A cool, foggy morning greets me as I put on my helmet and stare into a fog shrouded rising sun. The Tiger starts with a willing snarl, burbling in its strange triple way, eager for the off.
Condensation immediately coats my visor as we leap down the road into the morning’s ground clouds. The roads are dry but beads of condensation constantly reappear to be wiped away by a quick hand.
A cold, morning ride is a glorious thing.
A cold, morning ride is a glorious thing.
Full of oxygen and surrounded by the smells of the world waking up to the first touch of the sun, I’m just another empty thing being filled. Cold wind presses around and my heat bleeds away making me even more a part of the scenery.
It’s all especially sharp because I know that this can’t last for long. Soon enough the roads will be covered in ice and salt and I’ll be trapped in a shiny metal box, trundling to work, removed from the world, wrapped in metal and glass.
I pass through empty countryside soaking up the rising sun and wiping away the never ending dew.
The camera struggles to capture this moment hidden as it is in the clouds. Moisture streams from the lens as the camera tries to blink away its tears, but even blurry images of this ride resonate.
Don’t fight the lack of clarity, embrace it, let it be.
I’m dripping with morning mist when I slowly dismount with icy joints at work, but my eyes have filled me with delights. I leave the Tiger steaming in the glorious, golden haze and walk inside.
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