Why do u love MotorCycles
Found this on another forum that's I'm on and thought it was a nice read hope y'all like it
The other night I was sitting on my bike under an overpass on the highway. Even though I was wearing good rain gear, the rain coming down buckets, made riding literally impossible, and unsafe. With spray form passing cars coming at me from all directions I felt as if I was inside a car wash. It was time. When I saw the overpass up ahead I pulled off beside the highway and found a relatively dry spot pout of the rain under the bridge. Sitting there, on the bike, rivulets of water dripping down inside of my rain jacket and inside the visor of my helmet I probably looked as miserable as I felt. I asked myself the question that I have been asked by so many others, Why am I riding a motorcycle?
When you let a motorcycle into your life youíre changed forever. The letters ďMCĒ are stamped on your driverís license right next to your sex and weight as if ďmotorcycleĒ was just another of your physical characteristics, or maybe a mental condition.
A motorcycle is not just a two-wheeled car; the difference between driving a car and climbing onto a motorcycle is the difference between watching TV and actually living your life. We spend all our time sealed in boxesí and cars are just the rolling boxes that shuffle us from home-box to work-box to store-box and back, the whole time, entombed in stale air, temperature regulated, sound insulated, and smelling of carpets.
On a motorcycle I know Iím alive. When I ride, even the familiar seems strange and glorious. The air has weight and substance as I push through it and its touch is as intimate as water to a swimmer. I feel the cool wells of air that pool under trees and the warm spokes of sun that fall through them. I can see everything in a sweeping 360 degrees, up, down and around, wider than Pana-Vision and IMAX and unrestricted by ceiling or dashboard. Sometimes I even hear music. Itís like hearing phantom telephones in the shower or false doorbells when vacuuming; the pattern-loving brain, seeking signals in the noise, raises acoustic ghosts out of the windís roar. But on a motorcycle I hear whole songs: rock Ďn roll, dark orchestras, womenís voices, all hidden in the air and released by speed. At 30 miles per hour and up, smells become uncannily vivid. All the individual tree- smells and flower- smells and grass-smells flit by like chemical notes in a great plant symphony. Sometimes the smells evoke memories so strongly that itís as though the past hangs invisible in the air around me, wanting only the most casual of rumbling time machines to unlock it. A ride on a summer afternoon can border on the rapturous. The sheer volume and variety of stimuli is like a bath for my nervous system, an electrical massage for my brain, a systems check for my soul. It tears smiles out of me: a minute ago I was dour, depressed, apathetic, numb, but now, on two wheels, big, ragged, windy smiles flap against the side of my face, billowing out of me like air from a decompressing plane.
Transportation is only a secondary function. A motorcycle is a joy machine. Itís a machine of wonders, a metal bird, a motorized prosthetic. Itís light and dark and shiny and dirty and warm and cold lapping over each other; itís a conduit of grace, itís a catalyst for bonding the gritty and the holy. Itís flying three feet off the ground.
08 r3t traded for xr
06 rocket classic totaled
98 t-bird traded for rocket
73 sportster sold
72 honda 350 long gone
06 rocket3 classic