Riders

She's a wind of a different sort, my wife is.  I don't gear up and she's dragging me to the road, rubbing my face into the asphalt and selling my bike on Craigslist.  She's no blowhard, no flash of hot air, no; she's wind.  She calls Iowa a "natural selection state" meaning one doesn't wear gear, they're closer to the front of the line with those waiting for Grim Reaper's signature.  Gear spelled looks like this "r-i-d-e-r", from another point of view looks like, "f-r-e-e-d-o-m" and from her side looks like "l-o-v-e."

She settles in unavoidable, and carries through me like Spring storms; forever Spring.

Wind dashed against my helmet, blurred the world, roads like bent trees.  Relentless breath as unending as the motor beneath me, and the love behind me.

Four-hundred and two miles ridden yesterday.  Gear does not make a motorcyclist, but it does help maintain them.  Motorcyclists are lovers and fighters; the entire package.  The wind is their joy and the other's lives their freedom.  They're one giant cumulous cloud rising stratospherically, and only a friendly wave away. They've the power to yank another from their docker's and polo lives, turn the heavenly fan to "high" and send them out.

She's a different kind of wind, my wife is.  She pats my helmeted head and says, "let's ride baby."  My gloved hands pull the clutch, release the brake, and turn the throttle; the shifter receives a quick tap and we're off. The road rises up to meet us, the wide open envelopes us, and my loving wind, my graceful yet firm freedom, my blessed wife, pats me on the helmet and blows me down yonder.