of sun and metal...

I'm back on the bike again and there are centerings, returns to awareness of moment like mini micro climates to pass through, flashes of chill then heat, and smells of terra firma and the feel of called upon power---V-Twin throbbing underneath as its torque propels the chromed beast forward... lurching but not unleashed. Too long was this past winter as it crept into spring, dampening the usual brief moments of warmth that should peak out at times from under the cold damp Puget shroud, this foggy brew we all move through while waiting for a glimps of blue in the sky. But seemingly not this year until now and I can feel the warmth baking beneath wrapped leather. As my shoulder joints deteriorate from past abuses, I find them unexpectedly tolerant of a stretched positioning, even welcoming the pull from rusted hinges and enflamed gaps that once glided freely---and now grind. So I worried about their failure to endure the long static held haul. So far, so good.

These are not the old days of tribal posturing, pissing and sniffing with beer bottle breakage against wall or skull, usually a fight over a woman to posses for the moment because that moment was all that was important. Gone are the high testosterone bellowings from bored out pipes exuding the cry of freedom from and for. Gone are revved burnouts to prove hierarchical dominance, a pack rite for those who can afford new rubber on a regular basis. Gone are warp speed metal scraping hairpins where sparks ignite to delight. Gone are Harley head bolts pinging off pavement and other peoples' metal. Gone are the freak flags flying and middle fingers wagging.

I almost sold it---the winters so long and time in transport without the need to haul more than would fit on the back being so far and few between. I thought about how many more times I might want to slam into a wayward county truck before that got old... though at the time, more damage to ego than bike or self. I thought about being lumped into the folds of wannabe hippy biker trash, barely able to handle the 800 pounds they straddle for a weekend jaunt to a watering hole before putting back on the Monday morning tie and driving the Mercedes to the office. That couldn't possibly be me. Not now. Not later.

And then I remember the zone, that place where the bike steers itself along winding road, each lean deeper than the last, when there is a silence beyond stillness though the vibration of dual pistons fighting for position shakes to the bone, and eagles parallel off jagged cliff, their shadows in line with mine... a feeling so sublime. I remember the sting of rain on my face and comfort of being safe... but not quite.

Liquid cooled and shaft driven...