/// MOTO CHRON ///

When I think about my motorcycle, I see the infinite country plains I haven't yet traversed reflected in the chrome, softened by the wind and the scurrying clouds from the towering hugeness of a Montana sky, or Nebraska, or Tennessee. Are there plains in Tennessee? When I think about my motorcycle, I feel the bugs and sun-baked grit and wind and grease on my skin, under my fingernails, on my elbows and knees, caked on in geologic layers of earth and oil, earth and oil, earth and oil. Yes, I think of my motorcycle often, so often that If you could flip through all 100 channels in my brain, 99 are playing some permutation of a motorcycle show - me scrambling down a fire road on a knobby-tired Triumph, me hitting a hairpin apex in Catalunya on a Moto GP million-dollar machine, me in perfect recline on a Harley Electra Glide, panniers full of whiskey, firewood and a bivy sack. I like thinking about motorcycles. Doing so seems to bring the sensation to the surface of my consciousness li