Every stop sign is an opportunity to launch a little harder and let the two-stroke sing a little longer. Ed and his TL follow as I confuse commuters with my mutated-leaf-blower-on-crack exhaust note, my GPS giving instructions in my ear as we criss-cross the city. By the time we hit the Golden Gate bridge, my cheeks hurt from smiling.
Raw and refined at the same time, like a serious troublemaker in a bespoke suit. “American muscle” is mostly a lie in 2017, the bullshit blathering of done-run-outta-tricks marketers, the equivalent of playground braggarts, now grown, clinging to a once-glorious past.
