…And it’s banging… Corner by corner, turn by turn, the bend of the asphalt and the rise of the road. The way your heartbeat races. That feeling of floating. The movement in the sky. The movement among the lines as you glide from edge to edge and see the way the world begets its next moment of maturity. Out among the leaves, the branches wave, and the sun shines and somewhere deep you feel the temperatures going up and up and up. The way the sweat beads and how it rolls down the shallow of your neck, that sense of moisture and the warmth it brings. The backhanded compliment of a day that’s almost expired. That feeling of physically forcing yourself to focus on the cause and forget the rest of the trail — The rest of the effect. The way the view hunkers down and somehow between there and here you’ve forgotten what it is that ails you.
Then the sounds change.
The lung of an engine. The raising of the machine’s voice. That scream. An ungodly satisfying howl. A wild Rev. The way the machine vibrates back and forth. So loudly and so arrogantly that you think safetywire might have to be the next upgrade. There’s just too much movement after the rain. Too much force coming from the twin. Too much energy being blown out. Explosions. Revs. Rockets. Red Glare. In the darkness of our daily lives we watch ourselves slide off into the background — one last hot lap amongst friends — but right now that seems so far off… So many years from now… And yet so close… Or so you say as you bang through the gears one more time and nail that shift while feeling the foundations swallow up the asphalt adventure and spit it back out in a container called tomorrow.
Post Merge: 02:46:57 PM / 04-Apr-11
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Gears are grinding as the pistons churn and the machine envelops yet another twenty-four hour news cycle.
Another day that should be marked on a calendar and recalled many, many moons from now, when I’m old and gray and feeling frail, perhaps wondering where my youth once was spent.
We spend an entire lifetime living through moments and creating memories, but how many do we actually remember? How many do we actually recall in the rolodex of life?
A blast of wind forces the front wheel left of center. I feel the crisp wind slapping against the tank. The way it caresses the plastic curves, and dances down the narrowing fold at the back, before sauntering past the seat.
Ahead lies a cacophonic collection of curves. A series of jaunts that catalog an entire lifetime of racetracks and road courses. They slide left and twirl right and meander up and down the California countryside. They amble over hills and duck down into valleys. They dare to escape to a land where there are no ‘hard’ –- or ‘soft’ — shoulders.
Just asphalt.
Swooshing sounds halt the rabid advances of the moisture that’s quickly evaporating. The daylight breaks over the canyon walls. Shafts of light beckon. Yet around the next bend, patches of darkness still lie stranded in the tarmac.
There’s a sense of mortality involved. A sense of movement. A sense of the moment. A purpose. That heightened sense of connection that comes from the vibrations that are being transmitted through the footpegs from the massive powerplant. The way the engine asks for more. How it speaks in hushed tones and loud explosions.
Conscious, or perhaps unconsciously, you pull back. Wick the throttle deeper. Feel the rush, the sensation of speed, the breakneck pace. The way the world moves faster, and faster, and finally faster, until you think you can see your bleeding edge being run down right in front of you.
A quick glance at the dash, and I think to myself the clock of today is ticking away, but it’s all wrong; And there’s no reason to worry about it.
No reason to think about it.
No reason to bother with it.
Because today is simply breathtaking.
It is alive and marching to the beat of its own drummer.
Right now, there is absolutely nothing that I could be doing that is better than this.
Better than the addiction of movement, and passion, and performance, and speed.
Nothing better than the way it grips.
The ground flows beneath as the asphalt flies under the wheel. The wind creates chaos for you auditory system – even with the ear plugs in — and alters the very fabric of your mood. That sense of tactile connection with an engine howls louder and louder. It revs up with the simple turn of a wrist. Yet stills dials down when you close it off. The bite of the brakes before a corner, or better yet, throughout the corner. The sound of the engine popping off.. Better, Faster, Quicker, One vista’s advancement to the next. And the next.
Coming around the latest bend, I bask in the glory of a California winter and look up and wonder, “Have I ever been here before�
And I don’t know.
Yet where I should feel lost, I feel the most secure.
Over the next hill I see the clouds collide. It’s Sunday and they’re holding mass above the center of the valley. The surface flicks left and dances right and beckons again for a more temporal advancement as it crests the ridge. The grip gets better as the sun grows brighter. Moisture dissipates and the day becomes far more than just another 12 hours of bliss. It’s beyond that. Beyond mere dreams, and how often can you say that? How often can you live that?
Shoulders shrug, moods change, moments pass – to much time is wasted in our days. To many mornings start under false assumptions; it’s too cold, it’s too wet, it’s too hot, it’s too much, I have too much to do… It’s always something that holds us back… But not today. Not now. Not when it’s like this…
Not when it’s perfect.
Topic: Musings of a canyon carver (Read 6525 times)