The First Ride

The buckling of the suspension caused by my panicked chopping of the throttle serves only to piss off the bike and unhinge my nerves.

As the road ahead clears, I see my opportunity. I adjust my boots, pull my helmet down, and then twist the throttle.

The acceleration is violent.

I bare down hard as the hand of God attempts to rip me from the seat.

The numbers on the speedometer melt into each other.

Suddenly, the dormant orange light next to the tachometer comes alive. I close the throttle momentarily, just as I had practiced a thousand times in my mind, and jam my left foot hard into the gear lever.

An imaginary semi rear-ends me as the bike resumes its otherworldly acceleration.

Third. Then fourth. The bike seemingly fueled by an angry, endless source of power.

Fifth. The bike is outrunning my ability to discern anything but what’s directly in front of me. We race through an invisible tunnel of speed, climbing towards a mechanically limited, but untested, top end.

Sixth. I’m in full tuck, stomach pinned across the gas tank, my eyes glued to the horizon, my hands frozen to the bars.

I’ve lost all sense of separation from the bike. After years of not truly understanding, it becomes clear.

Four wheels move the body, two wheels move the soul.