A Conversation with my Motorcycle
"Good morning baby," I said to the blond-haired, blue-eyed, Bavarian bitch in heat that is my motorcycle.
"It's perfect," she says to me.
"What's perfect?"
"Everything."
She was right. It was just over 40 F. I could see just a hint of my breath. The sky was clear and clean. Winds were calm, the air almost solid, the kind you only get as summer transitions to fall.
"Let's stretch our legs a little today," she said, and I could see her stretching in the way you do on just waking, feeling good and looking forward to the day.
"I can't. We're taking Quinn to school this morning," I said.
"After?" I could see those blue eyes looking up to me as if to say "come hither and have some fun."
"I'll be late for work."
"So."
She didn't care about work. She cared about speed and maneuverability, RPMs and tight turns. She's the kind of woman who will give you everything you desire, but wants everything in return.
We dropped Quinn off at school and instead of heading for the interstate, I turn on to Monticello Road. She smiles at me.
Monticello Road runs about 20 miles or so, two lane, in a nearly straight line from where I live to near where I work. At one point, you come over a rise and can easily see more than five miles down the road. A great place to check for traffic and cops.
We hit the rise and I can see a small clump of cars a short distance ahead, and then the road is clear with very little on-coming traffic and nothing that looks like a cop.
"I was made for this," she said. I could almost feel fingers pass lightly over my arms, my throttle hand, my thighs where they touched the seat.
She was right. She was designed and tuned to take on high Alpine roads with their cool temperatures.
I rolled on the throttle and we played "pass the poky people" to get past the clump of cages (cars) between us and open road.
We hit freedom just as "Paranoid" by Black Sabbath came on the ipod.
A quick shift from fourth to fifth.
"Yes," she sighs but with the intensity of gritted teeth.
We went from 60 to 90 within a few seconds. We hit 6500 rpm and shift into sixth and almost instantly jump into triple digits.
I lean over, tight on the bike, the air rushes over us in a way you can almost see, like in some kind of giant wind tunnel.
"There's more," she says.
The throttle is now wide open... 115, 120, 125...
Between 125 and 130 mph she stares me in the eye, her's wide, "Almost there."
Then we hit it, that sweet spot, where cylinders and tires and the air around us comes into a perfect synchronization. Everything is smooth, as if we were sliding on a layer of ether.
"Yes!" she screams.
And I'm laughing. The kind of laugh you can't stop, that you don't want to stop because it feels too damn good.
"Good morning baby," I said to the blond-haired, blue-eyed, Bavarian bitch in heat that is my motorcycle.
"It's perfect," she says to me.
"What's perfect?"
"Everything."
She was right. It was just over 40 F. I could see just a hint of my breath. The sky was clear and clean. Winds were calm, the air almost solid, the kind you only get as summer transitions to fall.
"Let's stretch our legs a little today," she said, and I could see her stretching in the way you do on just waking, feeling good and looking forward to the day.
"I can't. We're taking Quinn to school this morning," I said.
"After?" I could see those blue eyes looking up to me as if to say "come hither and have some fun."
"I'll be late for work."
"So."
She didn't care about work. She cared about speed and maneuverability, RPMs and tight turns. She's the kind of woman who will give you everything you desire, but wants everything in return.
We dropped Quinn off at school and instead of heading for the interstate, I turn on to Monticello Road. She smiles at me.
Monticello Road runs about 20 miles or so, two lane, in a nearly straight line from where I live to near where I work. At one point, you come over a rise and can easily see more than five miles down the road. A great place to check for traffic and cops.
We hit the rise and I can see a small clump of cars a short distance ahead, and then the road is clear with very little on-coming traffic and nothing that looks like a cop.
"I was made for this," she said. I could almost feel fingers pass lightly over my arms, my throttle hand, my thighs where they touched the seat.
She was right. She was designed and tuned to take on high Alpine roads with their cool temperatures.
I rolled on the throttle and we played "pass the poky people" to get past the clump of cages (cars) between us and open road.
We hit freedom just as "Paranoid" by Black Sabbath came on the ipod.
A quick shift from fourth to fifth.
"Yes," she sighs but with the intensity of gritted teeth.
We went from 60 to 90 within a few seconds. We hit 6500 rpm and shift into sixth and almost instantly jump into triple digits.
I lean over, tight on the bike, the air rushes over us in a way you can almost see, like in some kind of giant wind tunnel.
"There's more," she says.
The throttle is now wide open... 115, 120, 125...
Between 125 and 130 mph she stares me in the eye, her's wide, "Almost there."
Then we hit it, that sweet spot, where cylinders and tires and the air around us comes into a perfect synchronization. Everything is smooth, as if we were sliding on a layer of ether.
"Yes!" she screams.
And I'm laughing. The kind of laugh you can't stop, that you don't want to stop because it feels too damn good.
VIEW 9 of 9 COMMENTS
drusylla:
Thank you
padre:
Very manly though, I rented out videos and talked and giggled on the phone with a girl haha