People either love or hate motorcycles; there are often no shades of grey.
My aunt, a nurse, calls them organ donators, as she has experienced, first hand, the dangers of riding, and falling off of, the vehicle.
Perhaps I love motorcycles because my dad had one while I was growing up. I loved getting on the back of his Honda and feeling the wind rush by me.
My husband has a Harley, and yesterday was my first ride in more than a year.
I find being on the back of a motorcycle quite freeing and relaxing. While you can hold conversations (but at louder volumes), you spend a lot of time just thinking and looking around.
The sense of smell comes alive on the back of a bike - wood, freshly cut, dirt recently plowed by a farmer and lilacs by the dozens.
When it was just the two of us, we would jump on the bike and go. We saw a lot of the countryside around us on the back of the motorcycle and had some great road trips.
While my jump-on-the-bike-and-go days are now gone, the love of bikes is still there waiting for the day in the far future when we can go again.