Up the mountain we rode.

August 27, 2012

The early lights,

a breeze insinuates itself, touches my brow

Morning.

 

Sun.

Sunday.

Fun.

 

A few bites of berries.

 

Clean the visor.

Don the leather.

 

Back out of the garage.

Fill up the tank.

Flip down the shield.

Roll the bike onto the road.

 

The engine roars, my heart it soars.

Curves.

Cops.

Mountain tops.

Speed jockeys in black leather astride futuristic metal steeds, slice the wind.

Hard core cyclists sweat blood along the precipices at a high spin.

Pushing pedals and limits.

 

We roll, twist, shift, carving the hillsides with our machines.

Bodies allied to the metal.

The rubber in dalliance with the tarmac.

The cool air between the skin and the leather.

It is perfect weather.

Sun.

Burnt trees.

Incandescent blue skies.

 

I rejoice in the perfection of a curve, when all vectors agree. All forces equal.

Eyes up, hands light.

A thigh in a curve coax a bit more lean.

Arkadaş willingly complies.

 

A day on the Angeles Crest.

Friends. Food. Laughter.

I’m so thankful.

I’m here among my friends. Here in the accepting arms of California.

I can close my eyes.

Breathe.

Let go.

 

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