"... 124, 126, 128 ... The dotted white lines are almost a solid streak a few inches below my left foot. ... A great surge of sheer joy electrifies me, adrenaline a wire in my blood, a 560-pound flesh-and-blood, steel-and-alloy, fire-spitting arrow shafting through the afternoon, heading due west and straight on into the sun...."

-- The Ride

     It's sometimes dangerous, frequently anti-social and always polarising, so when people ask me why I ride, I'd really like to have answer. The synapses fire all right, and my thoughts swirl faster and faster, but I don't -- can't -- respond. Pretty soon, the questioner leaves me alone, undoubtedly thinking I'm even crazier than first imagined.
     Oh, I could wax philsophical and lyrical about how I learned to ride a motorbike before I learned to drive a car, how it was the first chance to get beyond pedal power to fly myself away somewhere, how that small bike took me daily to my first "real" job at 16.
     And I could talk about the years when riding paradoxically saved me, while at the same time coming close to killing me, and about the rush of twisting the throttle to the stop on some difficult stretch of road.
     But that's not it either, although there are elements of truth in all of it.
     And it's not really about "freedom" -- whatever that means: I'm about as free as a body can be in these turbulent times. Nor is it about feeling old age creeping up on me, or the need to somehow "prove my manhood".
     At bottom, it's about moments. I really can't share those with anyone, because any attempt to describe the synthesis of sound, wind, exhiliration, of being in the landscape instead of looking at it, is futile.
     Some feel it, as I did, in the pit of the stomach the first time they swing a leg over a saddle, understanding instinctively how those controls -- front and rear brake, clutch, throttle -- mesh and co-ordinate. I knew when I was 16 that I'd always and forever be a rider, even during the years when I didn't own a bike, or didn't ride much if I did.
     Most will never have that feeling about motorcycles, finding it in other pursuits instead. And it's likely they'd have just as much trouble describing their attachment to whatever it is they love to do.
     Though I think we'd all agree on one thing: For each of us, it's something we can't breathe properly without.

"In my memory, it's always around 2 a.m. on a hot summer night, the smell of still-warm asphalt mingling with exhaust fumes. We leave work and dial it on, heading for the all-night truck stop a couple of miles outside town.... The broad curve is taken at speed as we try to outrace each other, and my face hovers near the instrument binnacle, watching the speedometer creep its way to the mystic 100 and beyond for the first time ever.... It's a moment of pure magic, and I know nothing will ever be the same again.