Oregon Motorcycle Prose

BNSF along midnight rivers and black-treed hills, engine chuff straight along my highway and as the endless darkness that surrounds us both becomes more and more tangible, this train beside me is unforgettable.



From ninety-five down to forty, the river’s mist throws the engine light across the tracks with colossal precision, the dark wilderness illuminated fresh and crisp like a hallowed ceremony. Cutting through the air is forgiving since there’s warmth remaining from the waning summer, catching this train from fifty cars ago took a little over a minute of shifting, twisting and leaning, and once I approached the dirty behemoth, I realized that the solitude of the street and the sheer might of this machine so near to me made us one lone animal for a seven mile breath of enormous exhilaration.



The heavy, deep, growling moan of the two-diesel caravan that became my friend will always be a gradual and determined beast whose power is neither belligerant or arrogant, just unspeakably formidable with sooty grace. Never has a ride become such a pure union between machines, and I’ve never been so elegantly complete while rolling beside such a beautiful brute. . Never has a moment on my motorcycle been so poignant while so wonderfully alone.