black chevrolet

I'd forgotten something, which I didn't remember until I pulled off the road on the way back from Pine Mountain.  The overrun extended a bit out into midair, a corner cliff projected into space.  I could see the whole valley from there, the deserted ribbon of pavement winding itself down, down and around into the canyons of the Sespe Wilderness.  The sun was setting and the valley bathed in yellow haze.  I had to smile.  My mind was clear of all the detritus that city-bound life had filled it with; my reflexes fresh and sharp from fifteen miles of gravel-and-sand strewn pavement and cold gusty winds.  I couldn't remember what led me out here, but now that I was out here, it sure felt good.  It felt good to wrap the v-twin out to something north of 7,000 rpm.  It felt good to grind off another layer of rubber from the toes of my boots.  (The Pirelli Scorpion is definitely the tire to get next time, by the way.  I think I have a winner.  Proper tip-in, proper progressive stick).  It felt good to play sportbike for a while and remind myself that some day I will upgrade the suspension.

Reflexes are strange things.  You train yourself to react to the corner, to the rocks and branches and tumbleweed and whatever appears round the bend.  But you sit above your reflexes, supervising them, guiding them, seeking to construct a flow from *brake*, *downshift* *roll on*, *roll off again*  There is a definite flow, but like life it is always changing shape.  The perfect riding line is a myth, a spectre, always changing always leading you on.  In your pursuit you lose everything else in the rearview mirror and if you're lucky you'll remember only what was important...