But, I like motorcycles, man. You know….loud, obnoxious, wind in your hair, dirt in your face, and bugs in your teeth. I came from the dirt, and you could toss those little bikes around. Grip it and rip it… that’s the shit.
The open road, man. The sun and the wind. The blast of sand when the car in front 
of you strays too far onto the shoulder. The wind in your face, in your chest. The real freedom, and the risk and thrill that comes with it. To be unencumbered by “things”. To be untouched by the outside world. It’s just you, and those few brave souls who have ventured out of their stick built cages on their postage stamp lots. Hopefully, you’ve traveled far enough that the cell phone in your pocket is useless. Or better yet, it’s dead.
There’s no gear. What’s in the pockets of your leathers is what you got, except for maybe a bedroll or sweatshirt strapped to the handlebars perched above the headlight. Low, sleek, and mean, connected to the road. Exposed to the elements, and to all the hazards. And to life.
As the speed increases, the wind becomes white noise that insulates your thoughts from the outside world. The limits of the bike exceed your physical ability to hold onto the handlebars. A black iron horse, bucking and snorting at the last stop light as you head out of town. One quick blip of the throttle wakes her up, and with a twist of the wrist, you’re off, disappearing into the evening’s gathering darkness, leaving nothing behind but the fading roar of an engine winding through the gears.
Ditch the bags, dump the shield. Experience the true, raw, pure form of riding a real motorcycle. Melt into the bike, become one with the machine. It’s one of the greatest experiences that most people will never taste.