Iconic

I have had yet another vision of grandeur for myself. Gone are the days of winning the meet at the anchor position of the last relay. Replaced by a new vision of grandeur; the iconic lone rider. It is an image I know is rarely true, but there are times when I feel that it is; times when I am in love with the silhouette cast by the monolith.

Rolling alone down the highway on an iron horse; initiating a vein attempt to herd the air in front the handlebars, sideburns whistling in the rouge torrents of wind. A wanderer with an appetite for new horizons; miles consumed as if they are sustenance. A divining rod of intuition targeting each new path.

A mind concentrated on only two things: the next four seconds on the road ahead, and the immediate intangible quandary. In the philosophy of the road each passing object is subject for debate. Sights birth thoughts, which in turn, birth more thoughts. An entire generation spawned by a roadrunner darting across the highway.< /p>

The rumble of chrome and sight of leather brings with it a flurry of questions from onlookers in each new isolated town about purpose; destinations past and present. Passers by yearn to switch realities; to hear the wind and feel the road.

Possessing an image forged from the antecedent cowboy and frontiersman. Iconic is the only word that embodies this figure.

Note: in case anybody was wondering, the picture is of an Arkansas pre-dawn. It proved rather hard to get a picture of myself riding off into the horizon, so abstract will have to do.