you.

Just maybe do you somewhere far away from everyone else.

Like Mars.

Disclaimer: This is satire. If you needed this disclaimer to figure that out, you shouldn’t be operating any vehicle, sighted or otherwise. The author accepts no liability for anyone who reads this and thinks “challenge accepted.” Natural selection is not a personal challenge. Please make better choices. Your mother is worried about you.