It doesn’t matter what you use or say. They all mean the same thing. Take all that energy inside you and transfer it to your machine. Popping pills like Pez, it'll cause you and and your steed to eat asphalt like a drug-crazed addict. Speed freaks know what I’m talking about. The battle to keep it between the lines.
Your world is encompassed by the redline on your tach and the ever-stretching line to your left peeling down the road. Outside those lines, all your cares and worries blur, leaving your day-to-day troubles behind. Inside those lines, you slow down and your focus becomes crystal clear. Life and death aims directly in front of you, seeing everything coming your way and passing it, putting it behind you. It’s one place in your crazy life that you can escape the mundane and the ordinary.
In that place, you are not actually alone. You have fear lingering at your side. In between those lines, it’s a standoff, like Doc Holliday facing off with Johnny Ringo. Who will blink first? You know it won’t be you. If you blink, it’s over. It’s the high octane gas in your soul fueling you, as if it were the nitro in your tank. Then there’s the rush, that boost of nitrous oxide to your system, the adrenaline. It kicks in and it kicks in hard. It’s a continuous 150 shot to your core with an endless bottle. Adrenaline, better than caffeine and nicotine, with a hint of fear. When your body courses and rages with that inside, all you can do is scream for more, more, more. Hell, you’re probably shivering in withdrawal from it as you read this.
It’s that twitch. That urge that drives us to put our lives and machines on the line for a short blind rush of madness mixed with a death wish. I’m not talking about racing through traffic, on the freeway or city streets. That’s café racing, street fighting, a whole different breed of exhilaration. I’m talking about some back road twisties, at 2 a.m. or 5 p.m.; it doesn’t matter. What matters is hitting those curves with a leaned-over haymaker sending sparks into the eyes of anyone watching. Pulling out of that turn and landing the knockout punch with a fist full of throttle that lays down the road in front of you like an asphalt carpet.
You stare into the vibrating horizon, your New York second destiny, whatever you see over that hill, with a take it as it comes, fuck you if you can’t handle it attitude. Now stop reading this shit like it’s going to define who you are; who fucking cares? Get out there and RIDE!!!!!!
