Time to goose the throttle

With a turn of the key, the starter is armed. Follow with a flick of a button and the engine growls to life, settling on a timid purr. The motorcycle welcomes me to another day. "Good day, Allen," It purrs rhythmically. "I assumed on such a crisp clear spring day, you'd want to go for a ride."

The racing jacket and pants still feel awkward. The multiple layer and strategically placed padding would ultimately save my bones, my skin and my life if things fell apart on the road, but alas, I still need to get used to them. I shift some padding to make it less distracting and hop on the bike.

Nothing separates me from the road except some metal and rubber in the form of a motorcycle. The wind caresses me, it feels more like an embrace than anything else. The exhaust and engine sing a duet with the wind, a song of roads still to travel, of speeds only a few dare explore.

I, unfortunately, am not one to do the exploring. To me, a bike ride is something to hold in respect. It represents a sort of freedom one could not have with a car.


I've had my bike license for five years now without an actual motorcycle. It's time to fix that problem.