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| Harley Davidson (Photo credit: Moyan_Brenn (back soon, sorry for not commenting)) |
Nomad. Drifter. Escapologist.
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Stillness means death. Purpose ruins pleasure. Escape, shed some wheels.
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Often times, I had noticed the signal passed between two of a kind passing each other on twisty little roads. A little upside-down 'V' with the fingers and an acknowledging nod of the head on both sides. Ride safe or welcome to the brotherhood, what it meant I was really not sure.
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On a beckoning September weekend, I was freed. Sure there was still gravity, always ready to bring me down at a moment's notice. But there was also the caressing wind. Sure, there were those that rolled their eyes at the folly of picking two wheels over four. What good could possibly come of it, what logical reasoning? With every twist of the right wrist, the sticky swamp of logic fell further behind.
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The motorcycle by its very existence angers the sorry school of "But is it necessary?" No, it is not necessary and for that very reason, necessary. For it is freedom, for it is flight, for it is fantasy.
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The backroads of Massachusetts were haunted by more madmen of my ilk on that weekend and I did not lose any opportunity to flash the sign or reciprocate. The thrum & the roar of the engine, the delicate balancing act between hero & zero and the persistent excitement with which the world is experienced astride this cure of all cures. Those car guys? The sorry saps don't know what they are missing.
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