Magic, magic, magic. This is a ride that has never materialized…but that doesn’t mean it never will. It’s the quest one has in mind when slapping down thousands for an iron horse. It’s part of the euphoria and out-n-out love a motorcyclist feels for the non-sentient object Bruce rightfully croons about as “suicide machines”. It’s part of the reason ‘epic’ was popularized as a word and a direct contributor to that word’s wincing overuse and misappropriation. It’s a confluence of crisp air, honeysuckle scents, growling exhaust pops, and open, seemingly interminable roads. It’s what some people call The Zone but what Zhuang Zhou might consider as living in the greater flow of life as you are. This ride is always on the cusp of becoming, just around the bend, after the next roadside stop, when we awake in the morrow, once we add the seat we’ve been eyeing, when that beloved person finally kicks a leg over, wraps around us on the back and lays a sultry cheek on our shoulder as we experience the intoxication of motion together.
The SGs
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Brushes With Motorcycle Greatness...
I’m convinced AI is merely an old hippie tryin’ to make a buck.
