What’s the normal thing you’ve never been able to do that you still think about?
Not the yacht. Not the mansion. I’m talking about the ordinary thing that many people take for granted. The thing that would make your everyday life different in some quiet way.
For me, it’s walking into a showroom and buying a new vehicle. I’m 57, and I’ve never done it.
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The Dream I’ve Never Been Able To Afford
Not because I think I’m too good for new cars or motorcycles. Because I haven’t been able to. Not without loans I didn’t want to take on. Not without sacrificing something else that mattered more at the time. That tension—chasing dreams versus chasing money—I’m still figuring it out.
I came close once. Late twenties, making decent money in the USA. I test-drove a Pontiac Transam WS6. It was everything you’d imagine—fast, loud, completely impractical. Banks were practically throwing loans at people back then. I could have signed the papers.
But life moved on. And every vehicle since has been pretty average. Which has been fine. Totally fine.
Except now I’m thinking about it again. And I’m realizing it’s not really about the car or motorcycle at all.
Have you ever done that? Lived somewhere for years and never actually explored it?
The Long Middle
Here’s what happened: I stopped caring about movement.
In my twenties, I loved driving. I had a secondhand Renault 5 GT Turbo—nothing fancy, but it was mine and I loved it. I was the guy who volunteered to drive so friends could drink. Sometimes on my midnight break from the computer data center where I worked, I’d ask security to open the gates just so I could go out and drive. No destination. Just movement.
Then I moved to Japan. Trains replaced cars. Work became teaching in schools. Home became a PC and internet connection. I lived in the UK, France, the USA, Japan—but once I arrived somewhere, I just… stopped exploring. I settled in with my screen and stayed put.
For years, this worked. I didn’t think about it much.
And then something shifted—I’m not even sure what triggered it, honestly. Maybe it was my version of trying to turn my life around.
What makes us suddenly remember who we used to be?
The Awakening (Or Whatever You Call It at 57)
Five years ago, I started doing farm work. My boss occasionally needed me to go on a couple of work trips around Japan. Nothing dramatic happened on those trips. But something quiet did: I remembered what it felt like to move through the world instead of just living on a screen. I saw mountains and the sea for the first time in ages. I started appreciating the culture that had supported me all these years but hadn’t really been part of my context during English lessons.
Looking at that scenery, I found myself thinking about all the people through the centuries who’d defended it, worked it, lived on it—people greater than me who’d made it what it was.
I started thinking about motorcycles again. Specifically, the Yamaha Niken GT when it was released. A design of bike which offers me a completely new chapter, not a rinse and repeat of my biking days in the past. I even started a whole separate blog about it—NikenPeeps—even though I don’t own one. (Yeah, I started a blog about a motorcycle I don’t even own. That’s either dedication or a bit sad, I’m not sure which.) It kept my mind busy after my wife left for America, gave me something to focus on. Finding things that keep you steady during transitions—that’s part of still learning balance. And honestly? That small blog has connected me with a few people—I email back and forth with a Yamaha dealer now. Maybe there’s something to that whole Law of Attraction thing. Who knows.
I thought about cars too. I’ve spent years watching YouTube videos, pining for the Honda Civic Type R (FK8), then the (FL5). And more recently, maybe a Hyundai Ioniq 5N. I’ve never even driven a car with a digital dash. I still don’t have the funds to get one, but the dream lives on.
But here’s what I realized: it’s not just about the vehicles.
It’s about reclaiming a part of myself I left behind somewhere between my twenties and now. The part that used to drive at midnight just because. The part that wanted to move and explore and be in the world instead of just connected to it through cables.
So what would I actually be buying if I walked into that showroom?
What the Dream Really Means
If I could walk into that showroom and buy that motorcycle—just once, just to have done it—here’s what I’d actually be buying:
The ability to ride to a Yamaha event and meet other Niken riders. To meet the Japanese Yamaha dealer YouTubers I’ve watched for years. To try, genuinely, to belong to something outside my classroom where I represent “English” but not necessarily myself.
Or maybe I’d end up back in the UK helping my dad, and I could ride there instead. Different roads, same freedom.
If it were a car—something like that Civic Type R or Ioniq 5N—I’d drive to Cars and Coffee. Something I’ve watched countless times on YouTube but never attended. Just show up, not too old to be there, part of something.
I’m not a showoff kind of guy. I once walked home with a new bicycle I’d saved up for and felt uncomfortable pushing it through neighborhoods where that kind of bike probably wasn’t an option for people. I wouldn’t make a YouTube video about buying a new vehicle. I wouldn’t need special attention from sales staff.
But I would want to share the moment quietly with someone who mattered. Someone who’d understand it wasn’t about the thing itself—it was about finally having access to something that’s been out of reach for my entire adult life. A small success. A quiet win.
And then I’d use it. I’d explore Japan—the country I’ve lived in for twenty years but haven’t really explored. I’d give people rides. Literal and metaphorical. I’d move through the world again instead of just existing in it.
This probably sounds silly. But it’s honest.
What’s the normal thing you’ve never done that you still think about?
Your Version
So what’s yours?
I don’t mean your million-dollar dream. I mean the human-scale thing you’ve never been able to do that you still think about.
Maybe it’s:
- A new couch (not secondhand, not handed down—just yours from the beginning)
- A tailored suit that actually fits
- First-class flight somewhere you’ve always wanted to go
- A nice watch
- Taking a cooking class
- Joining a club or group where you’d finally belong
- Hiring someone to deep-clean your house just once
The thing that would make your life better without being a big deal to anyone else.
We don’t talk about these desires much, do we? Maybe because they sound materialistic. Or silly. Or because we feel guilty wanting things when others have less. Maybe because admitting we still haven’t achieved something “normal” feels like we’ve somehow failed at being an adult.
But these aren’t greedy dreams. They’re human ones.
And they’re often not really about the thing at all. They’re about the version of yourself you’d reclaim by having it. The life you’d live. The belonging you’d feel. The movement you’d rediscover.
Why don’t we give ourselves permission to want the modest things?
Permission
You’re allowed to want the normal thing you’ve never had.
You’re allowed to dream about it even if you can’t afford it yet. Even if you never get it.
It’s okay to name it without shame.
And if you ever get it—quietly, without fanfare—you’re allowed to feel good about it.
Not because it makes you better than anyone else.
Because it reconnects you with a part of yourself you thought you’d left behind. Or maybe never got to become in the first place.
I’m curious. Not just about the thing itself, but about what it would mean to you if you had it.
What part of yourself would you reclaim?
Share your thoughts below. I respond to every comment, and your experience often helps others more than mine does.
