There is pain when it comes to riding a motorcycle. On a bike, exposed to the elements, the little things are painful. At 75 miles per hour, raindrops batter exposed skin. A piece of road gravel kicked up by a passing car feels like a pellet fired straight into your nipple. On a motorcycle, the world hurts — sore butt, aching back, fingers cramping from gripping the constantly vibrating clutch and throttle. From frigid conditions to scorching heat to random gusts of wind trying to knock you off of the bike, everything is trying to kill you. Maybe that’s why riding more than 1,000 miles on a motorcycle is good for the mental health of combat veterans. The possibility of death at any moment was our normal. Insurgent IEDs, mortar and rocket fire, the distinct sound of an AK-47. On a bike it’s the gravel in the next bend of the highway that could make the rear tire slip. It’s the heat of the day. It’s the ice on the road. Isolated within the helmet, listening to the road noise and wind and living in the seconds as they slap your helmet like Texas grasshoppers is a strange catharsis. That’s motorcycle therapy.