Moto Italia – On the Humility of Being a Motorcyclist
There are moments in life that teach us humility for the rest of our days. Humility isn’t something you can theorize or learn from someone else’s mistakes. These are events that must strike us deeply in order to shift how we perceive our actions—and remind us that everything around us, including our own lives, is fragile.
Humility means respect—for life and for all that surrounds us. It can take different forms depending on the individual and their place in the world. For one person, it may manifest as modesty and restraint; for another, as a deep reverence for the forces we cannot control with conscious action. There’s no “better” or “worse” version of humility—what matters is our own honest understanding of our posture toward life, and whether we truly live with humility. That answer is something we each have to find for ourselves.
In this piece, I want to share a story from 2016—an episode from one of my boldest adventures that shook me to the core. The events that unfolded brought me face to face with a deep, visceral fear, and for the first time, I truly felt that only sheer luck—or some unfathomable twist of fate disguised as destiny—had kept me from crossing the line between life and death.
Motorcycles have long been one of my life’s greatest passions. Since buying my first bike in 2009, I’ve spent years learning the ins and outs of riding. I’ve logged more than 100,000 kilometers on two wheels, often riding solo, gradually learning what it means to truly respect the machine. That respect didn’t come overnight—it grew through mistakes, successes, and returning safely home from every ride.
I love speed—and the unique sense of control and agency I feel when I ride. Over the years, most of my experience has come from riding sport bikes, machines that not only let me explore my own capabilities, but constantly reminded me how much more I needed to learn to safely harness their potential. This almost metaphysical connection with the motorcycle has always been essential to me, because I’ve always known that a single careless move could end in disaster. The nature of sport bikes leaves far less room for error than other types of motorcycles.
I come from a family of drivers, and respect for the road has been ingrained in me since early childhood. Over the years, this evolved into a unique sense of driver’s awareness—the kind of awareness I had always aspired to develop. The road is an element I truly love, something I feel deeply connected to. And that connection becomes even more intense and intimate when I'm on a motorcycle.
And so, I want to take you with me—on a trip through sun-soaked Italy, and the lesson I’ll carry for the rest of my life.
In July 2016, my then-girlfriend—whom I warmly greet if she ever reads this—and I were planning a two-week vacation together. I had arranged with a friend to borrow his Honda 954 for that period, since I didn’t own a motorcycle at the time, having sold my previous one. The plan was simple: we’d set off from Warsaw to the Polish seaside for a week, then head back home to repack and spend the second week in the mountains.
We were both excited and began preparing for the trip a few days in advance. We were set to leave on Monday, and on Sunday we talked about how, if everything went well, we’d take a trip to Italy the following year. My partner had always dreamed of visiting the country, and I was more than eager to help make that dream come true.
On Sunday, when I went to pick up the bike from my friend, I had a conversation with his father—Mr. Wojtek—who is like a second father to me. He’s known me since I was eleven, and we spent countless hours together working on various projects around his property. Mr. Wojtek is one of those people I deeply respect for his mindset and awareness—being around him taught me so much that I later came to appreciate in adulthood.
During our brief chat, I told him about our holiday plans and mentioned that if everything went well, we were planning a trip to Italy the following year, once I had saved up enough money. That moment is something I’ll never forget. Mr. Wojtek responded quickly and almost laconically with something like: "Adaś, there's no point in waiting, because you never know what might happen a year from now. If you have a motorcycle, your health, and the opportunity now, I’ll lend you the money—just go and live your dream. You can pay me back once you start earning again.”
The joy I felt knowing that in just a few days I would be riding my motorcycle through the Alpine roads was almost indescribable. I eagerly accepted the offer and rushed back to my girlfriend to tell her that we were changing our plans — we were heading off to meet the land of pizza and espresso!
“Kasia! We’re going to Italy!”
“What? But we were supposed to go to the mountains and the seaside!”
“Change of plans—we leave tomorrow afternoon.”
We were thrilled. The spontaneity was exhilarating. After a quick route planning session, it dawned on us: it was already Sunday evening, and we were about to embark—just the two of us, on a sportbike—to a country hundreds of kilometers away. I’m not sure we truly grasped what we were getting into.
