Speed is a sensation not a mile per hour.
At 90-mph the motorcycle's resistance to aerodynamics is felt as pressure on my chest, diffused by a jacket. Earplugs mute the cry of an engine spinning in excess of 12-thousand RPM and the accompanying harmonic vibration is dampened by rubber soled shoes. The black and red cars flickering in my peripheral vision are muffled my blue-tinted glasses.
My senses are numb to the world and the hazards it presents but refusing to look at something doesn't make it unreal. Philosophy gives way to physics as erratic lane changes and strobing brake lights up ahead signal traffic coming to a standstill. I blip the throttle twice, downshifting to fourth and reacquaint myself with the power-band as I begin filtering through traffic.
The daily commute is boring but not without its hazards and, overtime, I break the cardinal sins of riding motorcycles: overestimating one's abilities and underestimating the hazards. Then again I couldn't live in Los Angeles without a motorcycle; idle in afternoon traffic. At least filtering is proactive even if it is dangerous.
