|
|||||
Perfect Retrospect |
|||||
| spacer | |||||
| You kick the pedal forward because you can. You warm the machine
up for a longer while, because without a choke - that's what you do. Your bike is cold
blooded, but for a reason, and when you open it up on some back snaking road, they know
the reason too. Not all at once, but in measures, you come to a focus and you can snap
that throttle like a whip. You wield an uncommon power. You raise the pitch of the motor
and the waters part. You are ready to roam the desert for forty years and they scurry from
under your tires; minivans falling over themselves, giving you room to pass. The pace quickens. The kid in a black Jetta wants to give you attitude, and you let him think he can. But then, as you pull along side his left front window, at 60, you let off the throttle for just a hair. For just a split second. Because you can. So here you are, neck in neck, and the pace quickens. Then you see his expression change because he now knows that he's been had. Your 35 year old bike had more than enough to pull away quickly and to disappear down the road. And the full load of your motor resonates against the black tar and back down from the blue. Then back again, and the walls of trees and bush lean with you as you take a sweeping curve. Then, in an instant all falls away. It is pin quiet as you scan the vastness of the big sky where it meets the fields. There is only wind; twin vortex behind you. And you ask to be here for eternity, because you would, but instead, the late summer sunlight holds all in perfect retrospect. |
|||||
Michael
Stoic |
|||||
|
|||||