motorcycle
Is there always a question you get asked but have no idea how to answer? One question that just about all motorcycle riders struggle to answer, is “why?” The question is almost inevitable and always followed by some horrific motorcycle accident that some person’s ex-brother-in-law's best friend was in. When it does come about, the answer always comes to mind immediately. Yet right when it is about to roll off the tongue, a blank is drawn and then an “uhh” or “well” results. After some wandering eyes and a bit of pondering, an idiotic and ineffective generalization such as “well, it’s fun” normally follows. It is an answer that never really seems suitable or fitting to describe what we, riders of motorcycles, do, but undoubtedly the most common of them all. As I pull my motorcycle out of the garage, I can't help but grin from ear to ear to see the bright, blue metallic paint glisten in the morning daylight. With the birds singing their songs and the cool morning breeze flowing through the opening of my shirt, I think nothing other then to climb aboard, insert my key, and turn my wrist to the right. I gently push my ignition switch and “BAM!”, I am greeted by and instantaneous head rattling roar “BUM-BUM-BUM-BUM-BUM” of the engine. Sitting there dosing off in my own world looking into the sky watching the clouds pass by. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, taking in the potent aroma of 93-octane fuel. As my bike is warming up I jolt back towards my porch steps, dipping and dodging overhanging branches, as if I was running through a forest, to see all but this white and blue glistening ball of protection, my helmet. Yanking my helmet off the porch, I feel the soft leather on the inside, while my thumb runs against the smooth, glossy texture of the outside. Running back to my bike like a kid on Christmas, I aggressively jerk the straps of my helmet apart, placing it on the top of my head and pulling the helmet into position. The leather padding within squeezes my