Today, a major separation occurred within our family: I sold my street motorcycle.
Yeah, I know, it's not that big of a deal. But it is a little sad. I've had a street bike since I was 19 years old. My street bike got me through college, or at least, to college (although it typically got me there late, if at all). I have loved riding. Sometimes while riding, it even felt as though I was flying -- there was nothing between me and the ground. My motorcycle provided a sense of freedom and excitement, a connection to my youth.
But, at 5:30am on my way to work, it also provided a sense of freezing and a sense of drowsiness that made me a little uneasy.
The bike's final doom came when several friends of friends died on motorcycles this summer. Not exactly what a young family needs (no, Angela did not force nor encourage me to sell the bike).
I still have my dirt bike, which I consider to be much more fun and challenging; it even provides exercise. So my youth isn't totally dead.
Here is a stock picture of my former 2003 Kawasaki Z1000: