π Bike sitting there quiet, helmet on the tank, that familiar smell of oil and rubber hitting me.
Slid the shirt over my shoulders and just sat on the seat for a minute, hand on the throttle, eyes closed, imagining the pull when the engine catches and the world blurs.
Thatβs what this gear is for.
Not just fabric.
Itβs the uniform for when youβre out there alone, chasing lines no one else sees, no central rules telling you how fast is too fast.
ποΈ ronin21.xyz
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