Cool forests where tall trees march on in
An endless, formless procession,
To merge at last on the horizon
Into a solid wall of brown.

Where little grows in the twilight world
Roofed by their thickly woven limbs.
Logs to jump;and rocky streams to ford.
The tangled maze of fallen trees.

The sun white-hot in a cobalt sky
Above a parched and sun-burned land,
Where Springtime's luxurient grass
Survives in withered, ragged mats,

Winding trails flanked by such dense foliage
That you can't see or even guess,
What lays just a few feet beside them,
Or what the next turn may conceal.

With the sky a narrow blue ribbon
Above the bare earth of the trail
As the bushes close in on both sides
'Till you've barely room to ride through.

The sudden opening of the bushes
Into a land where grass meets sky,
As you emerge on the windy bluffs,
Cut by the river far below,

And through it all, whenever you ride,
Reguardless of the days terrain,
The constant sense of power beneath you.
The quick response to throttle or weight.

The muted rumbling of the engine
Like thunder miles and miles away.
Low-keyed and angrily discordant
When striving for some mountain crest.

Or a protesting, high-pitched whining
Checking a heavy downward rush.
Making the silence almost louder.
Strangely harmonious with the land.

Standing out from the sounds around you
Like some loud trumpet call to war,
That overwhelms your heart and soul
With an insatiable passion

Then pushing on, beyond all doing,
Past all daring and enduring.
Eagerly rising to the challenge
Of one final, glorious run.

Forging out of man and machine
One hard-charging, spirited creature
Existing for one cause alone:
To be tested by fire; and found good.

To know the power and the glory.