Motorcycle

If you’re lucky, you’ll get to drive a motorcycle on an open country road with the sun ready to hide behind the crest of the hill, the smell of sweet creek water kissing the hairs on the inside of your nose, and a midsummer day’s heat burning off into the creamsicle colored hours of the evening. 

Life gets more precious in these moments. It feels a little more worth living, too. It’s moments like these when I’m reminded of what's at stake with every breath I take. 

What’s to be admired isn’t the spectacular mechanical masterpiece that is the barreling piece of two-wheeled piping hot steel. Nor, the throaty rumble of the engine. It isn’t even the so-called ‘freedom’ you’re sure to hear about when you engage a motorcycle rider in a conversation that somehow leads to the reason why he or she rides.

No. 

If you’re lucky you'll get to experience this life for all that it is and how quickly it could slip away.

In the moments with the wind whipping your face and the faded asphalt just beneath your footpegs, you might finally feel alive. More alive than you’ve ever felt. 

Blood, gore, love, despair, loss, hope, redemption. Morbid, real, raw, flesh and gaping wounds. Mistakes shant be made. Fuck your apologies. Save your excuses.

It’s on a motorcycle where you can experience life in the way it’s supposed to be experienced. 

The training wheels are off. Expiration dates won’t save you. Participation trophies never mattered anyway.

The only way to win is to get off the sideline and fuckin’ play. 

Or, ride. 

A motorcycle.