Imagine a beautiful day.
The sky is stitched in soft blue and quiet light.
A motorcyclist leans into the wind, tires kissing the earth like an old friend.
No destination. Just motion.
The countryside rolls by—golden fields, silent trees, the scent of wildflowers.
Each mile is a prayer. Each turn a choice.
There is no rush here. Only rhythm.
The engine speaks in smooth tones, like a heart that knows its pace.
In the helmet, behind the visor, the world goes silent.
It’s just the rider… and the One who watches.
Thoughts rise and fall like hills.
Regrets fade in the rearview. Hope glows on the horizon.
And somehow, in the hum of metal and the hush of the wind,
they find a moment of something close to peace.
Not happiness. Not victory.
But wholeness.
The kind we long for but never quite reach.
The kind that whispers, “You’re exactly where you’re meant to be.”
The sun dips low, casting shadows that stretch like memories.
The ride is ending. The road curls home.
But something has changed.
Maybe it was God.
Maybe it was the machine.
Maybe it was just stillness, rare and golden.
Whatever it was, it felt like love.
Michael Forty