I can’t drive automatic transmission vehicles. I mean, I can, but I can’t. To me it’s like settling into a leather recliner on a rainy day while “The African Queen” plays on the TMC channel. It’s quiet. The movie is familiar and comforting. I’m asleep in 3 minutes. Riding a motorcycle is different. I am engaged, active, alert. There is oxygen steaming at me, it rushes to my lungs, binds with red blood cells and supplies energy to the body. I like this feeling. My brain rewards my body with constant dumps of dopamine. I like dopamine. I like it A LOT. But I’m also not riding 3,500 miles from Portland, ME to Portland, OR. And I’m also riding bikes from this current century overly-equipped with modern technical advancements such as insane amounts of torque, horsepower, wind protection, forged aluminum wheels, carbon fiber whatever, sprockets NOT made of WOOD, and belt drives NOT made of stitched or glued LEATHER. I don’t pedal my bikes to start them. I change the oil every 3 to 5k mikes, but I’m not even sure it’s necessary. The 1911 belt-driven Excelsior K-Single loves 48 mph. She’s going downhill and fast. But a lot of the time she’s cranking steadily along at 30 or 35 mph, depending, of course, on the road conditions, terrain, steep of incline, weather conditions, wind, traffic, etc. Each morning brings with it the expectation to cover 250 miles of westward expansion across the American landscape. Each morning the psychological game begins anew. To be continued…😎