Slowly I sip the last of my coffee at the end of my thirty hour workday. With my nine millimeter pistol still strapped to my leg I log my last entry into the logbook. Handing the keys over to my relief as I let him know everything is good to go. As I walk though the second barbed wire fence on my way back to my barracks room, I feel the stress of the last day and a half slow start to go away. No longer am I responsible for millions of dollars of weapons, another day done. I get back to my room and start to peel my boots and camies off that I slept in. After a quick shower I no longer smell of the guns that I was once working with. Every step closer to riding the more me I become, my first name is Eric again, no longer Corporal. I slip on my riding jacket, grab my helmet, and leave my room behind. As I’m walking out to my bike I light up a Camel Light, the last of days stress fades away. A quick walk around the bike to ensure everything is as it should be happens while the last of my cigarette slowly burns between my fingers. Starting the bike and hearing the magnificent sound of my the 356cc motor brings found memories into my mind. Like the voice of a long lost lover, it brings a sly devilish grin to my face. Now with the bike warmed up and the smell of exhaust and leather in my nose, I start my way off of base. Once though the gate the freedom that I have been sitting keeping a watchful eye over for the past few years I taste once more. My mind peacefully works though the gears on tight back roads. The trees blurring past, I hardly notice. My mind and body have slowly blended into the bike, no longer am I thinking about the shifting and braking. Now at this point I am completely happy, all is right in the world. Nothing can compare to this, just me and my bike bombing down one lonely road after another. No destination or plan, just to ride…
This is were I will end this story, for I don’t know what else there is to write. What happens after this point doesn’t really matter. The bike, the weather, the location all of little importance, we all play this story out in our own way. For we are a strange breed, a side branch of the mainstream human race. Our American dream is a little different. The white picket fences get traded for a well tooled garage and some nice twisties close to home. The off road guys will also wish for a bulldozer and large tracts of land, to make there own paradise. We’ll drive around in ugly old beater trucks with a new hot bike in the bed. For me to spend money on electronics its pulling teeth, but to blow over a grand on a bike that was never worth that much to anyone else is a solid investment. Sometimes we ride alone, yet we are not. Every other biker we see we wave to. When we stop for gas or at our favorite watering hole, and there are others on bikers we start to talk. What you ride doesn’t matter, for most true bikers have ridden or owned a little of everything. I know I’m romanticizing this a bit, and there are some bad apples, the 1%ers, the squids that don’t realize there is more to bikes than polishing the frame and sitting on your bike to try to impress girls. The point of the matter is, most of us know this tale and this scene. To all of you out there I wish you good weather, good roads, good luck, and good night.
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