Motorcycle Reprise

Motorcycle Reprise

Midday, the open road, heading south and east down from the Berkshires past small Massachusetts and Connecticut towns each with their own indelible provincial mark, the postcard panorama of the Taconics and Catskills over my shoulder, a brilliant memory in verdant green and towering cloud shadows driven effortlessly by the heat of summer on a southerly wind. Down toward the coastal plane of New England, the wheels of my machine gliding against the wind on the snaking blacktop, the thump of the cylinders and the tuning of the pipes fitting in with the chorus of memories of youth when innocence and the mountains and the sea and a road south in summer were all that mattered and all that was.