As every time before you think about how you might die this time. Or perhaps worse: maybe you wont die. The little projector screen at the back of your mind feeds you clear images of tumbling under an eighteen wheeler, it’s axles knead you to the rain-grooved blacktop. Or perhaps it’s imagining the sounds you hear yourself make inside the helmet as you are flipped high-side over car and railing before the sudden all-stop silence of oncoming traffic or a retaining wall offers a conclusion. The scene imagined time and again do not become dog-eared with repeated viewings; they become crisper and highlight added detail.

You give yourself a second to to savor the gruesome reality of your what-if scenario and silently ask yourself “Is this acceptable? Are you ready?”

Grabbing the straps and swinging your helmet up and over your head as you duck into it should be answer enough but you have to hear your mind say it: “Yes, I accept”. Fastening your helmet straps adds a sense of finality.

You pull on the gloves that are not as snug as they used to be and flex your fingers. The leather still damp from the sweat of the previous ride clings under your fingers as you take hold of the grips. In throwing a leg over the machine you allow the weight to continue to sway to the right long enough for your left heel to kick up the stand.

Once righted your hands and eyes go over the starting routine. Turn the key from lock to start. Right index finger toggles the engine switch. Left hand squeezes the clutch lever. Right thumb hits the ignition switch at the same time the throttle is flicked open. Even from within your helmet the sound of the electrical start CHIGGA- being followed by the GRAAH! from the pipes is a tiny but sweet reward -not unlike a bite size Snickers.

You can’t help but smile knowing that even with all of this love of the moment the real fun hasn’t even started yet.