I sat there, at the helm of the machine, rumbling & grumbling in the misty night, waiting for my turn at the intersection, as the motor throbbed in anticipation. I strained and in the distance I could hear the echoes of Spitfire pilots over the Channel. A pink cigarette died in the ashtray.
The red light disappeared and with nothing more than the slight twist of a small metal plate the beast came alive, all sound and fury and chrome and hot leather.
The smell of female had suffused the cabin, born of the soaked upholstery, but presently it fought off the invading scent of premium gasoline.
I howled down the boulevard, a blue streak, fully possessed of the moment. It was all rich, clean energy, and it reeked of a man dealing with reality on its truest terms, namely: no terms at all.
