Liquid Refreshments

Caffeine goes straight to my wrist. Normally when I ride I'm prudent, considerate of my little motorcycle's feelings, and I look twice to save life. But give me a shot of espresso and aggression rattles the bars of my Neocortex and seeps out of my pores. I lean deep into curves just to tease the asphalt that rushes up toward my elbow, and then slinks away in disappointment when I make it round the curve without contact. I aim at manholes just for the joy of dodging them. I twist my wrist with all of my little bike's might, just to wonder if I'm going to blow off.

Chad and I become children in the spontaneous races and games of tag that burst into being for no good reason when you're eight and it's warm and bright outside. We chase each other, weaving in and out of traffic and alleys, until stopping side by side at a red light turns tag into a race.

It's that reckless giddiness of flinging yourself round and over obstacles with only partial control of one's limbs--much less your momentum--intent on nothing but motion. It's when at last you triumph over gravity on your first two-wheeled bicycle and are finally good enough to really do some damage. Well, motorcycles are the grown up version of bikes, and zooming around the city I have exhilarating ease of speed I don't get to experience anymore, now that I'm old and fat and can no longer run effortlessly and endlessly.