As I opened the barn door, the motorcycle’s chrome caught the peach light of sunrise and reflected it back. My own smile beamed in response. The bike was waiting just where we had left it, ready to take us on the day’s adventure.
A thin layer of fog rolled across the ground in smoking puffs. Although it was early morning still, the summer warmth penetrated the mist, causing the steam to rise. The air was cool but would heat up soon enough, burning off the foggy cover and making it the perfect temperature to ride.
Gearing up to leave, I zipped my jacket and pulled my helmet over my head, locking the facemask into position. My black-gloved hands fumbled with the chinstrap. As a final touch, I slipped my sunglasses on, leaving me in black anonymity. Covered from head to toe like a ninja assassin, I was prepared to ride.
I turned to him and grinned. “Ready?”
He grinned back and nodded then wheeled the bike backward and down the ramp onto the pavement. The engine turned over with a purr. He revved it, making it growl.
The Yamaha V-Star was only 250 CCs. We joked about it being a moped in comparison to the big Harleys that cruised past us, but it fit us both, never balking at our weight. Painted a deep burgundy red, the little bike always took us to our destination without objection. I took a cloth and wiped a spot of dust off the fender from our last ride.
I swung my leg up and over the seat, the leather creaking underneath as I settled in. I wrapped my arms around his waist, enjoying the intimacy of our pose, the tight fit of our bodies on the saddle. I tapped his back to let him know I was settled, and he put the bike gear, accelerating gently down the driveway. The gravel crackled underneath as the wheels rolled over the uneven surface. My heart beat slightly faster, and I gave his sides a squeeze, letting him in on my secret thrill.
Pulling out onto the asphalt, the wind rushing past us, we headed to Walpole for breakfast. A neighbor mowing the lawn nodded hello as we passed. The green smell of fresh cut grass mixed with the gasoline of the mower’s engine, brewing the quintessential impression of summer’s perfume.
The New Hampshire landscape rolled in dipping hills and valleys as the road twisted around their summits and bent to hug their contours. We leaned into the curves, our weight slightly shifting to ease the turns, our bodies in perfect sync. I could feel the movement of his leg, his thigh brushing mine each time he shifted the gears. We hit a bump and I held on, my fingers digging into his jacket. He reached down and patted my leg with a gloved hand, a gesture so sweet in its simplicity.
The motorcycle thrummed, sending vibrations through the foot pegs and traveling all the way up my spine, tickling my nerves. We cruised along the pavement, curving up to Park Hill, cresting the top with a whoosh and dipping down the other side in a calculated drop. As we rounded a corner, my best friend’s dad jogged on the side of the road, his steady rhythm pumping with the exercise. We waved a friendly greeting to him. He waved back, probably wondering who was whizzing by.
Farm scents, organic and warm, drifted on the air. Cows dotted the pastures, black and white against the viridian meadows as they munched dew-covered grass. Inhaling deeply, I smiled to myself. On the motorcycle, my senses were heightened and I detected every scent, every texture, every instance. The bike gave so much more than a car ever could. It was meditative as it cleared the mind.
We roared into the center of Walpole and pulled up in front of Murray’s. It was small and cozy, nothing fancy, but the restaurant served the best breakfast around, and we made it our Saturday morning ritual. I was looking forward to a cup of coffee.
He parked the bike and we dismounted. Our boot heels clicking on the pavement, we walked to the front door and pulled it open. Friendly hellos greeted us from the restaurant staff and the other regulars.
“The usual?” the waitress called out as we made our way to a table.
“Yep, you bet!” I answered.
She smiled and placed steaming cups of coffee in front of us. “You know, we put the potatoes on as soon as we heard the bike.”
A thin layer of fog rolled across the ground in smoking puffs. Although it was early morning still, the summer warmth penetrated the mist, causing the steam to rise. The air was cool but would heat up soon enough, burning off the foggy cover and making it the perfect temperature to ride.
Gearing up to leave, I zipped my jacket and pulled my helmet over my head, locking the facemask into position. My black-gloved hands fumbled with the chinstrap. As a final touch, I slipped my sunglasses on, leaving me in black anonymity. Covered from head to toe like a ninja assassin, I was prepared to ride.
I turned to him and grinned. “Ready?”
He grinned back and nodded then wheeled the bike backward and down the ramp onto the pavement. The engine turned over with a purr. He revved it, making it growl.
The Yamaha V-Star was only 250 CCs. We joked about it being a moped in comparison to the big Harleys that cruised past us, but it fit us both, never balking at our weight. Painted a deep burgundy red, the little bike always took us to our destination without objection. I took a cloth and wiped a spot of dust off the fender from our last ride.
I swung my leg up and over the seat, the leather creaking underneath as I settled in. I wrapped my arms around his waist, enjoying the intimacy of our pose, the tight fit of our bodies on the saddle. I tapped his back to let him know I was settled, and he put the bike gear, accelerating gently down the driveway. The gravel crackled underneath as the wheels rolled over the uneven surface. My heart beat slightly faster, and I gave his sides a squeeze, letting him in on my secret thrill.
Pulling out onto the asphalt, the wind rushing past us, we headed to Walpole for breakfast. A neighbor mowing the lawn nodded hello as we passed. The green smell of fresh cut grass mixed with the gasoline of the mower’s engine, brewing the quintessential impression of summer’s perfume.
The New Hampshire landscape rolled in dipping hills and valleys as the road twisted around their summits and bent to hug their contours. We leaned into the curves, our weight slightly shifting to ease the turns, our bodies in perfect sync. I could feel the movement of his leg, his thigh brushing mine each time he shifted the gears. We hit a bump and I held on, my fingers digging into his jacket. He reached down and patted my leg with a gloved hand, a gesture so sweet in its simplicity.
The motorcycle thrummed, sending vibrations through the foot pegs and traveling all the way up my spine, tickling my nerves. We cruised along the pavement, curving up to Park Hill, cresting the top with a whoosh and dipping down the other side in a calculated drop. As we rounded a corner, my best friend’s dad jogged on the side of the road, his steady rhythm pumping with the exercise. We waved a friendly greeting to him. He waved back, probably wondering who was whizzing by.
Farm scents, organic and warm, drifted on the air. Cows dotted the pastures, black and white against the viridian meadows as they munched dew-covered grass. Inhaling deeply, I smiled to myself. On the motorcycle, my senses were heightened and I detected every scent, every texture, every instance. The bike gave so much more than a car ever could. It was meditative as it cleared the mind.
We roared into the center of Walpole and pulled up in front of Murray’s. It was small and cozy, nothing fancy, but the restaurant served the best breakfast around, and we made it our Saturday morning ritual. I was looking forward to a cup of coffee.
He parked the bike and we dismounted. Our boot heels clicking on the pavement, we walked to the front door and pulled it open. Friendly hellos greeted us from the restaurant staff and the other regulars.
“The usual?” the waitress called out as we made our way to a table.
“Yep, you bet!” I answered.
She smiled and placed steaming cups of coffee in front of us. “You know, we put the potatoes on as soon as we heard the bike.”
