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Lost in Translation

As I slide around the corner I feel the back tire slip and quiver. I give the throttle a quick rev and I straighten out and continue to bound around the woods. I feel one with the bike, the 100 Cubic Centimeters of power surges through me. For a 10 year old two-stroke it’s nimble and responsive.

As I weave and pick my way through the trails, the noise from the engine is all that is audible. It pounds my ears and echos off of the surroundings as I sit and wait for Parker to catch up. The constant purr is music to my ears as I keep the RPM (revolutions per minute) up so the bike doesn’t stall out. That purr instantly transforms into a roar when I open up the throttle as I sit idling. I finally see Parker’s metallic silver helmet and we continue on.

We come to a slick downhill to a creek. Tires caked with mud shot up mud as I ford the creek. The water gives the engine a quick cooling bath and I’m soon on the other side. I feel it strain as it pushes me up the hill. The power from the engine sends the wheels spinning like a cyclone. It keeps working and pushes itself up the hill to the level ground.

Level ground is where this bike belongs. In a matter of seconds I’m going nearly 60 miles per hour. Going through the corners is like riding a slip and slide. I go into the corner then open the throttle and feel the bike attempt to escape out from under me. The bike hugs the ground as I fly over bumps and hills. My body can barely hold onto the bike as it transforms into a bucking bronco.

Time after time the bike yes yet to fail me. It has never thrown me off or anything even close. Occasionally something gets stuck in the chain and it putters to a halt but nothing a little poking around hasn’t been able to fix. Always starts after a kick or two. The familiar roar will always bring back memory of exhaust fumes and dirt. The confident roar of the engine has been burned into my memory.