The Responsible Thing
I went to look at a used Indian expecting to find the dependable backup bike I need. What I found was something worse: a perfectly sensible motorcycle. It ran well, the price was right, and it was comfortable enough to do the job. It just didn’t try to rip my arms off when I twisted the throttle. Apparently, this is what responsibility feels like.
What a Fucking Ride
Sometimes the ride sucks. Not because of the rain. Not because of the miles. But because Murphy decides today's the day your comfortable bike is broken, your GPS loses its damn mind, your backpack weighs a hundred pounds, and your body files a formal complaint with every mile. Then your wife smiles at you across a hotel parking lot, and somehow none of it matters anymore.