The speed made me take notice.
This speed is of a different order. The old speed was extracted from mechanical wearwithal. My old Harleys literally beat themselves to destruction with every power pulse. My Ducati was always warning me that a new tune up—an endeavor of engineering that would take countless hours and inestimable expense—was merely a twist grip away.
This speed is silent. This speed has the consistency of heavy cream. This speed is subtle and brutal, black and bottomless like a fantastical cup of coffee.
I did a quick 350 miles across southern Utah. I faced off with a bull, who stared down the cyclops of my headlight. I hit 110mph at a mere 3990rpm.
And then there is Blu. Blu is 140lbs of Italian Mastiff, and he holds a grudge when criticized.
Tomorrow we head to LA.