Every Picture Tells a Story

Riding is in my blood.

It's part of my family history. From the time I could remember, I remember my Dad on a bike. He even taught my Mom to ride when she was young and carefree.

Times weren't always good when I was growing up. Quite often they were anything but. But the one, shining, great memory of my Old Man was him taking me for rides on his bike when I was little. He'd say "hold on, and don't touch the engine with your legs! It's hot!" And off we'd go.

My Dad was a biker. To me, that made him just about the coolest guy in the world.

Granted, those illusions never last. Life intrudes. But now that I'm a Man, I get to ride too, on my bike.

I give it gas. The engine roars. This is what it's like to come alive. When you pull out the drive and onto open road; then and only then you understand. You're apart of something strong and ancient. The history of man and horse and being one with the road. It's something primal that speaks to the heart of man. You smell the open air and feel the wind and sun. This is how we are meant to live; not trapped behind walls and ties and insurance and oppressive government. We are lions in the wild, and we need to roam.

Sometimes I go riding with my old man. And I'm a little boy again. And my Dad? When he's on that bike, racing with the wind... he really is the coolest guy on Earth.