There’s something special about a community in motion. And when that motion is on bikes, it’s something else altogether.
Driving across the US, I saw them often—groups of bikers, engines roaring long before they came into view. Then, for a few fleeting seconds, they would appear—gliding, leaning, perfectly in sync with the road. And just like that, they’d be gone.
Maybe it’s the way they hug the road, the way the sound fills the air, or the way their presence lingers long after they’ve disappeared. They don’t just ride, they command attention—in sound, sight, and spirit.
What must it be like, to ride with the wind, to feel the world rush past, to have nothing but open road and a revved-up heartbeat?
Freedom. Movement. Brotherhood.
Somewhere in that formation, there’s a kind of unspoken poetry—one that only the road can write.
