The air is crisp, his sweatshirt ripples in the frigid breeze, the stars pierce a black and cloudless sky, while the amber crescent moon lingers over the countryside and sheds light onto the desolate land. He’s flying down the open road at seventy, with not a care in the world. With every passing second a hundred feet fly by; at this rate anything can happen in the blink of an eye. Headlights, slicing through those obscure shadows that lie ahead. His thoughts, trapped in his enclosed helmet. Yet, the bombarding wind somehow seeps into this cage and liberates them. From here he can sort them out and think. Playing over the wind, his headphones emit soothing music that calms him. The monotonous droning of the engine is faintly heard through all the noise, but can be distinctly felt beneath his legs. He is at ease; no stress, no worries, nothing.

There's not a car in sight. Just the open fields, the night sky, me, his bike, and the winding open road. The bike is a part of him: body and machine melded together by hand and glove, boot and steel, his hands and feet serving separate but complementary purposes. His hands, controlling throttle and brakes with one and clutch in the other. His feet, resting on the pegs, shifting his bike out of lower gears to higher. Riding has become second nature to him. Fluid motions seem effortless as he screams to unsurpassed speeds. No idea where he’s going. Just four steps: Gas, clutch, shift, repeat.
Come to a stoplight. The bike effortlessly creeps to a stop. Slip the gearbox into neutral and put his feet on the pavement. Breathe in... Breathe out. Repeat. Too many things on his mind. All I know for sure is that stopping now means getting nowhere. Light goes green and it's a matter of seconds before he’s going again. The bike feels weightless and he feels like he’s standing still as the earth races below him. Or is it he who is soaring away from the earth?