Took the bus back to Rockford today after work to pick up my motorcycle. I was dragging my feet because its kind of a pain to train out to O'Hare then bus into Rockford with all the construction on I-90. My folks are out of town at a wedding so family friend Shirley who I don't really know picked me up. It wasn't as awkward as I thought it would be.
It is a difficult sensation to describe, an elusive pleasure to elucidate. It's like picking up an instrument after a long time of not playing and discovering not only have you forgotten nothing you're better than before. It's like typing, when you're writing something and the ideas are just flowing out of you and you spell everything right and don't miss a keystroke. It's like riding your bike after a long time away, but with a greater sense of power and speed and risk.
I was never one of those type of people that named their car in high school or came up with nick names for people or inanimate objects. But after getting this bike last year I figured she deserved a name. Something black and sleek that held such a resonance for me, that I would be going out into the world with, this thing joining me in this potentially dangerous activity, deserved a name. Gertrude.
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