Counting stripes with Mephistopheles

Its not about the furtive glances you get at a traffic signal.

Its not about the kids watching in wonder as you rip the road apart.

Its not about the image of badassery that you carry among your peers.

Its not about impressing women. Well, not just all about it.

Its not about scaring your boss into submission with the roar of a free flow exhaust.

Its not about buying gear worth more than the motorcycle itself.

Its not about cleaning visors with more accuracy than when you’re cleaning a gun chamber.

Its not about helmet decals, carbon fiber knuckles or bionic knee greaves.

Its not about the likes on facebook.

Its not about running to the hills.

Its not about being sprinkled with the first drizzle of the season.

Its not about getting drenched to your underwear in a torrential downpour.

Its not about the endless trips to the mechanic.

Its not about speed.

Its not about cruising aimlessly to the horizon.

Its not about the odo crossing a million.

Its not about the chrome or the powder coat.

Its not about the achy shoulders.

Its not about the bad back.

Its not about the dirty denims, smelly socks, scummy shirts and stinky jackets.

Its not about racing lineage or caliber.

Its not about deciding whether to wear black or black.

Its about more.

Its about looking like a dusted raccoon when you take off your helmet after 300 miles of truck dodging.

Its about the cup of tea that you gulp down on a country track that tastes like carbureted gruel.

Its about the corner you crash into.

Its about getting back into the saddle and conquering the same corner, a little lower, grazing footpegs.

Its about cussing at a broken headlamp before cussing at a broken ankle.

Its about the reserve to go another mile.

Its about the reserve to go another fifty miles.

Its about enjoying an unsettling, clinical and cold noise.

Its about peeling off throttle calluses at formal gatherings, cubbyholed in a corner.

Its about unnecessary revs in neutral.

Its about not understanding the point of public transport.

Its about hitting the next gear into the void, grinning.

Its about a belief that the corner will submit.

Its about stubborn faith that the tyres will hold.

Its about stitches, casts, physiotherapy, cat scans and sticky bandages.

Its about basking in the glory of being an absolute nobody.

Its about realizing you’re the best hummingbird this side of the planet.

Its about laughing at Armani and worshipping Alpinestars.

Its about understanding that a spanner can be a lifesaver.

Its about worried mothers and perplexed proud fathers.

Its about exasperated wives and proud girlfriends, or if you’re lucky, vice versa.

Its about the will to shrug off disasters.

Its about learning to use tourniquets.

Its about everything that makes sense and everything that doesn’t.

Its about survival on a higher plane.

Its about realizing that impossibilities are just a notion.

Its about preaching salvation and redemption.

Its about god, the Devil and everything that comes in between.

Its about all you are, in consonance with what you were twenty years back, and what you will be at your granddaughter’s fifth birthday party.

Its about confluence, divergence, internal combustion and the social contract theory.

Its about you.

And you, my friend, have only just begun.