The bar was electric, reverbing with the staccato rhythm of idling engines outside.
Inside we drank, to warm ourselves for the ride.
We gathered our leather, our armor, our second skin, and strode outside like Vikings to our ships.
More reverb, pistons and pipes singing an early summer tune of journey, with our own singing of pride, of brotherhood, of taunts to those not going, on our lips.
As a swarm we rode off, away from the setting sun, toward beckoning darkness, to that unknown which awaited us at ride's end.
It was our throttle twist, the pulse up our bodies from v-twin motors, it was our faces in the wind that separated us from all others.
Three hours out, we arrived, and were hailed as heroes, welcomed as if on a foreign shore by our fellow warriors, here to do a brief battle, to drink and sing and dance.
Then sleep once again, in the heavy arms of the night, to early morn, then again to rouse, and return to our shore.
Those who'd not joined us placated us on our return, to tell of the times they'd missed.
But not a one of us spoke of it, for it was only for those who'd been there, and lived it.
Not for those who wished.
by Charley Mike. San Jose California