Today started out grey and nasty. It’s Seattle and to be expected. However later in the day the sun peeked out from behind the clouds, and the roads dried out enough that motorcyclists took to the streets.
On the eleven mile drive home, I passed at least twenty different types of bikes. From the big bad Harleys to the nimble Yamahas. I even passed a guy on his dirt bike. If it was on two wheels with a motor, it was on the highway.
I have no idea what it is, but I cannot take my eyes off a man on a bike. I don’t know the difference between a Fat Bob or a Soft Tail, but I get excited when I hear the roar of the engine and see the sunlight glinting off the handlebars.
There’s a mystique about the man in the seat, and I will say man because 99.9% of the time it is a man. Who is he, where’s he going, where’s he been? It’s like Grease 2 when Michelle Pfeiffer and gang sang “Who’s that Guy?”
Everybody wants you when they don’t know who you are. If you’re a man of mystery, it really takes you far.
Maybe it’s like a belly dancer who wears a veil. It’s titillation, excitement. Under that helmet it could be anyone. Marlon Brando in The Wild One, Steve McQueen in The Great Escape, Ewan McGregor in, well, real life. He’s balancing a thin line between exhilaration and total dismemberment. Freedom and a lifetime in a wheelchair. Insanity and total clarity. A fantasy for my fertile writer’s mind.
So ride on my brothers. Be safe. And if you see a curly hair girl staring at you from her little SUV, give her a wave and a smile.
I want a devil in skin tight leather. And he’s gonna be wild as the wind. And one fine night, I’ll be holding on tight. To my cooool rider.
I loved that movie. I should dig it out.