And do I even care?
Sometimes when the ride starts, you don’t know much more than what the weather looks like and what direct you are headed. Most of the time you have a vague idea of when you have to be back to keep life going the way it is. The key to all that though, is always knowing exactly where you are going.
You know. Down this road.
Motorcycle ride AMSR. No stunting, no hot girls, no beers, no toughness needed. Just a ride.
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Here is what happened when I asked the Computer to tell you about this ride.
The engine muttered beneath him, its low growl both companion and question. The road stretched ahead, an uncertain tether winding through the dappled gloom of woods that whispered secrets only the wind could carry. He rode on, unhurried, with the pulse of the machine thumping in time with his heart, both a reminder and a riddle: where am I going? The question pressed at the edges of his mind, not urgent but insistent, like a childhood memory trying to claw its way to the surface.
The trees flanked him, their branches interlaced like a ceiling of old bones, filtering sunlight into thin threads of gold that painted his path in fleeting warmth. Every turn was a promise half-kept, a curve that hinted at revelation but delivered only more road. The miles passed in a blur of greens and browns, and with each breath, the chill air teased him with its cool bite, a reminder of everything left unsaid, everything that never needed saying.
The road unfolded, a dark tongue that tasted the distance ahead, and with each mile, the question echoed louder: Where is this leading? The answer felt as elusive as the horizon, always just beyond reach. But in the moments between one bend and the next, he let the wondering go. The engine hummed low, the wind pulled at his jacket like a friend eager for adventure, and the path under him murmured its eternal song—a language of tar and stone, one that spoke not of destinations but of journeys.
It was the ride that mattered, the shifting balance, the leaning into each turn, the way the world spilled past like an old, familiar tale read with new eyes. He didn’t care if the road led to a town with no name, a clearing bathed in shadow, or the soft embrace of dusk falling like velvet on the earth. Curiosity was there, yes, a silent passenger whispering of unknowns and maybes. But at the end of the day, it was the ride that filled him, the simple cadence of motion that sang through his veins.
Where was he going? It didn’t matter. The road, the wind, the hum of the machine—these were his reasons, his answers. The rest, whatever lay ahead or waited at the journey’s end, was a tale he’d learn when he arrived. Until then, he would ride, not home, not away, but simply deeper into the afternoon, into the moment, into the unknown that called and waited, patient as the horizon itself.
