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I spent my evening on the freeway.  I drove a Suzuki LS650 Savage 60 miles in the gusty wind and it was so much fun.  My hands and feet are still reverberating from the trip and I felt great on the bike.  The clutch was quite a change from what I've been dealing with on my Buell Blast...I'm tempted to steal the Suzuki for myself but I do love the Buell; I'm hoping after some time in the garage tonight installing a MRC clutch assist it will be a better ride for me.  My jacket also came in the mail, and I'm struggling to decide if it's worth keeping.  If it was just a jacket I'd send it back and find something new, but unfortunately for me, XS is the smallest they make motorcycle jackets.  I suppose motorcycle jackets are meant to make one look like a line backer, but I'm fairly certain the shoulder armor is actually supposed to rest ON the shoulder, not the arm...
Freeway riding is actually easier than city driving, at least when there isn't stop and go traffic.

I feel a little buyers remorse over my bike.  It certainly is the right thing for me right now, but I feel I will grow out of it sooner than I anticipated.  The great thing about used bikes is once they are a certain age they seem to keep their value.  I think I will spend a year on the Buell getting used to all the new technique and skill I still need to develop and perhaps consider upgrading next season.

Mostly, the hour long drive on the bike helped solidify the decision I've made to ride.  It's scary and thrilling and dangerous and satisfying.  People at work remind me everyday I'm going to kill myself doing it, but right now riding is something I want, and it's a want I can actually fulfill, do something about...T hat doesn't happen all that often, getting exactly what one wants...so I will take what I can get.

It took a few hours, but finally, while making a turn, only in second gear, I leaned with the bike and it was the euphoric high I've experienced after a great run.  The sun on my back, the amount of control in my body leaning to the right while the wheels stuck to the ground and I made a lovely whoosh sound as I changed to third...and everyone keeps reminding me people die on these things. And it's true. I know. My childhood friend, James, who I had a terrible crush on in my early teens, and who grew into such a kind, handsome young man, died in a head on collision on his bullet bike.  I found out while in study group through a text message.  And I hate open caskets, because that isn't the person at all, it just makes everything worse...I visited his grave once.  It was near a chain link fence and someone on the other side was smoking and life can be snuffed out so quickly and suddenly we are rotting bones with feet on top of us.  People talk about where he might be in life now, but I think about all he did. How happy he was.  And though he died young, at least he died doing something he loved.  And maybe that's better than being slumped over in some nursing home being fed apple sauce...
I know what love feels like, what life feels like, and I think it's a little silly not to do something because it's risky.  Because if I make it to the nursing home, I'm going to have some fucking great memories.  Hopes and dreams that may or may not have come true, triumphs and failures, and risks taken that make me joyous and broken and filled with gratitude.
So, whoosh...