I love motorbikes.
Visually, a motorbike is gorgeous, it looks like it should be the lead of the brass section in an orchestra.
I don’t want to understand how the engine works, I want to stay amazed that it works.
I love motorbikes, not because I’m an avid rider, but because of the body memory of a single evening’s drive through Vancouver on the back of an old Norton, wrapped around an avid rider who rebuilt the thing with care and passion, who drew gold pinstripes and polished many layers of lacquer, who rode it across a continent, who turned out to be the love of my life.
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