There’s nothing like the open road on a motorcycle. It gets into your bones, into your bloodstream, courses through your veins, time disappears.
All life between rides vaporizes into an irrelevant haze as soon as the engine cranks and your wrist twists the throttle, knees pressing into the gas tank, handlebars and front tire pointing towards anything but what’s known, a bag or two and a water bottle strapped to the passenger seat.
Not long after I started riding, I decided there was no better way to see the vast stretches of the western U.S. I’d never visited before. I was imagining a “once in a lifetime” road trip, which it was. But it was so good that I couldn’t stop. Every year since, I’ve loaded up a bike in my hometown of Atlanta, Georgia and pointed it West, North, or South…the only states I’ve yet to ride through are Alaska and Hawaii.
I’ve logged over 80,000 miles on three bikes, including seven cross country trips.
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