As for me, this motorcycle looks like the grandfather of my CBF500. Look at how mindblowingly sexy it is!
In the pitch black of the night we are flying together occasionally passing half drunk young men driving their SUV’s home unsteadily, from whatever questionable deeds filled their Saturday night. They look like they want to race, but there is no catching us. We are flying.
The sound of the engine fills the sleepy streets of the city. I wonder what goes on behind the very few brightly lit windows that watch over the slumbering city like sentinels. I want a glimpse into the secrets that are hiding behind the curtains. But we are flying so fast that the windows are way behind us now.
The rain is lashing us sideways, as if punishing us for missing our bedtime yet again. The city feels so close and so familiar, the way it can only feel late at night. And while we are flying It belongs to us. I wonder if freedom tastes like dust in your mouth.
I feel like I’m meditating, concentrating on all and nothing: on the road that I can barely make out, on the twinkling lights far away in the distance, on the wind in my ears, on how comforting it is to hold on to you tight as the beast is revving and charging into battle under me. I am reaching a Zen, Buddhist monks spend decades trying to achieve. The only feeling I have is this sensation of flight and immeasurable freedom.
I now proclaim the 2010 motorcycle season open.