But the decision had been made, and it was more than certain that on Monday afternoon we’d be setting off on an adventure that, if nothing else, could definitely not be described as comfortable.
She began prepping for the minimalist packing situation—space was extremely limited. I quickly outlined the things I needed to get done on the bike. Since we wanted to save money, we also decided to bring a tent, sleeping bag, and a single sleeping pad, hoping to camp in scenic spots close to nature.
On Monday morning, I went to buy fresh engine oil to start the journey on a clean slate, and I also decided to purchase some accessory saddlebags—small packs that could carry our minimal yet essential belongings. At the time, I had no idea that this decision might turn out to be the last one I would ever make.
Generally, anyone who rides a motorcycle knows that for sport bikes—especially racing models like the one we were about to take—there are no dedicated racks for hard saddlebags. Instead, you can only get universal soft bags that strap across the passenger seat. At the time, it seemed like a pretty good idea—or at least a necessary one to carry out our plan as we had envisioned it.
After changing the oil and fitting the saddlebags to the motorcycle, it was time to pack up. Believe me, packing gear for two people—including a tent the size of a doghouse, a sleeping bag, and a sleeping mat—into one backpack and two small saddlebags is no easy task. Considering the fact that my girlfriend, quite understandably, wanted to bring a few nice outfits for romantic strolls through Italian towns, I had to make a few compromises. I trimmed down her inventory a bit and, at the same time, decided to remove a few of my own items from the already modest pack.
Having made it through all the technical hurdles related to kicking off the trip, on a beautiful July Monday afternoon, our excitement-packed ensemble—consisting of me, my girlfriend, a sporty Honda 945, a backpack, and two saddlebags—set off on a journey in pursuit of dreams, headed for Italy.
It’s worth noting here that riding a sport bike as the driver isn’t exactly the definition of comfort—especially with a passenger. But riding as the passenger in this kind of setup? That’s a whole different story. Honestly, if someone had offered me a trip like this as the passenger, I would’ve never agreed. The passenger seat on a sportbike is more of a symbolic patch of padding with foot pegs that force your knees up high, while your head is constantly battered by the wind. Add two saddlebags on each side, and you’ve got yourself a rather unique recipe for sustained discomfort.
The first few hours of riding were fairly tense. Because of the bike’s limited range on a single tank, we had to stop regularly—about every two hours. Each stop turned into a routine of checking all the gear strapped to the bike and seeing how our DIY mounting solutions were holding up under full load. Much to my relief, everything was holding together really well, which allowed me, with every passing kilometer, to shift my focus more and more toward the road and the pure joy of riding.
We ended the first day at a hotel near Katowice, having run out of energy to continue riding. Pleased with the initial success of our trip, we recharged for the next day. Ahead of us lay several hundred kilometers and a plan to stay at a campground near the Czech-Austrian border. The ride went smoothly, our spirits were high, and our motorcycle setup gave me a real sense of satisfaction. Everything felt just right. By the end of the second day, we were sipping wine by a Czech lake, with our tiny tent pitched next to the bike.
Sleeping, however, was less than glamorous. With just one sleeping bag and pad between us, I ended up curled up in my motorcycle gear, lying directly on the cold tent floor.
The next day was a real challenge for me—I was determined to reach Italy as quickly as possible, and we had around 700 kilometers ahead of us, with the final stretch winding through the Alps and South Tyrol. The weather in Austria was punishing, and I encountered one of the most exhausting conditions a motorcyclist can face: strong crosswinds. They forced me to constantly correct my line and left my shoulders aching to the brink of exhaustion.
Because of this, we had to stop frequently to rest. But eventually, we pushed through and began approaching the majesty of the Alps. I have to admit, despite the fatigue, I was in awe of the views and the roads I had the pleasure of riding. It was something truly special to be riding beneath a mountain range, passing through tunnels that stretched for several or even a dozen kilometers—hearing the roar of the exhaust echo through the darkness and feeling complete control over the machine.
It’s a beautiful and almost magical feeling to be in the midst of making a dream come true, right here and now. The saddlebags were performing flawlessly, and by this point, I had stopped worrying about them entirely. We wrapped up the next day’s ride in Bolzano, Italy—tired but happy. However, reality slowly began to test our plan.
