What Started Out as an Intent-to-Build, Turned Into Tongue-in-Cheek Mechanical Motorcycle Smut.

My dream motorcycle does exist.

It exists in that it is always running through my mind and in my heart.
Electrical impulse-firing and ever-pulsating.
If I were to build it, it would become real and I probably would never leave it, except when expelling bodily waste or entering buildings. But that which is not started… cannot exist.

It is beautiful, I assure you. The first of its kind from my very own hands.
I would name it The OXCART Mk 1. A little nod from design history, if you can find it. (pun intended)
It would be sustainably manufactured from extra spare parts, somewhere behind a neighborhood garage, on a smooth concrete slab surrounded by soft green grass. Probably with a cold delicious beer.
It would start with a simple frame, with a brown leather saddle intentionally in the center of gravity.
Stiff & supple hydraulic springs bending and flexing through deep bumps and mild, dirty, off-road grit.
It would float on chrome-wire-spoked, gunmetal rimmed wheels wrapped with firm, tubed rubber.

In the event of an emergency, squeezing or stepping on the metallic crimson brake levers would result in sending good old DOT3 brake fluid coursing through braided, shimmering stainless steel lines to blood red multi-piston calipers. These beautiful Mediterranean-machined pistons would clamp warm pads across the faces of expertly drilled rotors. “What would create such an emergency?” you might be thinking- Why, that would be the engine causing all that trouble towards the front. The simple, robust, powerful v-shaped twins exploding a chorus from one thousand, five hundred, ninety-nine cubic centimeters of displacement. All the while being fueled by the gorgeous streamlined tank. Round and stretched in the front, sweeping towards the back to a rounded boat tail. Just to the left and under the very end of the bulbous metal cannister, premium race gas would drip from the petcock, down through the translucent fuel filter, into the fuel line before being sucked through the plenum into the combustion chamber meeting its fate… and igniting. The stroke and rods together in a 1.6-1.8:1 ratio symphony, compressing 9.5-10:1 worth of a perfectly stoichiometric mixture breathing in air from a free-flowing racing filter, coming from and leaving four titanium valves seated in a ported and polished head, pressed up against twin overhead cams twisted by a chain gear timed with each crank, blowing hot exploding air out of unrestricted straight pipes. They would be made from plasma cut Titanium, bowing away from the manifold, down toward the ground, ripping hot exhaust gasses out of the engine and under my feet. They would follow the body lines of this motorbike straight back where the blasting sound wave would be all that’s left to leave the dust dancing behind us. Of course, this whole machine would be assembled under sterile conditions, with neither a flake of dirt nor particle of dust making its way into the tight and highly-toleranced fold. The difference between sheer pleasure and drastic failure living within a 10,000th of an inch. Things would get electric from a weatherproof, reliable and simplified wiring harness that would perform all necessary commands to seven design-integrated, policy-exceeding LED bulbs, a user interface with a tachometer that would tickle the red line and powertrain sensors commanding a programmable fuel injected interface.
Oh yea, and a retractable license plate holder.

We would go everywhere together, moving side to side and twisting through hills and canyons, maintaining stability with my legs wrapped tightly around the tank. It would listen with every twist of the throttle spooling the engine faster and faster. The sleek, raised bars wrapped with red and brown stiped grips remaining strong through the entire ride, yawing with the curves and counterweight of the turns. Our route would only be halfway done, because after those swinging dips and dives, would be an open road, all the way to the purple mountains. Straight as the crow flies, a blue and goldenrod streak flying through amber waves of grain and mirror-glass lakes and crisp streams. We would see it together as the sun would peak up behind us, illuminating the future in our foreground. With a burping interlude cracking off the trees creating a shudder while she caught up to me flexing my wrist, until she found her wings, I would break it. Utterly and completely, wide open.

As the saying goes;
“If the engine has timing, fuel, ignition, and compression, it has no choice. Physics obliges it to run.”

Run like the wind Estelle, run like the wind.
For you will ever be in my heart, until the day when I set you free.

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Published by Chaotic Lazy

Life exists in the inverse of your ego.

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