Ten Directions
this is it, man. this is aMERica.
pavement stretched out in front of you like a lazy cat. riding a little bit faster than the law allows. squinting through Ray-Bans against the bleached-out glare of unfiltered sunlight. got some spf-zero sweat beading up on your arms and neck, and the sun is baking cancer right into your bones. helmet laws? piss on a helmet law—this is aMERica.
find yourself a roadhouse that sells lotto tickets and beer so goddamned cold it makes your head hurt. get out of the sun for bit. listen to Lyle Lovett on the jukebox singing about the lights of L.A. County. let the heat of the day cook itself into the pavement outside. it’ll feel good later.
don’t stay too long. stuff a couple of bucks in the tip jar. get back on the bike. kick-start it (c’mon—electrical start’s for pussies). this is aMERica. doesn’t matter where you’re going—it’s the going that matters. and man, going is what we’re doing.
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