Rapture of the road

"Well, Harleys aren't really up to international standards you know.  My BMW has active handling and antilock . . ."

"Cup holders, GPS and cruise control. . ."  I interjected.

He's a typical "aspirational" vehicle owner, the kind of person that will wait outside of Best Buy all night to be the first person with the latest iThis or iThat and will be quick to let you know he owns the latest and greatest mysterious black box technology.

Frankly when I bought my Harley last year, moving up from a 1957 vintage machine, I felt embarrassed by the superfluous accessories like turn signals and electric start.  My concept of  "ultimate driving machine" is just that:  wheels, an engine, the road and me.  It doesn't have WiFi or Bluetooth or stereo or even a windshield, it doesn't read my text messages to me and will kill me in a moment if I don't pay attention. My heart sings every time I look at it, resplendent and gleaming in machine age glory, a pearl blue and chrome angel, slouching on it's side stand in a fish-camp or tavern parking lot out by Okeechobee or by a secluded Atlantic beach on the barrier island, it's like the flag of  a lost America that still had and perhaps deserved it's self respect; exuberant, confident, looking both forward and back at endless roads, saying YES as though some voice had called it forth, saying  "This road is yours, go now and ride"

To each his own.  So many bikers today build their own, Bobbers, stripped of everything but what is needed, saying "hang on for dear life," choppers looking back at the 60's with longing for long roads.  Rat bikes look like they're put together in the junkyard, saying "death, where is thy sting?" Vintage bikes carry huge price tags but all of them say something about the love of  classic mechanical engineering and rider skill. 

To each his own and to me, in boots and goggles, letting in the clutch on all that torque, time stops, and while there is no e-mail and Skype and social media, no play list; and while there is neither cup nor holder, still those lost days and lost dreams are with me in the beat of the pistons, the rumble of the road.  Be quiet and listen.