Purity of Form

Look at that thing.
See, this is the whole reason I get into trouble when I put bikes together.
The purity of form factor.

You can see that right here is a machine to be used in anger.
A machine that will convey ones repressed emotions unto an unsuspecting bit of tarmac.

Soak it in. Imagine your world when perched on it's back. Engine fired and warm, melting you into it, crying for you to be a part of it.

The sun is setting and the air is cool. Your crotch is heated by that unpolished oil bag between your legs more than it would be by some high school lovefest. Unburnt 110 octane from the exhaust fills your lungs.

The controls are tense at your extremities, brake and clutch levers vibrating on the tips of your fingers. The handlebars shaking all common sense from you mind, like the fillings in your teeth

Opening the thirsty throat of the carb, hearing it suck the dusk into the engine. Your foot notching down through cogs, fanning the fires in each jug to an inferno and bringing the breeze up to a roar in your ears. Deafening all sound, all thoughts beyond the base instinct of survival.

The cool air pushing on your chest, pushing you up, as you lift your chin off the tank to take in the point where you will apex the coming turn, like some fighter pilot planning the moment where you kill.
Searching for the next target as you descend.

Your torso lifted against the breeze, arms fighting to hold on to some semblance of control, with your toe lifting that reversed shifter arm. It sends the straight cut gears screaming against the downshift, like your own scream against clenched teeth. The shoes of the front brake lay into the drum like a tired man falls into bed, adding to the shake that goes through your shoulders and down your spine.

The compression barks to those behind you to back off, give some room for the business about to transpire. The rear end slips, fighting for purchase on the grit of the road.

You twitch down on the throttle to bring the revs of the motor up, so that the wheel speed might match that of the asphalt peeling rubber from the sidewall of the rear tire. The engine torque unweighting the front suspension enough, your ass slipping against the bare fiberglass seatpan enough, to slip all of your momentum into an opposite lean, ready to gasp through the next corner.

Your mass now pressing into the gas tank as you find your way through the DOT applied yellow and white stripes of an S, eyes locked ahead. Staring down pebbles and puddles as if they were demons and death - and they are. Tuck in your elbows and roll on the throttle. Vibrations coming up to you as you notch into the next gear, and again.

Head down as you look half ahead, half at the ground beneath you blurring into a solid gray, only the yellow line pointing the way. Your thighs press into the recess of the gas tank. The goggles press into your face as you strain a grin of gritted teeth. The wind pushes fear back down your throat. Gas, oil and blood pumping. Clenched into a fetal ball of pure speed.

Living...