Slinging my leg over the mechanical horse, I crank over the starter and listen to the heart of the beast tick away. I tell myself I’m just taking it out for a tank of gas. No need to push it.
Winding my way down the twisties, I find myself heading in the wrong direction. ***** it. I’ll find my own way there.
Straight stretch coming up, I pull in the clutch, give her a little gas, and drop the lever; lurching the animal back onto its hind leg. Looking under the handlebars at the curve coming up, I land the front wheel back down, and power my way into the next gear.
Bike screaming out of the corner, foot pegs blowing hot sparks behind me, I twist the throttle down, and hug the gas tank with my chest; the raging bull screaming underneath me as we rocket into a locust storm. Chunk by chunk, they blast onto my body and face like war paint shot out of a cannon.
Looking an inch over the speedo and handlebars, my speed cannot be seen. There’s no time to look, and my eyes are crying fire from the raw wind. My ears roar with the sound of a jetliner crashing into the ocean. The tears are dry before they hit my ears.
Now in top gear, full throttle, I move my feet away from the brake, and shifter, back to the tail of the bike; gripping with my legs to hold on, as I rocket into the horizon horizontally. Finally, I take my left hand off the handlebar, and tuck it between the gas tank and the radiator, so that I fly through the air like a shark.
I open my mouth, and a wind enema shoots its way through my sinuses and out my nose. I smell pure oxygen. My vision closes in, my eyes strain to see the road ahead. My chest is beating faster than the pistons on this death machine. I can see it. The edge. Forever tempting me.
I know that this is similar to the edge by Hunter S Thompson. The experience was similar, and thus, the layout of events is written as so. It’s up to you, as the reader, to determine if this is some kind of ******* plagiarism when you know **** well that there are no original ideas.