I’d just bought my first motorcycle and was riding it home, exhilarated. Ever since catching the “two-wheeled fever” riding around on my dad’s dirt bike, I’d dreamt of owning a sport bike. When I found her, it was love at first sight: a 1984 Honda Interceptor, with 750 cc’s of growly, four-cylinder power. After the test drive and trying to play it cool with the salesman (who could read my adolescent infatuation like a book), I paid the bill and rode her away.
That’s how I found myself flying down the highway on a perfect afternoon in June with the engine barely cracking a sweat at 6,000 rpm. Words couldn’t express my glee. In fact, I was so caught up in my own unbridled excitement that I was completely surprised when I saw it for the first time.
“OUR SOULS WERE EQUALLY DRIVEN BY PREMIUM GASOLINE, CHAIN GREASE, AND THE WIND HOWLING BY”
The Wave
Anyone who rides will know exactly what I’m talking about, but as a 21-year-old nerd who’d never ridden (legally) on pavement, I was clueless. Nonetheless, four minutes down the road I passed another guy on a
