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Discussion Starter · #1 ·
Dont remember where I saw this.....but if your tired of trying to explain to a significant other or just anyone why you ride.....this sums it up nicely ESPECIALLY the last paragraph :bigthumbsup:

"There is cold, and there is cold on a motorcycle. Cold on a
motorcycle is like being beaten with cold hammers while being kicked
with cold boots, a bone bruising cold. The wind's big hands squeeze
the heat out of my body and whisk it away; caught in a cold October
rain, the drops don't even feel like water. They feel like shards of
bone fallen from the skies of Hell to pock my face. I expect to
arrive with my cheeks and forehead streaked with blood, but that's
just an illusion, just the misery of nerves not designed for highway
speeds.

Despite this, it's hard to give up my motorcycle in the fall and I
rush to get it on the road again in the spring; lapses of sanity
like this are common among motorcyclists. When you let a motorcycle
into your life you're changed forever. The letters "MC" are stamped
on your driver's license right next to your sex and weight as
if "motorcycle" was just another of your physical characteristics,
or maybe a mental condition. But when warm weather finally does come
around all those cold snaps and rainstorms are paid in full because
a motorcycle summer is worth any price.

A motorcycle is not just a two-wheeled car; the difference between
driving a car and climbing onto a motorcycle is the difference
between watching TV and actually living your life. We spend all our
time sealed in boxes and cars are just the rolling boxes that
shuffle us languidly from home-box to work-box to store-box and
back, the whole time, entombed in stale air, temperature regulated,
sound insulated, and smelling of carpets.

On a motorcycle I know I'm alive. When I ride, even the familiar
seems strange and glorious. The air has weight and substance as I
push through it and its touch is as intimate as water to a swimmer.
I feel the cool wells of air that pool under trees and the warm
spokes of sunlight that fall through them. I can see everything in a
sweeping 360 degrees, up, down and around, wider than Pana-Vision
and higher than IMAX and unrestricted by ceiling or dashboard.
Sometimes I even hear music. It's like hearing phantom telephones in
the shower or false doorbells when vacuuming; the pattern-loving
brain, seeking signals in the noise, raises acoustic ghosts out of
the wind's roar.

But on a motorcycle I hear whole songs: rock 'n roll, dark
orchestras, women's voices, all hidden in the air and released by
speed. At 30 miles per hour and up, smells become uncannily vivid.
All the individual tree-smells and flower-smells and grass-smells
flit by like chemical notes in a great plant symphony. Sometimes the
smells evoke memories so strongly that it's as though the past hangs
invisible in the air around me, wanting only the most casual of
rumbling time machines to unlock it. A ride on a summer afternoon
can border on the rapturous. The sheer volume and variety of stimuli
is like a bath for my nervous system, an electrical massage for my
brain, a systems check for my soul. It tears smiles out of me: a
minute ago I was dour, depressed, apathetic, numb, but now, on two
wheels, big, ragged, windy smiles flap against the side of my face,
billowing out of me like air from a decompressing plane.

Transportation is only a secondary function. A motorcycle is a joy
machine. It's a machine of wonders, a metal bird, a motorized
prosthetic. It's light and dark and shiny and dirty and warm and
cold lapping over each other; it's a conduit of grace, it's a
catalyst for bonding the gritty and the holy. I still think of
myself as a motorcycle amateur, but by now I've had a handful of
bikes over half a dozen years and slept under my share of bridges. I
wouldn't trade one second of either the good times or the misery.
Learning to ride was one of the best things I've done.

Cars lie to us and tell us we're safe, powerful, and in control. The
air-conditioning fans murmur empty assurances and whisper, "Sleep,
sleep." Motorcycles tell us a more useful truth: we are small and
exposed, and probably moving too fast for our own good, but that's
no reason not to enjoy every minute of the ride." ~john miller
 

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I feel the cool wells of air that pool under trees and the warm
spokes of sunlight that fall through them. I can see everything in a
sweeping 360 degrees, up, down and around, wider than Pana-Vision
and higher than IMAX and unrestricted by ceiling or dashboard.
Sometimes I even hear music. It's like hearing phantom telephones in
the shower or false doorbells when vacuuming; the pattern-loving
brain, seeking signals in the noise, raises acoustic ghosts out of
the wind's roar.

Now that is profound!! And so true!! :bigthumbsup:
 

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horseplay said:
"There is cold, and there is cold on a motorcycle.

. . .

At 30 miles per hour and up, smells become uncannily vivid.
All the individual tree-smells and flower-smells and grass-smells
flit by like chemical notes in a great plant symphony. Sometimes the
smells evoke memories so strongly that it's as though the past hangs
invisible in the air around me, wanting only the most casual of
rumbling time machines to unlock it. A ride on a summer afternoon
can border on the rapturous. The sheer volume and variety of stimuli
is like a bath for my nervous system, an electrical massage for my
brain, a systems check for my soul. It tears smiles out of me: a
minute ago I was dour, depressed, apathetic, numb, but now, on two
wheels, big, ragged, windy smiles flap against the side of my face,
billowing out of me like air from a decompressing plane.
The entire piece is brilliant, with the above being my personal favorites. Not a lot beats smelling the new spring flowers and buds while cruising around on a motorcycle...

Simply awesome...
 

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he summed up a lot really well.

one of my favorite things are those cool (temperature) dips through trees on a hot day. it's like gettin splashed with cool water.
 

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