So many misconceptions abound regarding the thrill of the ride – the motorcycle ride. Some describe it as pure power; others as their therapy, still some say it is a “shot in the arm”, when the adrenalin courses through their veins, they “feel free”.
The First Ride Out, the warm-up ride. It begins before the bike is mounted, before the rider takes that walk, the 360-degree inspection of his bike. Both rider and bike inspect each other for road readiness. The first ride out begins once the rider has determined that it is a good day to ride. The weather may be melancholy, and so the rider’s mood matches. A melancholy manner is hazardous to the rider. The rider allows that feeling to recede to the back of his mind, down his spine, along the lateral of his thigh and left at the heel of his boot, as he saunters away from that melancholy mind-set.
If it were sunny, his thoughts would go the way of dodging the drops of dew raining down on the asphalt from the sun. Each droplet of light would be either tenderly avoided with a snakes slither or surgically split with the warm sticky tires of his motorcycle, the cycle he affectionately calls his “horse”. He may bellow crackles of thunder with every rev of his throttle, a mean old growl, with occasional explosions from his exhaust, accompanied by short bursts of flames from those pipes. He pelts these back at the sun, in retaliation – the anarchy harmoniously blending the glistening fractals of light bouncing – like miniature lightning bolts, bouncing from the smooth reflective surfaces of his bike and helmet. A perfect storm indeed. The true rider wraps his mind around these unwieldy pleasures, trapping them in the deepest parts of his cerebellum. He takes a deep breath in order to mix the right proportion of oxygen with his kerosene dream. Then he exhales a defused mix of the lot with a carbon dioxide filled sigh. His dissipating breath takes with it all emotions: happy, sad, joy, elation, and any other within the spectrum too varied to mention. A rider’s mind must be clear in order to raise his odds of returning home with all of the same body parts that he pulled out of his garage with.
After careful reflection, introspection and inspection, the rider mounts the bike and commences the Mounted Ride. The Mounted Ride is the ride before the ride, where he may tighten his gloves, place his body in mock positions, insure that the clasps and zippers of his jacket are fastened and tight. Here is the moment where man becomes demigod. The time 10:36 and 45 seconds in the A.M. – the rider pictures his oppressor – momentum – and decides to make a lover out of her. Psychically he engages the throttle, pulls out from his parking spot, exits his driveway, rides down his block, swerving to the right to avoid a car door, tapping his break, swerving to the left, and opening his throttle to avoid a stray dog. Flying toward the on-ramp at 45 MPH, he glides onto it, his body at a 30-degree angle from the asphalt. He slows down, smoothly “eats” the turn, regaining an even momentum as he navigates its circumference. 50 MPH, 60 MPH. Much like a jet plane raring to take off, you hear his ramjets sucking air, but it is the wind beating on the steel and rider. You see the sharpness of images to the aft of his bike begin to blur, into a Monet-esc ripple. The colors of the world are bleeding, the scenery melting from the heat of the jet, but it is the exhaust pipe. The relativity of a 60 MPH starting point, to the rapid acceleration upward of 100 MPH as the rider completes his transition from ramp to road, can be likened to a jet screaming down the runway, wings straining, bending sky-wise as the air lifts its monstrous mass from the ground.
The rider has lift off!
Cutting to the right lane from the middle, back to the middle from the right, then the far left lane, but now with a 25-degree lean to the left so that he remains on the road – corner winding the same. The bridge, the road, the weather, the wind, the truck, the car, the oil, the puddle, the gravel, the shards of tire and debris – his ‘biker eyes’ see them all, such vision does a demigod make. The turns, lean left, go faster, lean right, faster still, GEAR UP, more throttle, 120 MPH, GEAR … DOWN, DODGE CAR, GO FASTER, GEAR UP, 140 MPH … 10:36 and 48 seconds in the A.M.– the rider returns to his present place. Three seconds have passed; time to actually start his engine. And so the Mounted Ride is complete, as the rider has stretched his most important muscles, fore sight, and the muscle that manipulates time itself. Kick Stand UP!
