Grip on the Bars

Stiffness cracked away from my neck. The flames above my skull felt alive, steady and warm. Below me sat a red machine, sculpted and quiet. I tightened my gloved fingers around the chain in my right hand, hearing the subtle rattle of plastic links. Then I reached forward and laid my left palm firmly against the red motorcycle's handlebar. Solid. It did not push back, but it was ready. Good. I stepped closer and kept my post.