There weren’t many safe options nearby for pitching a tent, and after a long day on the road, we simply didn’t have the energy to keep looking. We ended up booking a hotel, which—considering our modest budget—wasn’t exactly cheap. The money we were spending on fuel alone made it clear that we wouldn’t make it as deep into the country as we had originally planned. Still, in that moment, it didn’t really bother us.
On Thursday morning, we welcomed the day with a delicious espresso and decided to head to Verona, where we’d set up camp and take a proper rest. The next stretch of the journey passed in a wonderful atmosphere, surrounded by charming Italian towns, a laid-back way of life, and our own sense of satisfaction with everything we were experiencing.
With only about 150 kilometers to go, we had the luxury of taking it slow—soaking in the local vibe, stopping often, and detouring into the winding streets of picturesque villages perched on rocky hillsides. It was simply incredible. The bike rewarded us with flawless performance, and I felt genuinely proud—not just of the distance we had covered, but of the context and meaning behind the journey.
In Verona, we found a stunning campsite perched on a hillside with a panoramic view of the entire city. After handling all the formalities, we set up our humble camp and, accompanied by the gentle chirping of crickets, allowed ourselves to fully enjoy the view of this magnificent city. I finally caught my breath after covering nearly 1,500 kilometers over the past few days. I was simply grateful that we had made it here safely and in one piece.
After reviewing our budget, we decided to stay in Verona, take a trip to Venice the following day, and then begin our return journey home on Saturday—which, given the nature of the route, we estimated would take us two days.
One particularly beautiful encounter took place shortly after we arrived at the campsite in Verona. Not long after we set up, an older gentleman—well into his 60s—appeared near our tent, holding a helmet in his hand. After exchanging a few polite words, he disappeared, only to return a moment later on a Suzuki GS-500 motorcycle loaded with three large hard panniers. For those unfamiliar, this is a bike generally suited for short rides or city commuting—not exactly a machine you’d expect to see on a long-distance journey. But as we all know, it ultimately comes down to willpower and determination.
The older gentleman turned out to be incredibly friendly, and after exchanging motorcycle travel stories, he told me what had brought him there. He had ridden all the way from his hometown in Germany—about 700 kilometers away—specifically to see the summer theatre performances at the famous Verona amphitheatre, shaped like a colosseum. That was his goal and his dream, and he had decided to make it come true.
I was deeply moved by this. At that point in my life, I wasn’t traveling nearly as much as I do now, and my perspective on the world was still relatively narrow. So meeting a German retiree who rode hundreds of kilometers on a motorcycle just to watch a theatre performance felt completely surreal—especially when compared to the reality of most retirees in my own country, including my grandparents.
Looking back today, I see that encounter as a truly meaningful one. It showed me, quite profoundly, that there are many versions of reality beyond the one I was used to seeing every day.
Verona welcomed us with its beauty and an incredible culture of spending time outdoors. Smiles, dancing, joy, wine, and a way of life I hadn’t known before. I remember being deeply moved by the impeccable behavior of people of all ages, enjoying life amidst the backdrop of historic architecture and soothing sunshine. Time passed wonderfully, and we could simply revel in the success of having made it—through not-so-easy means—to such a remarkable place.
The next day, we set off without our saddlebags, riding the motorcycle to Venice to experience the famous city on water and immerse ourselves in its charm.
I have to admit, riding without the backpack and saddlebags through the Italian scenery was incredibly relaxing—aside from the fact that Italian drivers aren’t too fond of using turn signals, which gave me a few headaches on the road and forced some emergency braking. In the end, we fulfilled our modest plan, let ourselves get swept away by the Italian atmosphere, and experienced a reality we had only known from stories or movies. It was incredibly inspiring and enriching.
I may have gotten a bit carried away, but the multilayered nature of this story—forming a cohesive and colorful whole—requires a clear context and a chronological account of events. Now it's time for the wildest and most daring part of the journey, one that could have ended much worse. On Saturday morning, we began preparing for the return trip. I had planned the entire drive for two days and estimated that we’d be back in Warsaw by Sunday evening.