Warming up the tires, the Dancing Ride -- a bit of a ballet, a dance, a jig … jazz to some, hip hop to others. The rider slowly rides out, at about 15 to 30 MPH on the backstreets of his neighborhood, shimmying his bike from left to right, teetering from side to side, lean to the left, now to the right … ride straight but lean, back up and lean. The warming of the tires determines how well the rider’s BIKE will stick to the road and forestalls the rider himself doing the same!
The Lover’s Ride is in some respects the first ride of the journey and the last. It is the place where the rider and momentum meet on the sheets of satin asphalt. The culmination of all previous rides is foreplay to this moment. The stage is set for the final seduction. Moving in and out of traffic, the rider at times must take ease to slide gently between the fiber glass on either side of him – white-lining, he rides between the cars who are stuck in traffic, literal inches between he and the protruding ligaments of these semi-stationary vehicles. Their drivers look into these protrusions to see behind them and in that glimpse, the rider is ahead. He is beyond them, now looking back at them from his motorcycle’s ligament in subtle irony.
Still momentum and the Red Sea of vehicles to either side are in collusion; a role play ensues; momentum the Pharaoh; the rider Moses – the waters part as God lays his hand on the rider’s staff, his bike, and the rider lays his staff to the shoreline paved in asphalt. Inviting another player to the ménage the rider entreats velocity to coax his motorcycle, enveloping momentum in jealous spasms. Now across the metallic aquatic, the rider begins to experience perilous contractions as momentum toys with him, holding him back, pulling him forward, and holding him back. The rider becomes hyper aggressive, and asserts himself, both hands gripping the bars of the bike, holding it in place, his back arched, chest pressing against the steel of the tank. He pulls the handle into him while lurching himself forward!
Momentum gives way, she submits, and drags the man and machine forward, refusing to let anything interrupt their journey to mutually shared, kerosene-gasms. The road and cars ahead that they traveled toward, now stop, suddenly, as if God were to put his finger on the second hand on the grandfather clock of the universe. It is as if God and Mother Nature conspired together at that moment. If there were children running about rambunctious, if there were bubbles in the air, if there were birds in the sky depending on forward thrust and air to feather ratios to stay afloat, all of these rules were suspended. In this moment, this fraction of a second, everything STOPS! And then …. REVERSE! The rider is no longer riding toward these objects, the road, the cars, the trees … he now stands still and drags the entire world around him. The rider has begun his succession of kerosene-gasms. The world begins to bend into a concave form, the outer edges a pure blur, the center -- crystal clear, the shoulder of the highway pelting trees at the rider’s periphery creating an autumn tunnel, whose walls are a mosaic of brown and dark green bits. The road, more volatile, fires missiles made of metal, rubber, glass and flesh at the rider, all the while attempting to dodge the rider, quickly ducking to the left, to the right, dropping low in a decline, rising skyward on the incline. The road is a plaything—momentum dominates.
De ja vu, the rider’s three second premonition fulfilled. 120 MPH, he leans into the wind gliding on his portside, 130 MPH, 140 MPH, momentum a greedy lover forces him to exceed. The rider leans deeper into the turn and then rights himself, but now digs deeper into the motorcycle – he and momentum’s shared mistress – 150 MPH, 155 MPH, the heat from the engine feels like flames on his leg. 160 MPH, the wind screams for resolution as it is unnaturally gaped by the riders physical force. 165 MPH.
Momentum is now satiated. The rider begins to slow his pace and momentum aids him now, 130 MPH, 90 MPH, breathing returns to normal. The voyeurs around them are released from their concave prison; they are allowed to move forward again, with only the burning rubber scent of the trio’s exhibitionist behavior to mark their memory.
Cooling down, and now wedded under the sun, with once violent, but now silent vows, at a 65 MPH cruising speed, they are placated – the rider, the ridden and the road.
