Waiting For Warmth

The early morning sun is at your back.  The clean light walks into the garage with you as you pull open the big wooden door.  You step slowly up to her, running your fingers up her back. You open the fuel line, prime the choke, and flick the kicker out with your right boot.  A stomping motion brings this little motorbike to life, and she awakens with a slow and deliberate rhythm.  You lean over to the work bench, pick up and pull on your helmet, cinching up the chinstrap.  Pull on your gloves.  Leather and old oil mix with early morning air.  It’s a crisp, slightly chilly beginning;  you zip up your bomber jacket to the top.

Two quick twists of the throttle to make sure she’s awake.  She’s got a little exhaust smoke, because she’s cold.  She’ll warm up in a few minutes, though.  Flip the dark visor down. You wrap your legs around her. You’re taking her out to her favorite spot. She’s purring with anticipation, like a lover curled up on a blanket in front of a roaring fire.  She wants this as much as you do.

Turn from the drive, politely idling your way through the neighborhood and off to the main road.  It’s a two lane strip of fresh asphalt, perfect to bend that right wrist down hard.  You smoothly lean through the corner, and tip her up straight and bend that right wrist, smiling as she comes to life.  Second, third, fourth, and finally into fifth.  She howls loudly with delight through each shift.  Two joggers out for their morning run look over their shoulder as the two of you scream by in a split second, and disappear over the top of a small incline.  The front tire lifts a bit at the top of the hill, and for a moment you feel weightless.  It touches down, and you roll back on the throttle quickly.  The intersection is coming up, and you’ve got to downshift.  Four, then three.  The rear tire chirps as the gears mesh together.  Quick look left and right and the bike leans right over as you hit the apex just right, exiting in a small cloud of dust of road debris.  She loves to be muscled through the corners, never mind the stop sign you just blew through. She’s a hellion to her core.

Now it’s just you and your little lovely.  She’s taking everything you can give her, and in return she allows you to float and fly down the back country road.  It’s winding curves, out past the farmers’ fields, around the sweeping 40 mph right hand bend.  You notice the horses are out playing at the fence row.  They are jealous of your freedom. They, too, long for a hard ride.  You lean in tight against the curve of her tank, tightening your legs against her shape.  She’s hot between your legs now.  So hot it she’d burn you through your leather gloves. You become one machine; together as you knife towards the right side of the speedometer.  

Three digits.  That’s enough for today, lover.  Now we can go home, cool down, and dream of tomorrows time together.