Speed Addiction

It’s 3 am; the city sleeps. The streets are clear and open game to tame. Not a car or cat cross my path as I cut a swath rushing headlong down the 98 mile-per-hour eight-fold path for I am the bodhisattva of torque, the toast of New York. The night-lights soar by in a frenetic cacophony; the high-pitched whine of the R1 blending with the incessant smack of the straps that hang from the pack on my back. Despite this aural chaos I can still feel, and even hear, my tears sneak past my sunglasses finding freedom in the wind, floating into the night sky with a content sigh. The speed is infectious. When I was a kid I used to dream I could fly; like the man of tomorrow, at the speed of sound. To ride is to dream. To float in the air, all moments still, paralyzed in the thrill, is the closest I will ever come to fulfilling these childish wants. Between my legs the engine shivers, putting out 998 cc’s of liquid-cooled speed and meticulously engineered ecstasy, who needs a pill? Underneath my leathers, my urban armor, my body quivers with the sweet anticipation of finally reaching the highway. Knowing full well I’ll throttle this fucker out full bore; the bike jettisoning me forward like a ray of light escaping the sun never looking back or slowing once. Careening forward in excess speeds of 160. My body quivers knowing, just one patch of sand, one slip of the hand, will guarantee swift finality.