The open road, the mountains, the hills, the forests, the raw beauty of the wilderness. Much like our forebears surveying the land atop four legs we fly on a carpet of air (or nitrogen for the really hardcore, more on that later too), we are free, we are in the elements, we are riders.
Touring. There’s not much better for the soul, for freeing yourself from the shackles of your work, for opening your eyes to the majesty and breathtaking beauty of nature. To be. Being there. Absorbing the elements, drinking the sights, sounds and smells of the country. Feeling. And yet in that dream like state focussed and with utter precision. Time moves at a different pace on your steed, it slows down as if approaching an event horizon, the corners merge into one flowing movement, the crescendo, the pace, your perception, all intermixed. The stuff that dreams are made of.