All posts tagged motorcycle

Today I remembered the speed. Air rushing past my head like a hurricane. Twelve thousand explosions per minute permeating my body through my chest, arms and legs. I hit one-sixty. I pass cars seemingly immobile at eighty miles an hour. Colors flash in my peripheral vision. The air is so thick, I have to keep my head straight or risk pulling a muscle in my neck trying to turn it back. I ride on two sixteen-inch gyroscopes. Moving the bike a few inches requires force. I feel adrenaline flowing through my veins, dopamine filling my brain. Four carburettors are spitting high-octane gas and air into four cylinders where the mist deflagrates fiercely to exist through four exhaust pipes. My mind has become a three dimensional trajectory and collision-avoidance super-computer. I am a missile, a cannonball, I am hell on wheels! I miss my motorcycle!



I wrote this after riding my motorcycle in the rain..

What was I thinking, really? With a weather like that, driving to Ruskin.. Good thing it started raining on the way back, and not before. But the fact that I was going home made it all right. Actually, it was kind of fun. Raining like cats and dogs (like pissing cows, we say in France) on I 75, and I am passing all those cars on my motorcycle. The water gets in my neck, under my jacket, slides from the tank between my legs, my crotch gets wet, soon I don’t have a square inch of dry skin on me, except my head under my helmet. I start screaming. Why not, I’m riding a two wheeled machine, powered by a highly volatile liquid exploding inside a motor, sending me along a stretch of asphalt at ungodly speeds on a giant spinning rock orbiting a ball of plasma that keeps us warm.. Totally ridiculous! Screaming is not only appropriate, it is mandatory. Sometimes losing your mind is the only sane thing to do. How do we not go crazy with all this cosmic madness, I don’t know. We’re just glorified monkeys. Looking up to the stars like a chicken looking at a computer screen.. Then I start making engine noises in my helmet, I am having a good time. I spot two Harley riders stopped under an overpass and wave at them, wannabe bikers, pathetic. I leave them behind me, in space and time, somewhere in the 50s probably. Not that I don’t like the 50s, women knew how to dress back then, they had class. But my sake burning baby leaves those dinosaurs in the dust on every plane. Here comes the Fruitville exit, that was fast. My bike starts to sputter, she doesn’t like the rain. I can’t blame her, all she wants is high octane gas, oil and cool dry air. I finally make it home, throw my clothes in the dryer and get comfortable. I should play my guitar, I feel inspired this afternoon. Maybe I should write, too, since I’m already spitting words on the computer, I might as well keep going and see what comes out. Have a great week-end!