After lunch in Jerome we head out past the copper mine. At first I'm cramped, standing on the rubber foot pegs, hunched over the bars. After a few miles I settle into a gentle squat, loosening my hold on the bike, letting it float over the washboard. The texture of the road cycles through all the hits, gravel, sand, rock, red dust. The formerly sedate 980cc boxer twin wakes up. The sewing machine becomes a chainsaw, eager to spit a roostertail. Twisting through cut red rock, visibility hundreds of miles, Sedona, the San Francisco Peaks, all the way to the Grand Canyon.
Sliding around bends, blasting through ruts, this analog machine feels in its element. Awake and eager after years of coffee runs and garage slumbers. It shakes the creaks out with a broken mirror, an oil leak, and a little extra clack-clack from the dry clutch. The bike feels loose underneath me. More agile than a 600lb wet-head computer-controlled spaceship. I'm sailing over the top of everything, plastic panniers rattling, big twin purring, going where I'm pointing and nowhere else.
