There’s this term we use in the motorcycle world—target fixation. It’s what happens when you stare too long at the thing you’re trying to avoid. The tree, the guardrail, the goat. And because your body follows your eyes, you end up hitting exactly what you meant to miss.
There’s a more subtle version of that. Less dramatic, but just as persistent. The kind that keeps you chasing the next thing, too focused on where you’re going to really see where you are.
The other day I was somewhere in southern Italy, inland a bit, in the Appenines, heading toward a forgettable little town with an Airbnb that, frankly, I picked because it had secure parking and a washing machine. The sky had been brooding for hours—low, thick clouds, that kind of blue-grey that makes the hills look like something out of a painting. Somewhere in the distance, snow still clung to the mountaintops, refusing to admit it was May. The wind was picking up, tossing dirt across the road, and the air had that charged feeling—like nature was holding its breath.
And still, I kept going. Fixated on beating the storm. Fixated on getting “there.”
Then somewhere in the middle of it—helmet buzzing with wind noise, clouds dragging shadows across the mountains—I remembered: I have rain gear. No one’s waiting for me. The Airbnb will still be there whether I show up wet or dry.
I pulled over on a narrow stretch, near a cluster of road signs warning about curves, falling rocks, and livestock. Sure enough, just beyond the “fence”, a flock of sheep grazed on the hillside—white and woolly. Mixed in were several white dogs, barely distinguishable from the sheep except for the way they stared. At first glance, it was hard to tell them apart. Then I realised ALL the dogs were watching me, like they were trying to decide if I’m gonna try to hurt the sheep. They did look tasty (the sheep, not the dogs) …
I stepped off the bike and let the engine settle into silence. The wind paused. The air was cool and still. It was smelling like rain. The light had gone soft and strange. And the sky—that sky—was doing something I knew wouldn’t last.
I stood there for a while. No drone. No camera rig. Just one shot on my phone, taken quickly, right before the wind returned and the light shifted again.
Shortly after, the rain started. Then I was back on the road, boots a little damp, mood a little steadier. The Airbnb hadn’t moved. The storm caught up eventually. But that moment—that still, charged pause between rushing forward and actually seeing—it stayed with me.
This time, I looked away from the target. And it was worth it.
