My feet have been itchy for months now as I’ve watched the summer riding season north of 49 hurry past me like closing time at one of my favorite bars in a past life. Now the rush is on to pick up something, anything, before the lights dim for one last time and I am swept out into the street like dirt.
Hell, I haven’t even gone for a ride yet, busy as I have been with other events in my life. Now that’s done, and I’m ready for a little adventure, a little dirt of my very own, that special odor that adheres to me from the road dust and grime that accumulates after hundreds of miles.
Asphalt perfume, I call it.
Wind. Sun. Pavement. Dust. Dirt. Gas. Oil.
It has its own special smell, hard to describe if someone asks.
All I know is, you can’t get it in a car or a truck with the windows open; you can’t get it in a convertible with the top down; and, desperate now, you can’t get it by rolling around on the ground on your favorite stretch of highway.
You’ve got to get out there and ride it.