By Keith May
Harley, Honda, Triumph, Ducati. Fender, Martin, Gibson, Rickenbacker. Sportbikes, cruisers, dirtbikes, scooters. Six-string, twelve-string, acoustic, electric. The similarities between a beautifully crafted guitar and an impeccably-engineered motorbike are hard to ignore if you enjoy getting what you can out of both.
Sculpted feline curves, sensual and aggressive, draw you in. Polish, tune, noodle and gaze. As you listen to it's purr, attachment borders on love. "‘Til death do us part," you mutter subconsciously.
Plug it in or turn the key. Sparks ignite. Pistons pump. Vibrations echo and neighbors complain. Repeato il tiempo. Faster you go as rhythm takes over. Strum it, pick it, pound it. Screw it on. Dancing on the edge but always in control. The beat goes on.
Mike The Bike, Hurricane Hannah, Valentino Rossi.
Stevie Ray Vaughn, Pete Townsend, Eddie Van Halen.
Imagination takes you anywhere, so dream on.
Destination reached, the music ends. The instument hums but for the moment lies at rest.
Waiting.
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