One of the last, true vestiges of freedom...
It may not be everybody’s cup of tea, but it is certainly ours.
Today, mid-afternoon...springtime in the valley. It is not hot and it is not cool, it is just right. The sun is not particularly high in the sky, but high enough to shine down on the tops of our heads, warming our brains through the plexiglass. High clouds dot the bright blue sky. The California foothill countryside is soothing to be riding through. We are not riding fast, just riding. We are alone on this ride, the way we prefer most of the time. The two lane highway stretches out in front of us, seemingly endless, no other vehicles in sight...mile after mile of asphault-lined road with small culverts on each side filled with new grass. The barbed-wire fences on each side of the highway tell us to stay out of the alfalfa fields, but never block our view of the farms and hillsides as we continue along. Black and white dairy cows go about their daily business, unaware of our presence on the nearby highway...unless, of course, I honk the horn or gun the engine on a straight section in the road. And even then, they only pause for a second to look up at us while continuing to chew their cud. After we pass, they lower their massive heads and continue to search for their daily sustanance. This is our sustanance for now.
We both smile slightly as I turn my head back from time to time, just checking to see if she is looking at the same sights that I am. We point, nod our heads, not often hearing what the other has said. I must keep my eyes on the road, she grips my side a little tighter as I go faster through a sweeping turn. It would only take a second of lost concentration to end this solitude. It is such a strange thing. This past time of ours is so relaxing to us and others like us, while being such a wild, uncivilized enigma to most others who watch us go by. We live to ride...and we ride to live. It is the closest thing to flying without leaving the ground. I only wish that sometimes I could let go of the handlebars with both hands and hold my arms straight out to the sides...face the sky and close my eyes, letting the big Harley take us where we are headed on its own accord. It is one of the things that we do because we choose to do it. It is one of the few things left to do that symbolizes freedom where we live. We are riders. We are bikers. And yes, some us like to write about it. I just hope someone likes to read about it!
Today, mid-afternoon...springtime in the valley. It is not hot and it is not cool, it is just right. The sun is not particularly high in the sky, but high enough to shine down on the tops of our heads, warming our brains through the plexiglass. High clouds dot the bright blue sky. The California foothill countryside is soothing to be riding through. We are not riding fast, just riding. We are alone on this ride, the way we prefer most of the time. The two lane highway stretches out in front of us, seemingly endless, no other vehicles in sight...mile after mile of asphault-lined road with small culverts on each side filled with new grass. The barbed-wire fences on each side of the highway tell us to stay out of the alfalfa fields, but never block our view of the farms and hillsides as we continue along. Black and white dairy cows go about their daily business, unaware of our presence on the nearby highway...unless, of course, I honk the horn or gun the engine on a straight section in the road. And even then, they only pause for a second to look up at us while continuing to chew their cud. After we pass, they lower their massive heads and continue to search for their daily sustanance. This is our sustanance for now.
We both smile slightly as I turn my head back from time to time, just checking to see if she is looking at the same sights that I am. We point, nod our heads, not often hearing what the other has said. I must keep my eyes on the road, she grips my side a little tighter as I go faster through a sweeping turn. It would only take a second of lost concentration to end this solitude. It is such a strange thing. This past time of ours is so relaxing to us and others like us, while being such a wild, uncivilized enigma to most others who watch us go by. We live to ride...and we ride to live. It is the closest thing to flying without leaving the ground. I only wish that sometimes I could let go of the handlebars with both hands and hold my arms straight out to the sides...face the sky and close my eyes, letting the big Harley take us where we are headed on its own accord. It is one of the things that we do because we choose to do it. It is one of the few things left to do that symbolizes freedom where we live. We are riders. We are bikers. And yes, some us like to write about it. I just hope someone likes to read about it!
posted by James | 7:21 AM
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