The Dichotomy of Experience - or The Experience of Dichotomy

In my early 40s I fulfilled one of my few true ambitions and learned to ride a motorbike.  I'd spent a couple of years riding pillion on PAJ's bike - we did a bit of touring, went to some race meets - but I'd always wanted to learn to ride myself.  Like a lot of people, I had a romantic notion of touring the world (or, at least, across the USA) on a big shiny motorbike, taking one day at a time, living life as it came along.  A life on the open road, free of the daily grind of work and responsibility.  Never mind that I couldn't survive without my home comforts - I hate camping, need to know what time the next meal is going to be, don't cope well with extremes of heat or cold or being wet, and am prone to lower back problems, especially if I don't sleep in my own bed.  Somehow none of those inconveniences figured in the picture in my head. 

Eventually I passed my bike test and bought a little 250cc cruiser, and so a few years ago, in the middle of a glorious summer (yes, there was one of those once) we did a touring holiday in the Welsh mountains.  One day we didn't plan a route, we just followed any interesting little road we came to, riding through forests, alongside rivers and streams with rapids and waterfalls, up and down mountain sides, through tiny villages and across farmland, taking care not to scare the sheep.  Eventually we came out, after a long climb, onto a clear stretch of road running along the top of a mountain.  The view was breathtaking - mile after mile of green rolling hills and mountains, valleys with those rivers we had ridden alongside, glinting in the sunlight, a lake, several miles long, snaking between the mountains.  We parked the bikes, took off our helmets and just stood in silence and awe.  No words were needed.

As we stood there, we became aware of a muffled 'put-putting' sound in the distance, which gradually got louder.  After a few minutes we saw it was a very ancient Norton motorbike, chugging and wheezing it's way up the hill.  The rider was a middle-aged guy with a boy, who looked about 12 years old, on the pillion - his son, we guessed.  The bike was laden with camping gear and backpacks.  As they puttered past, they both gave us a cheery wave and called "Hellooo!".  At that instant, the picture they formed absolutely matched that picture I'd had in my head, all those years ago, of what touring on a motorbike would be like.  I remember thinking "I wish I was doing that". 

It was several seconds before I had the further thought - "I AM doing that!"

Since then I have puzzled countless times over that yawning gulf between expectation of an experience, and the experience itself, which never seem to match.

Is it just me?