The road listens. It believes in you.

It truly is an odd thing we bikers do, riding through miserable conditions like this. We don’t invite them or look for them, surely, but when they are upon us we relish the challenge and silently claim the superiority of adventure over comfort, wilderness over warmth, discovery over certainty.

Riding a motorcycle takes vengeance on half-shut eyes, deadened ears, and dormant thoughts.

Mountains slowly change, but they will always be there, defining Freedom.

When Freedoms Live, We Ride;When We Ride, Freedoms Live.

Riding is a sacred place.

The center-point of riding a motorcycle, and of life itself, is Freedom.

Riding a motorcycle is a tribute, a tip of the helmet as it were, to our rugged ancestors who challenge us through the dust of centuries, proof that we have succumbed to the safety nets of civilization.

Truck drivers are great with directions. Landmarks, road conditions, the works. The only problem is that they’ll give you five different routes to just get to the next town. By the time they’re done, you won’t know what the hell to do.