I’ve often wanted to take seat on a motor cycle, its handle bars facing a long winding black ribbon of freshly paved road.  The machine would be perfectly tuned and start with no effort.  A deep growl would resound as I revved the throttle, as if an animal long caged was about to be loosed.  In real life the risk of injury seems too great and so this remains a highway fantasy–until tonight.  On this summer evening there will be two bikes, one for each of us.  Our ride will take us south to Savannah. On this ride there will be no possibility of death or dismemberment.  We ride in a dream world. We’ll still feel the warm wind, smell the honeysuckle, and see the stripes the man painted rip by–a hashed line now made solid by high speed, but we will be invisible to all mortal men and women.  The freedom we feel won’t lend itself easily to the written word.  Some things are best felt and not spoken. Curves we wouldn’t negotiate at forty we’ll take at eighty, our knees a fraction above the surface as we bank severely to hold the road.  Straight-always that read fifty-five will say one hundred and fifty to us.  Our hearts will pound with adrenaline induced splendor.  The miles on southern journey will tick by like seconds on an old timey stop watch.  When we arrive at the inn which will provide our lodging in that grand old city it will require an extra toddy or two to calm our ourselves as we will have slowed from a hundred to one in a blink.  As we watch the ocean from our balcony’s glider and talk of our high speed adventure, we laugh like school children who have gotten away with ringing the neighbor’s doorbell–barely avoiding capture.  We’ll sleep well in each other’s arms, neither of us letting go of the smiles we made on our two wheeled romp.