I twisted the throttle down slowly and carefully, catching a stomach full of 60 mph air. The road lay straight, a ribbon stretched and glistening in the hazy afternoon sun. Fences flew by quietly on either side and serried rows of nut trees unfolded. Her arms and body relaxed and I felt her head turn to one side. We flew along, wind blasting my face under the open visor, flew along for miles until the ribbon showed a twist far ahead.
I slowed down well before the first curve channeling us toward the valley. Her arms tightened around my waist as we banked through the initial curves, back and forth , back and forth. This was the preamble to the famed Dennison Grade, an asphalt snake clinging to the mountainside, easing the passengers on its back down into the sheltered Ojai Valley.
We approached the first wall, and as it slid back to reveal hazy emptiness, I tapped the motorcycle down into second gear and banked into the first curve. Her body slid up against mine. I caught a glimpse of our shadow as it swung by, a pair of shoulders and helmets and long hair blowing back in the wind.
We leaned and shifted, back and forth, back and forth, swallowing curve after curve. I kept it revved in second, nursing the grip to minimize bucking. The big 4-cyl shouted harshly into the wind, holding its cargo back against the incline. Her arms lay lightly around my waist as we swung down low into a hairpin corner.
(you should be grabbing me for dear life, but you like it, don't you)
We swung up and out, then down low into the next. Up and down, up and down. The rhythm is soothing, mesmerizing, we descend like a seagull circling and tacking, back and forth, back and forth...
No comments:
Post a Comment