To my motorcycle passenger
You’re my passenger.
And on a motorcycle, having a passenger is personal, intimate. My every action is reflected back onto me by your body. Accelerating, I feel the pull on my waist; braking, your weight loads my arms.
Between us there is no need for words, we are hardwired. If you’re nervous, I know it before you realize it, your thighs and hands tightening around me. When excited, your helmeted head tucks in on my left shoulder to better see what’s ahead. Speeding on a cool night, I sense your head behind mine to escape the wind blast. Cruising along or stopped at a light, you scratching my belly or the nape of my neck playfully speaks volumes. I am aware of the smallest shift in your weight, like a lover’s sleeping movements.
The bike and I speak another tongue. It turns my thoughts and movements into action. I look somewhere and the next moment, riding a wave of sound, I am there. We speak so fluently that my hands and feet melt away into the machine and we become something new and more powerful than the sum of the parts.
At first, I need to translate for you. I give a little prod of acceleration to remind you to hold on tight before the real power comes. I ease into the brake so I don’t feel your helmet crash into my own.
But soon, we three speak as one. At the slightest turn of my head to a new gap in traffic, your grip tightens in the same instant that the bike turns my desires into reality. As soon as the light flashes yellow, I sense your hand reaching out to rest on the gas tank to take the strain off my arms. Into corners, you’re body follows mine off the seat. It is the most intimate of conversations with no words; with gestures sweet and subtle and loud.
You’re my passenger, and we’ve a long way to go.
And on a motorcycle, having a passenger is personal, intimate. My every action is reflected back onto me by your body. Accelerating, I feel the pull on my waist; braking, your weight loads my arms.
Between us there is no need for words, we are hardwired. If you’re nervous, I know it before you realize it, your thighs and hands tightening around me. When excited, your helmeted head tucks in on my left shoulder to better see what’s ahead. Speeding on a cool night, I sense your head behind mine to escape the wind blast. Cruising along or stopped at a light, you scratching my belly or the nape of my neck playfully speaks volumes. I am aware of the smallest shift in your weight, like a lover’s sleeping movements.
The bike and I speak another tongue. It turns my thoughts and movements into action. I look somewhere and the next moment, riding a wave of sound, I am there. We speak so fluently that my hands and feet melt away into the machine and we become something new and more powerful than the sum of the parts.
At first, I need to translate for you. I give a little prod of acceleration to remind you to hold on tight before the real power comes. I ease into the brake so I don’t feel your helmet crash into my own.
But soon, we three speak as one. At the slightest turn of my head to a new gap in traffic, your grip tightens in the same instant that the bike turns my desires into reality. As soon as the light flashes yellow, I sense your hand reaching out to rest on the gas tank to take the strain off my arms. Into corners, you’re body follows mine off the seat. It is the most intimate of conversations with no words; with gestures sweet and subtle and loud.
You’re my passenger, and we’ve a long way to go.
-W.W. SBSS
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