By Nate Greenwood

The obsession begins as I slip on my leathers,
Each article hugging my body,
Whispering promises of comfort and security.
The Cyclops eye of the bike stares longingly at me,
Seducing me to expose it to the sunshine.
It sings silently to the road just beyond the concrete driveway,
Pledging that soon they will be a duet.
I walk around the machine, admiring the familiar curvilinear flow,
Checking for signs of fatigue.
Its soul yells to me as the electricity bounces from the ignition
To the heart, shocking it awake from the gentle touch of my finger.
We crawl forward in unison,
Inching our way toward reckless abandon.
As we taste the morning's cold breathe on the asphalt,
The machine hums like the background clatter at a cocktail party.
Opening up the clutch is like a mainline of cocaine to the arteries,
Offering the bike immediate, tamable energy.
We surge together into a symbiotic relationship.
The bike becomes a new skin,
Like a chameleon changing colors.
My body is an accessory made to enhance this mechanical animal;
Working in harmony we become a graceful secret only known to those
Addicted to the same wonderful lifestyle of absolute freedom
Defined by endless highways, two wheels, an engine, and a consuming passion for escapism.
The ever-changing environment hurls arrows of sweet aromas at my naked nose,
Stimulating my olfactory glands to the point of crisp lucidness.
The waft of freshly cut hay, ripe apples, and tilled soil are the nectar of the gods.
Thoughts dribble through my mind,
Swishing by in a blur like the trees on the side of the road;
Some thoughts linger like fish briefly entangled in a tattered net.
I'm able to resolve problems with conclusive clarity.
When I ride, the world cannot catch me.
Cruising makes me feel like a more perfect human being;
And I smile because I've discovered a sustaining high
That druggies, gamblers and nymphomaniacs can only dream about.
Riding is my love, the motorcycle my mistress.
The curves in a stretch of road are the contours of my first love's body,
The tires of the bike are my fingertips.
We dance and mess about and explore all day.
The sunset is my mother standing on the porch,
Calling me home for a long night's rest after hours of blissful play.