The motorcycle ride was a ritual. He would hang his tool belt on the garage wall, drink a pint of water and don his leather suit. Seated behind the oversized fairing he would turn the key and just sit for a moment, listening to the purr of the engine. It was a solid machine and comfortable, a touring model BMW. Then he would head for the mountain roads. Once there he disregarded speed limits, opening the throttle wide. Sometimes his knee would be just skimming the ground as he took the bends. He had a hard job and this was his therapy.

By ryanthomas36, October 24, 2014.

It had to be the shortest "motorcycle ride" on record.
Closing the door behind me, I checked that my crash helmet was secure. Nick was already at the roadside, stting astride his lovingly restored '71 Triumph Bonneville, but I could tell he was getting impatient, by the way he was revving it up. He'd certainly made a professional job,mind, for the engine was spotless, and the paintwork and chrome sure gleamed in the sunlight.
"You alright mate?" he asked, as I swung my leg over the pillion, and with a pane-shattering roar, the powerful machine shot out from between my legs, and Nick was halfway down the street.
As for me, I was sitting on my backside on the tarmac, and hoping there'd been no witnesses.

By albee, July 8, 2014.