If it were sunny, his thoughts would go the way of dodging the drops of dew raining down on the asphalt from the sun. Each droplet of light would be either tenderly avoided with a snakes slither or surgically split with the warm sticky tires of his motorcycle, the cycle he affectionately calls his “horse”. He may bellow crackles of thunder with every rev of his throttle, a mean old growl, with occasional explosions from his exhaust, accompanied by short bursts of flames from those pipes. He pelts these back at the sun, in retaliation – the anarchy harmoniously blending the glistening fractals of light bouncing – like miniature lightning bolts, bouncing from the smooth reflective surfaces of his bike and helmet. A perfect storm indeed. The true rider wraps his mind around these unwieldy pleasures, trapping them in the deepest parts of his cerebellum. He takes a deep breath in order to mix the right proportion of oxygen with his kerosene dream. Then he exhales a defused mix of the lot with a carbon dioxide filled sigh. His dissipating breath takes with it all emotions: happy, sad, joy, elation, and any other within the spectrum too varied to mention. A rider’s mind must be clear in order to raise his odds of returning home with all of the same body parts that he pulled out of his garage with.
After careful reflection, introspection and inspection, the rider mounts the bike and commences the Mounted Ride. The Mounted Ride is the ride before the ride, where he may tighten his gloves, place his body in mock positions, insure that the clasps and zippers of his jacket are fastened and tight. Here is the moment where man becomes demigod. The time 10:36 and 45 seconds in the A.M. – the rider pictures his oppressor – momentum – and decides to make a lover out of her. Psychically he engages the throttle, pulls out from his parking spot, exits his driveway, rides down his block, swerving to the right to avoid a car door, tapping his break, swerving to the left, and opening his throttle to avoid a stray dog. Flying toward the on-ramp at 45 MPH, he glides onto it, his body at a 30-degree angle from the asphalt. He slows down, smoothly “eats” the turn, regaining an even momentum as he navigates its circumference. 50 MPH, 60 MPH. Much like a jet plane raring to take off, you hear his ramjets sucking air, but it is the wind beating on the steel and rider. You see the sharpness of images to the aft of his bike begin to blur, into a Monet-esc ripple. The colors of the world are bleeding, the scenery melting from the heat of the jet, but it is the exhaust pipe. The relativity of a 60 MPH starting point, to the rapid acceleration upward of 100 MPH as the rider completes his transition from ramp to road, can be likened to a jet screaming down the runway, wings straining, bending sky-wise as the air lifts its monstrous mass from the ground.
The rider has lift off!
Cutting to the right lane from the middle, back to the middle from the right, then the far left lane, but now with a 25-degree lean to the left so that he remains on the road – corner winding the same. The bridge, the road, the weather, the wind, the truck, the car, the oil, the puddle, the gravel, the shards of tire and debris – his ‘biker eyes’ see them all, such vision does a demigod make. The turns, lean left, go faster, lean right, faster still, GEAR UP, more throttle, 120 MPH, GEAR … DOWN, DODGE CAR, GO FASTER, GEAR UP, 140 MPH … 10:36 and 48 seconds in the A.M.– the rider returns to his present place. Three seconds have passed; time to actually start his engine. And so the Mounted Ride is complete, as the rider has stretched his most important muscles, fore sight, and the muscle that manipulates time itself. Kick Stand UP!
Warming up the tires, the Dancing Ride -- a bit of a ballet, a dance, a jig … jazz to some, hip hop to others. The rider slowly rides out, at about 15 to 30 MPH on the backstreets of his neighborhood, shimmying his bike from left to right, teetering from side to side, lean to the left, now to the right … ride straight but lean, back up and lean. The warming of the tires determines how well the rider’s BIKE will stick to the road and forestalls the rider himself doing the same!
