I see the Sole Proprietor is concerned about my well-being with a gracious note of warning and wonder in his entry of the 19th.  He is rightfully uneasy regarding the growing Amaya/Atkins affiliation within the realm of biker fellowship.  We seem to be evermore absorbent to the ways of the Big V-Twin.  What goes on?  A shaved scalp here, some leather there.  What lay ahead?  Is something afoot?

Adventure and mystery, my friend, adventure and mystery.

I thundered over to Rancho Atkins yesterday to deliver upon him some lust for Large American Iron, a cruel and calculated move to provide the impetus for change, the toppling of domino #1 in the inevitable march to Milwaukee, the Emerald City, the wee hamlet where Dr. Harley and Dr. Davidson practice their spooky medicine.  Fits and starts do not accomplish the goal of total immersion.  Only full commitment brings the prize.  One must bite the bullet, challenge the full metal jacket with one's sharpest incisors and wait and trust and see what happens.

I'm getting up earlier now.  The engine she is broken in.  With every trip out I am pulled as if by magnet to a motorcycle shop from which I always seem to come away with some new small shiny thing that clings to my beast like a remora, its raison d'etre clearly one of function, and that function is sleekness. 

_________________________