The old Honda scraped its pegs as I gasped on adrenaline, cold tires and wild-eyed speed on an over-cooked turn. Giggle, go slower now. The smell of apples rotting on a fallow orchard mingled with an over-rich idle that I’d meant to do something about but never did because it ran so well up top. I couldn’t tell you why I got up in the dark, slipped out of a warm bed next to my wife, left good friends, to be alone in the pre-dawn wet. I pulled on my boots, zipped the suit, clucked to myself the preride checklist. Fetish against harm. In three hours the house would wake with hot coffee and good conversation. But I’m gone.
Fast forward, a triumphant super-ego and an empty garage bay. Swapping stories of great rides over drinks after work, a bullshit four corners plan for when the kid is grown.