The Washington Post, August 28th, 1998
When they speak rapturously, it is about the smells: the dense perfume of lilacs. The tang of manure. The sweet prelude to a summer rain. What would normally be a drive through the country becomes a sensuous experience, with that lazy hawk gliding overhead, the sun-soaked wind on your cheek -- and 1,000 cubic centimeters of roaring, power-laden engine hovering under the grip of your hand, trembling beneath the sole of your boot, ready to propel you down that infinite, winding ribbon of American blacktop. Muscle -- and Zen. Power and peace. Aloneness and oneness. Since the 1950s, motorcycles ha...
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