Only 1,138,967,927,727,182,983 miles on the odometer, full logbook servicing by Montgomery Scott, ex-United Federation of Planets government vehicle, warp drive not working (just needs new dilithium crystals).
Only 1,138,967,927,727,182,983 miles on the odometer, full logbook servicing by Montgomery Scott, ex-United Federation of Planets government vehicle, warp drive not working (just needs new dilithium crystals). View attachment 254064
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 you’re changed forever. The letters “MC” are stamped on your driver’s license right next to your sex and weight as if “motorcycle” 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 boxes’ 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 I’m 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. It’s 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 wind’s roar. But on a motorcycle I hear whole songs: rock ‘n roll, dark orchestras, women’s 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 it’s 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. It’s a machine of wonders, a metal bird, a motorized prosthetic. It’s light and dark and shiny and dirty and warm and cold lapping over each other; it’s a conduit of grace, it’s a catalyst for bonding the gritty and the holy. It’s flying three feet off the ground.
A hillbilly went hunting one day in West Virginia and bagged three ducks. He put them in the bed of his pickup truck and was about to drive home where he was confronted by an ornery game warden who didn’t like hillbillies.The game warden ordered to the hillbilly to show his hunting license, and the hillbilly pulled out a valid West Virginia hunting license. The game warden looked at the license, then reached over and picked up one of the ducks, sniffed its butt, and said, “This duck ain’t from West Virginia . This is a Kentucky duck. You got a Kentuckey huntin’ license, boy?” The hillbilly reached into his wallet and produced a Kentucky hunting license.
The game warden looked at it, then reached over and grabbed the second duck, sniffed its butt, and said, “This ain’t no Kentucky duck. This duck’s from Tennessee. You got an Tennessee license?”
The hillbilly reached into his wallet and produced an Tennessee license. The warden then reached over and picked up the third duck, sniffed its butt, and said This ain’t no Tennessee duck. This here duck’s from Virginia. . You got a Virginia. huntin’ license?”
Again the hillbilly reached into his wallet and brought out a Virginia. hunting license. The game warden was extremely frustrated at this point, and he yelled at the hillbilly “Just where the hell are you from?
“The hillbilly turned around, bent over, dropped his pants, and said “You tell me, you’re the expert!!”