Twisting the throttle as the scooter leaves the driveway is like turning a knob and pulling open a door to a secret room. Pulse quickens, eyes wide, body vibrates in a primal reaction to the unknown. At its best, riding is a reminder of what it means to be alive at the most basic level — one fueled by the senses and written by the mind. Each moment sings and for a short time, I feel comfortable in my skin.
Like a thirsty man in the desert spying the chance for water, you would think every opportunity to ride would be obsessively grasped — quenching some existential craving that can’t quite be explained.
Or perhaps a lack of honesty keeps that knowledge hidden. Isolated and distant. Or maybe there are some explorations riding can’t make.
So I find myself indolent, lost in thought, wandering on foot or slowly rocking, feet up and wonderings where I am.Continue Reading