mosicle madness

The tradition that started with my dad taking the boys to the annual motorcycle exhibition back in the mid-80s was yet again extended in glorious fashion by myself getting blinded by the chrome. There is just something about the combo of two wheels and an engine that turns me, the ghost rider, into a merry little boy. The girls posing on the bikes may have something to do with it, but I don’t know. Some strange unidentifiable stirring in the pants, thou, at the Honda stand. They went all out this year… and I mean all OUT. Happy with Honda, indeed.

The perfect metal sculpture, the tool of the rebel, the real definition of speed. I think I’ve missed one exhibition in 20 years… which was last year after getting all killed and broken in… whaddya know… a violent motocross crash. Yeah, bit of a setback. At least back then when I was living in London, I always compensated by going to the NEC exhibit in Birmingham to oogle the bikes.
This year, the merry little boy found himself in mad lust over the BMW HP2 crazy enduro, the KTM 990 Superduke and the KTM 560 SMR. As always, I spend a little extra time in the Ducati camp, and by Triumph you do get that Dylan feeling when you sling your leg over the black Bonneville (altho perhaps I should try the Scrambler, since I’m a diehard McQueen groupie…).

But my first love will always be the dirt bike. The are the quickest, the coolest, the most dangerous, and I could not keep my distance. You can see how they fidget on the stands, like caged predators, waiting to tear your arm off if you touch them the wrong way. This is not their natural habitat. They are born on the racing track, to perform the angry ballet – motocross. What am I doing here? I need to be out there riding. I need to be out there filling up my hollow soul. I beg you, let me go.