There is no feeling like finding the perfect body position, leaning the bike over… you have the perfect entry speed… and you find that perfect line.  You and your bike are one and you cut the apex like a Neurosurgeon.  The aches and pains from a long day at work are far behind you.  You don’t feel your age anymore.  You just feel the Speed and the Road, and the Revs of the Engine as you look through the turn at what’s out there.  The tires are gripping, but at that hairy edge… but you roll on the throttle and bust out of the curve like a Patriot Missile, just almost kissing the outside of the lane.  The perfect line.

There is no other feeling like it.  None.

I had that Perfect Line tonight.  My God it was amazing!  My knee had been hurting bad. But then suddenly… I didn’t feel it anymore. Lost in the unadulterated thrill of murdering that apex and I could feel the front tire raise off the ground at the exit. It was like a beautiful High that I wish you guys could have felt. I wish you could have been there!

I read an article in Motorcyclist Magazine last month that I wanted to share.  It’s finally come up on their Web Site.  This captures the feeling that I have not been able to communicated.

The article is called “It can take you there.” by Joe Gresh.  The last few paragraphs are the juice.

It was a beautiful ride. No pack to synchronize my speed to, no pesky photo stops to interrupt my mojo, no need to think of things to say to people I want to impress. I could go in any direction I cared, alone. Between raindrops, the dense, moisture-laden air condensed into foggy mist. Man, I could smell everything: living things, rotting things.

The forest is a compost heap and I’m on a silver centipede pounding double-time through Deep Musty. Big Banger thuds softly—nothing can stop this engine, man, nothing! The rain falls harder and my hands numb from the cold, wet gloves. I can sense it, further on. More throttle, Big Banger lunges to 70 mph, 3000 rpm. Not enough—more! Seventy-five—it’s just ahead, it has to be! Faster still, Big Banger’s exhaust begins to drone. God, it feels good to shiver—I never want to die! Squirming black road iridescent with oil rising, cut dark green left, dull gray light blasts through a gap, asphalt yawning, stretching. Raining harder, Big Banger’s wheels are circular rivers, water streams from my visor, turn to clear and see trees blurring, and right now each curve is exactly where it should be, exactly!

I lived half a life in hundredths of a second. I wish you could have been there with me. I wish you could have seen me. I caught up with it, man! I caught the moment and it was perfect. And there was nothing in my way!

If that doesn’t make you jump on a Motorcycle and head out, nothing will.   When I read that, I thought, “Man, he nailed it.  That is it!”  That was poetry.