free at last

The feel of a couple thousand motorcycles in the California hills is, well, spiritual. In the rumble and the vibration of like objects attracted to each other you will find a searcher and a lover and a builder and a follower. The people of a tribe that do not live as a group, but are connected by aesthetic and knowledge and preference: that is Born Free. A hundred degrees in this field of trees and dust, and skin is exposed baring the markings, the tattoos of a people. A subculture so visceral and carnate, it needs to escape to a canyon to inhabit itself fully. Whether intentional or reproduced from imitation after imitation, this is a group solidly founded in love. Disparity and type exists here, but love of the motorcycle flattens the field. 

Kott motorcycles

Though I’m not sure I belong, I don’t know anyone, and I don’t belong to anyone, I travel through as observer. And I find art. And joy. And Pabst. And passion. And inspiration.

I may not know much about motorcycles. But there is something in them that knows me. That knows I need them. And won’t let me off the hook that easily. They demand to be admitted in to my life. The feeling they have given to me as a gift, the weightlessness and the peace, is in my veins. It is too late now. It cannot be sucked out like venom. And I am forever doomed to seek their solace. As if a phantom limb that I know belongs to me, the ride comes to me in dreams and I claim it.

customized Triumph in the lot

There are beautiful women and there are beautiful motorcycles. I think all people can appreciate that thing that stops you in your tracks, that nearly makes you walk into a tree. Rubbernecking when you hear bikes go by. Getting lost in the silhouette of the thing. The curves and the balance. Perfected proportion and variety in all of these. Good lord, child. It’s both high art, and elementary attraction. Deny yourself neither.

Born Free 5: Silverado, California: June 29, 2013

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