My brother’s old motorcycle
had been sitting idle for years.
I got it fixed for just 500 yuan.
It’s light—almost too light.
No bulky tank, no fat tires.
Not much to look at, really.
But somehow, it fits me just right.
I had no gear,
no destination.
I took the backroads, the mountain trails,
always chasing that thin edge between chill and thrill.
Rarely saw another soul out there.
More than once, I rode straight to the end of the road.
Not because I was admiring the view—
but because I lacked this thing
called a “license.”
The joy of riding
mostly came from shifting gears—
pushing the engine harder and harder
until it couldn’t take more,
then suddenly—upshift.
That moment
is when the weight lifts.
Me and the machine—
both a little lighter.
The second joy of riding
is the danger.
We’re all afraid of it,
but total safety
is worse—
boring.
On two wheels,
I’m more exposed
than I ever was in four.
Just me and the world,
separated
by a thick layer of confidence.
Later, I moved to the big city.
No more wind in my face.
The world
feels like it’s missing a piece.