There are few days as memorable as those spent in service to the road. Two-by-two, throttles wicked open, there is no struggle for balance—this is thirty minds in a line cutting corners for the fun of it—men and their machines and the world underneath them.
Some roads are pockets of richness; some never stop giving: blends of sun on climbing curves, wide s-turns beneath the shade of heavy branches overhead, the river jutting back and forth and under, the noise of a thousand controlled explosions a fittingly symphonic soundtrack to the spring-fed rapids. For hours the riders charged, but the road didn’t let up.
This was a mountain of kicks.
Back down the other side, the pack was still going full bore. The only sounds were the engines, and the wind, and the occasional joyful howl.
At the campsite, they feasted on fresh-grilled grub and slopped brew from big glass growlers. The fire burned late, and the sleep came easy. For days after, the ride stayed there with them, jamming to a low rumble beat the rest of the world could not hear . . .