It's a little like trying to describe the ocean to someone who's never seen water, or a flower to someone who's never seen colors; you can give them a one-dimensional image, but you can't really explain it fully. Some people scale cliffs, some ski down mountains of ice and snow, others jump out of airplanes, still others dive beneath the waves, we (us motorcyclists) ride.

We may be drawn to this pursuit for it's technical mastery. Riding a steed made from metal, rubber and plastic; controlling the tempermental and sometimes dangerous machine. To find the perfect line through a corner, the skill of hanging off; pavement rushing by inches from our knee. The feeling of leaning into a curve at speed, aiming for the exit and the rush of acceleration as you roll into the throttle. We dance on a razor's edge, seeking the perfect apex.

Others of us approach the sport with a Zen like philosophy. The wind caressing us, carrying with it the smells of nature. The freedom of a winding road, banking and swooping without wings; flying yet remaining earthbound. We dream of far off places and take aim with our bikes for the journey. We ride for the vista unfolding before us; the everchanging landscape of humanity or nature's panorama. For us it is the anticipation of not knowing what's around the next corner, yet being drawn to it on our bikes. We are the last cowboys, independent, wandering among the landscape.

We ride for sport, we ride for the journey, we ride for the sheer pleasure of it.