The Motorcycle
I don’t think that we choose our motorcycle. Not those of us that really understand the machine. I think that the machine that we ride is inside of us. When we ride, we are in a different place, the sound of the wind, the feel of the road through the grips, the dynamic vibrative thrum of the engine. The acceleration felt in our sternum, the balance, the lean, the laughing inside the helmet. The feel of looking down quickly just to watch the tach sweep past 10000rpm. The way that we secretly cherish the glow of the instruments at night when we ride late into the small hours just to feel the flow. The way that we can unwind a road with no conscious thought to gear changes, throttle blip downshifts, swift precise control of the brakes. The transition from hard on the brakes to winding out the throttle, the vertigo when pulling hard left to right transitions. At the end of the ride we really don’t focus sharply on one particular moment, but we are laughing in our helmets and we are pumped, and it takes an hour to calm down and quit smiling at nothing. Those of us that feel this and crave this will understand. The machine that we ride is merely the closest expression that technology has given us and that our pocket books will allow, to that machine inside of us. We have embedded into our subconscious 43mm upside down forks, radial brakes, titanium, and deep redlines. We lie awake at 330 in the morning reading Sport Rider. We get out of bed to look at our bikes. We wish we had better lighting in the garage. We very seriously ponder the consequences of trying to convince our wives to let us park the bike in the living room occasionally. We change our own oil because then we know it is done right. We fantasize about vortex sprockets, and carbon fiber wheels. We spend any amount of money to smooth out and crisp up the throttle response. We have an air / fuel ratio line that constantly runs in our heads. I do not know how many times I have walked away from some idiot thinking to myself, “that one is running a little lean!â€. How do we know that we are brothers and sisters. How do we recognize this kinship in a complete stranger? Very simple, we can see it at a glance, we all ride….The Hayabusa.
I don’t think that we choose our motorcycle. Not those of us that really understand the machine. I think that the machine that we ride is inside of us. When we ride, we are in a different place, the sound of the wind, the feel of the road through the grips, the dynamic vibrative thrum of the engine. The acceleration felt in our sternum, the balance, the lean, the laughing inside the helmet. The feel of looking down quickly just to watch the tach sweep past 10000rpm. The way that we secretly cherish the glow of the instruments at night when we ride late into the small hours just to feel the flow. The way that we can unwind a road with no conscious thought to gear changes, throttle blip downshifts, swift precise control of the brakes. The transition from hard on the brakes to winding out the throttle, the vertigo when pulling hard left to right transitions. At the end of the ride we really don’t focus sharply on one particular moment, but we are laughing in our helmets and we are pumped, and it takes an hour to calm down and quit smiling at nothing. Those of us that feel this and crave this will understand. The machine that we ride is merely the closest expression that technology has given us and that our pocket books will allow, to that machine inside of us. We have embedded into our subconscious 43mm upside down forks, radial brakes, titanium, and deep redlines. We lie awake at 330 in the morning reading Sport Rider. We get out of bed to look at our bikes. We wish we had better lighting in the garage. We very seriously ponder the consequences of trying to convince our wives to let us park the bike in the living room occasionally. We change our own oil because then we know it is done right. We fantasize about vortex sprockets, and carbon fiber wheels. We spend any amount of money to smooth out and crisp up the throttle response. We have an air / fuel ratio line that constantly runs in our heads. I do not know how many times I have walked away from some idiot thinking to myself, “that one is running a little lean!â€. How do we know that we are brothers and sisters. How do we recognize this kinship in a complete stranger? Very simple, we can see it at a glance, we all ride….The Hayabusa.
