Owning, maintaining, and riding a motorcycle is a constant string of Acts of Love. Much like going to dinner with a girlfriend tends to turn into an hours-long occasion of talk, flirtation, and enriched connections, going on as simple a ride as a “15-minute store run” usually becomes a sixty-plus mile ride through streets and corners both familiar and unexplored. The typical biker’s connection with his ride is exponentially more intense and personal than that of a typical car owner, turning each and every experience astride it into one that you never want to end. Due to the nature of their position on the road, the biker maintains a constant awareness of the streets that “cage” drivers will never really understand, and even bicycle riders don’t fully appreciate.
On the road, you smell the rain on the hot asphalt, and the debris as it kicks up and steams against your hot exhaust. Inhaling this mixture while taking a corner at fifty-odd mph is like breathing in deeply while you’re face-deep in your lover’s cunt. The wind and the rain and the changes in pavement are caresses both tender and fingernail-clad. Every tiniest bit of pressure on the handlebars pushes her torward that climax she gets when you come out of a lean and roll hard on the throttle, taking the next straight-away like a solid pounding thrust, her engine screaming an unintelligible mixture of your name and the son of God. You brake, the forks extend, and her legs twitch. She purrs while you sit astride her for a moment, waiting to kick off again into another howling series of leans and thrusts.
Over and over again. Every goddamn day, every goddamn ride is like passionate sex, sometimes smooth and relaxing, sometimes a quickie that is just necessary to relieve stress, sometimes a violent fuck that leaves you aching and breathless four hours later.