He slides by me on the left, a long, lean man on a low, lean Harley, its sound filling the car, the groaning growl like aural porn. Without even a glance, he cuts in front of me to take advantage of the empty lane ahead, and I get the full triple X effect of the silver mufflers. Suddenly, it's easy to imagine driving that rumbling machine down the strip-mall corridor of Lima Road, the ride changing like black magic into something as cool as the evening air. I wouldn't be cool because I thought I was cool -- No. I'd be cool like him, careless cool, confident cool, unconsciously cool.
He gunned and the bike took him far ahead of me, and I lost the sound and the daydream. But he kept the cool.