We set off just before noon, heading along the highway toward Venice, planning to then turn north through the Brenner Pass, and continue through Austria, the Czech Republic, and finally into Poland. At the beginning of our trip, I had made an agreement with my partner: if anything seemed suspicious—whether with the luggage or any other aspect—she was to give me a clear signal immediately, either by hitting my helmet or in some other way, so I would stop and check.
As we began the return journey, I had tucked my jacket under one of the rain covers in the right saddlebag. I checked everything carefully and sealed it shut. The day was sunny, perfect for a smooth ride. With a completely open exhaust pipe, I, as the rider, couldn’t hear anything but the roar of the engine. Having already covered nearly two thousand kilometers, I was no longer as focused on constantly checking the saddlebags and what was happening with them.
After about two hours of riding, my passenger started gently tapping my stomach. I took it as a sign that she probably needed a bathroom break, so I kept riding while slowly looking out for a gas station to stop at. As we slowed down on a highway interchange, our speed dropped enough for me to finally hear her, and that’s when she shouted, “Adam, I think something’s going on with the saddlebags…”
My alertness and adrenaline instantly shot past their maximum levels, and I pulled off at the nearest parking area. When I finally stopped and got off the bike, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. The right saddlebag had sunk about 10 centimeters onto the exhaust pipe, and one of the plastic loops used to fasten the additional strap holding both bags together had completely melted from the heat. Burned pieces of my jacket were sticking out from under the rain cover, and the whole sight left me in a mix of shock, frustration, and disbelief at what I was witnessing.
The left saddlebag was now hanging loosely with nothing to support it, already way too close to the rear wheel, while the right one was literally sizzling on the exhaust. After the initial wave of nerves passed and I started to regain my composure, I began to analyze the entire situation—what had changed since we left that led to something so dangerous that it could’ve easily sent us both to the other side. It was a bitter feeling to realize the mistake I had made, one that quickly became crystal clear.
The high-speed airflow on the highway had started to pull out the jacket I had tucked under the rain cover that morning. A part of the jacket eventually made contact with the exhaust—specifically the steel tip, since the rest of it was carbon fiber and didn’t conduct as much heat. The jacket began to melt, and the resulting heat softened and destroyed one of the attachment points. That caused the entire saddlebag to slump onto the exhaust during the ride, slowly melting into it. Combined with the rising temperature, the contents inside started to burn—dangerously close to my girlfriend’s toiletries, which were stored there.
The end result was that about half of our belongings were destroyed, though that was the least of my concerns. What truly terrified me was realizing that for an unknown amount of time, two heavy bags—one of them partially melting—had been dangling dangerously close to the rear wheel spinning at several thousand revolutions per minute.
I knew I had absolutely no control over the course of events—aside from the mistake of stuffing the jacket under the rain cover, something I hadn’t done during the first leg of the trip. At any point on the highway, anything could’ve happened: another strap could’ve snapped, the jacket could’ve gotten caught in the rear wheel, the toiletries could’ve reached their ignition temperature. Everything that could’ve turned us into a high-speed fireball racing toward the afterlife was happening without my knowledge or control.
But clearly, a different fate was meant for me—something I felt deep within the core of my being that day.
After the emotions, fear, and gratitude for being alive had settled, the most important thing was that we were safe and unharmed—and all we had to do now was sort out the mess. Fortunately, the motorcycle was still fully functional, which gave us another chance for a safe journey home.
Once we cleared out the burned items, we repacked everything nonessential into one saddlebag and, luckily, found a Polish family on the parking lot who were also returning home. After a short conversation, they kindly agreed to take the bag with them and send it to my place once their trip was over.
That left us with just the backpack and a day and a half of riding back to Poland. But as it turned out just a few hours later, that wasn’t the last lesson in humility the road—my element—had in store for me that day.
As we set off again after our unexpected roadside stop, I had what I thought was a brilliant idea—to slightly bend the license plate in case any unnoticed speed camera tried to snap us a souvenir photo.
To be clear: I didn’t fold it to the point of making it unreadable or hiding it completely under the fender. It was still fully visible from behind, but just angled enough that, from the higher vantage point of a speed camera, the numbers might not be clearly seen.
