My Bike Knows Me

Contents 

 I got up this morning and sat down with my first cup of joe. The news stations did not disappoint me. Lots of news about the news. Lots of politicians capitalizing on the moment. I switched over to the local stations. More of the same. Except for two. The local NBC and the public station both showed the performance of Mozart's Requiem that was put on at the local stadium. Absolutely perfect. No flags. No speeches. Just music. Performed damned well. Suited my attitude. This is a day for people. People missing friends, neighbors, lovers, family. This is a day for citizens, not politicians

As I left the house the weather was appropriate. Damp. Chilly. A deep fog. A murder of crows sat quiet in the branches of a dead cottonwood, shrouded in mist. As I turned the key and fired up the Guzzi Ambassador, even it sounded muted. Quiet rumble.

I pulled onto the highway and into the fog. I was wrapped in the white noise of wind and blank slate mist. My bike spoke to me. I could feel the low, determined growl of the motor. The fog condensed on the windshield and ran. Like tears.

Damn straight, my friend. Damn straight.

My bike knows me.



09/11/02
 

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Text copyright 2002 Michael Hazen. All Rights Reserved.

Some Images borrowed from the internet.

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