Notice the rider, leaning into the bike as he takes his first turn at the intersection slow, another mock movement. There was no need to “lean in” that low, but momentum, his lover, he flirts with her. He understands that she wants to keep him at bay. She smells the aroma of kerosene on his neck and threatens to taste it, but not before he has completed his mating ritual, not until he has flashed his feathers and done the dance. He makes another turn, closer now to the expressway, more aggressive, testing the stickiness of his tires. He revs in an undesirable pattern as anxious lovers do. The ramp, the freeway, he has been here before, just moments ago, he is prepared to conquer his lover.
The Lover’s Ride is in some respects the first ride of the journey and the last. It is the place where the rider and momentum meet on the sheets of satin asphalt. The culmination of all previous rides is foreplay to this moment. The stage is set for the final seduction. Moving in and out of traffic, the rider at times must take ease to slide gently between the fiber glass on either side of him – white-lining, he rides between the cars who are stuck in traffic, literal inches between he and the protruding ligaments of these semi-stationary vehicles. Their drivers look into these protrusions to see behind them and in that glimpse, the rider is ahead. He is beyond them, now looking back at them from his motorcycle’s ligament in subtle irony.
Still momentum and the Red Sea of vehicles to either side are in collusion; a role play ensues; momentum the Pharaoh; the rider Moses – the waters part as God lays his hand on the rider’s staff, his bike, and the rider lays his staff to the shoreline paved in asphalt. Inviting another player to the ménage the rider entreats velocity to coax his motorcycle, enveloping momentum in jealous spasms. Now across the metallic aquatic, the rider begins to experience perilous contractions as momentum toys with him, holding him back, pulling him forward, and holding him back. The rider becomes hyper aggressive, and asserts himself, both hands gripping the bars of the bike, holding it in place, his back arched, chest pressing against the steel of the tank. He pulls the handle into him while lurching himself forward!
Momentum gives way, she submits, and drags the man and machine forward, refusing to let anything interrupt their journey to mutually shared, kerosene-gasms. The road and cars ahead that they traveled toward, now stop, suddenly, as if God were to put his finger on the second hand on the grandfather clock of the universe. It is as if God and Mother Nature conspired together at that moment. If there were children running about rambunctious, if there were bubbles in the air, if there were birds in the sky depending on forward thrust and air to feather ratios to stay afloat, all of these rules were suspended. In this moment, this fraction of a second, everything STOPS! And then …. REVERSE! The rider is no longer riding toward these objects, the road, the cars, the trees … he now stands still and drags the entire world around him. The rider has begun his succession of kerosene-gasms. The world begins to bend into a concave form, the outer edges a pure blur, the center -- crystal clear, the shoulder of the highway pelting trees at the rider’s periphery creating an autumn tunnel, whose walls are a mosaic of brown and dark green bits. The road, more volatile, fires missiles made of metal, rubber, glass and flesh at the rider, all the while attempting to dodge the rider, quickly ducking to the left, to the right, dropping low in a decline, rising skyward on the incline. The road is a plaything—momentum dominates.
De ja vu, the rider’s three second premonition fulfilled. 120 MPH, he leans into the wind gliding on his portside, 130 MPH, 140 MPH, momentum a greedy lover forces him to exceed. The rider leans deeper into the turn and then rights himself, but now digs deeper into the motorcycle – he and momentum’s shared mistress – 150 MPH, 155 MPH, the heat from the engine feels like flames on his leg. 160 MPH, the wind screams for resolution as it is unnaturally gaped by the riders physical force. 165 MPH.
Momentum is now satiated. The rider begins to slow his pace and momentum aids him now, 130 MPH, 90 MPH, breathing returns to normal. The voyeurs around them are released from their concave prison; they are allowed to move forward again, with only the burning rubber scent of the trio’s exhibitionist behavior to mark their memory.
Cooling down, and now wedded under the sun, with once violent, but now silent vows, at a 65 MPH cruising speed, they are placated – the rider, the ridden and the road.
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I love it!!!!!!
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