After a few hours on the road, we said goodbye to Italy and entered Austria. Cruising slightly above the speed limit in the left lane, we rode on in pretty good spirits. After a while, I noticed in my mirror that a motorcyclist had been tailing us for several dozen kilometers. Still fully immersed in the joy of riding, I enjoyed every curve we conquered.
Eventually, the motorcyclist overtook us, turned on his lights, and with a police signal baton, motioned for me to follow him to the nearest parking area. Could a motorcyclist’s day get any more exciting?
The conversation was short and to the point:
Police officer: “Listen, I’ve been following you for quite a while now, and I have to say—you ride really well. But for your speed, the bent license plate, and that extremely loud exhaust, you’re getting a €500 fine today. I’m taking your documents, and you’re banned from riding back to your country until you get all of this sorted.”
I froze, once again unable to believe what the day was throwing at me. My girlfriend stood nearby, unsure what to do, while I tried to find a way to get out of this situation in one piece.
Me: “Officer, here’s the situation—” (as I spoke, I bent the license plate back into its proper position in three seconds flat) “—this isn’t even my motorcycle, I just borrowed it. I apologize for the speed, but I’m sure you can understand that on a bike like this, it’s hard to ride any differently. As you can see, the plate is fine now, and as for the exhaust—I genuinely had no idea it was too loud. We’re just coming back from our holiday and really hoping to make it home safely. We’ve got about a thousand kilometers left, and I’m kindly asking for your understanding... and maybe a smaller fine.”
After that little speech, I once again had no control over what would happen next—I could only wait. Part of me thought that if the officer had taken a closer look at our expertly overstuffed saddlebags, we might’ve been stuck in that parking lot for a lot longer. A classic case of luck in misfortune, I suppose.
After a short while, my uniformed, motorcycle-riding Austrian amigo turned out to be just that—a good-natured biker Amigo—and wrote us a fine for only 50 euros, then wished us a safe journey home. Not waiting around for him to change his mind, we thanked him politely and hit the road as quickly as possible.
The stress level I’d hit that day was so intense, we spent the next few hours tucked quietly behind a coach in the slow lane, not overtaking a single soul.
The lesson in humility that one experiences on the level I was hit with during those events stays with you forever—it leaves a vivid imprint in your memory. So vivid, in fact, that even after all these years, I can still recall every detail and every moment, which you’ve just had a chance to experience through this story.
In the end, everything turned out fine. On Sunday evening, we arrived back in Warsaw—lighter by a few kilos of gear, but packed with experiences that simply can’t be repeated.
In just six days, we covered over 3,600 kilometers together, crossing Europe, experiencing the majesty of the Alps and the striking contrast of the Italian way of life—which I absolutely fell in love with. It wasn't an easy journey. These were days of battling discomfort, road conditions, the unpredictability of the forces around us, and a few mistakes of my own that had us balancing on the edge between life and death.
My motorcycle passenger endured it all with incredible strength, and to this day, I’m deeply impressed by her resilience and everything she had to endure riding on the back. From the bottom of my heart—thank you for this unforgettable and truly one-of-a-kind adventure.
To conclude this long motorcycle tale, I want to express that through all of this, I realized just how fragile everything around us truly is—how little it can take to change our lives in the blink of an eye, often without us even noticing. Every event described above had a profound impact on my awareness as a rider and awakened in me an even deeper respect for the road and the immense power it holds.
My sense of humility as a motorcyclist was transformed and has stayed with me to this day, helping me better prepare for each new journey. And within that transformation lies something incredible—something I only came to truly understand years later.
As I wrapped up this very first motorcycle journey abroad, I made myself a promise: that I would return to the Alps—but this time on my own terms. Alone, on my own bike, and without any extra side-mounted saddlebags. And let me just say, I did fulfill that goal a few years later, which led to a series of events so extraordinary that I still feel proud whenever I think back to that experience.
But that’s a story for another time—one I can already promise will appear here soon.
For now, thank you to everyone who took the time to read all the way to the end. Remember—none of us ever truly knows what lies beyond the next curve in the road. So let’s treat the people and circumstances around us with respect and allow life to offer us tailor-made lessons—ones we’ll come to understand through the lens of our own unique stories.
