She speaks to me...
I wrote this a few weeks after spending a few days riding the best motor bike roads in the world, Southeast TN, Southwest NC, NorthWest SC and Northeast GA. I rode most of the daylight hours and rarely found a straight piece of tarmac that was more than a mile long. Enjoy!
She speaks to me
I turn the key, she hears me. Her heartbeat begins and I hear the rustling of her parts as she tells me she is ready. One button, one sound, one love. Easing away from our stance she whispers to me. Not a soft, amorous tone but a raspy tang of a smoker, one who has breathed fire in the past.
I beckon to her with my wrist. She is cold yet she complies. She begins to howl at me in a voice I know well. I push harder with my hand and she awakens and sings to me from her four throats pointing up at my chest. I demand all she has and her tone changes to a lover who has been plumbed to her depths, legs akimbo, eyes and mouth agape, uttering a sound that is impossible. A sound so raw, a guttural annunciation so foreign that my hands and feet tingle and the hairs all over my body stand at attention.
I hold tightly with both hands now for she will throw me from the saddle in this state of arousal. Many times she has coaxed me to grip tighter, other times she snarls and lurches forward with no regard for her master. My thighs ache as I grip her and flog her further. She jumps and roars with alacrity for she is made for this. The road is her domain and she longs to stretch her fine legs along it.
She speaks to me when tucked tightly into a corner. Sometimes she says let go, the corner is coming too fast and the brake eases our entry into the curve. Still other times she chastises me about looking at other bikes for she is the sole focus of our journey. Read the line, she says, ignore those bikes, you can look when we stop, the line, the line!
I complain to her about my pain. My wrist throbs from hours on the throttle. My ass cheeks are hurting because the last time we got gas we didn't even leave the bike because the roads were good and we couldn't stay away. I complain about not being able to stretch my legs. She hears me but rarely answers. She knows I will stay. She knows I cannot replace her. She knows I cannot leave the saddle unless I absolutely must. She feels me.
In the beginning I hear music. I listen to the shifting. I watch bugs and birds fly into or near me at amazing speeds. I feel the pain in my legs and hands and ass‘«™.then I quit feeling. I quit thinking. I no longer speak about an apex in a curve or mumble in my helmet about slow traffic.
I become the steel and rage that is between my legs. I am the rubber meeting the road, I am the sound of hell's fury emitting from my lungs and airbox, screaming for more speed, more angle, more traction and more road. I must endure these early minutes and hours so in the middle of the day there is not we two, there is only one. One beast with one mind consuming asphalt and concrete and passing things at insane speeds.
One being with the knowledge and power of our abilities and limits. One being charged with some unknown quest for power, speed, gravity, and noise.
She is quiet now. I dismount abused and drawn. I feel I have been shaken violently and indeed, I have flown! I have traversed a nation as only superman might; flying with head tilted into the wind. I have seen and smelled the country and her treasures.
Now I am still.
The key is off. The stand I have put in place. I feel the vague vibrations from the union now torn asunder. I feel various pains and aches. I thirst.
She knows I will return. I know better still. I am planning the next union in my head. My soul looks days or weeks ahead to the time when will again seek the thrill of speed and gravity and wind and sun. Now to rest. The beast is silent. The beast is silent.