My addiction to motorcycles didn’t come overnight. It started the day my old man died and left me his bike. I knew how to ride, sure, but it wasn’t until I got his bike that I really started to ride.
It needed some TLC after being neglected in the old man’s garage for a little, but nothing major. Got her fixed up and began to ride. I started small. A lap around the neighborhood. Then a mile down the road. Testing my limits like a kid sneaking his first cigarette.
And then… the desert.
Red Rock Canyon was the path to travel. Ripping through the desert. The sun burning my arms. Grit flying in my face. The engine growling, almost as if it was saying, “feed the beast and don’t fuck up, or there’ll be hell to pay”
Horse ranches on the side, hikers lost in their own quiet worlds, the occasional rider throwing me a lowered left hand with two fingers (if you know, you know).
But mostly it was nothing. No one. Not a soul. Just me, the asphalt, and the mountains.
That first ride cracked something open. Pandora’s box. Once you taste that kind of freedom, you can’t put it back. The itch sets in. At first, she was a casual mistress – a quick need here and there when the craving hits. But soon, it’s all you think about. No ride today? Withdraws. Call the the ward manager. The shakes, the restlessness, the dull.
My daily ride is more than just me having fun. It’s a daily gratitude ritual – a beautiful nod to freedom and being alive.
