black chevrolet

It looks light gray and rainy and I smell rain in the air, but I know better.

It was not so long ago when I was learning about not skidding a 550-lb, 108-horsepower gorilla of a motorcycle. Blown dust and leaves and faded red 1982 paint, the smell of gasoline in the morning, filling up at the pump for less than ten dollars. The harsh shout of a 4-2 exhaust. Old suspension springs bottoming out over railroad tracks. A chest full of 70 mph air, and research online to see what windshields were about. Agonizing whether I had enough money to afford a proper full coverage shield. Evil, frosty bleary mornings shivering under my jacket, mind over matter and destination over journey spurring me on. All that stuff. It was a long time ago, and the crisp edges of the new experience and New Way to See the World have worn down to smooth blue grooves of daily routine. It gets so nowadays that I can't remember the last time I was thinking about the line I took through the last curve, or what gear I was in, or what intersection was the most dangerous, I just sort of ride and think to myself about whatever problems I think about and before I know it I am home, or somewhere else, and that is that.

It's fall. I should go ride somewhere just to breathe in fall-ness.