Long ago, my late father placed me between his knees on an Indian motorcycle, engaged its infamous so-called suicide clutch, and took me down the road in a happy mist of rumbling, thunderous, vibrating glee. I was four, the bike was a post-World War II model, my old man was wearing a grin and his aviator goggles, and I was in love.
Such images—whimsical conjurings, really—catch your imagination, your emotions, your longings, and put you in a place you’d far rather be than where you are (like your desk at work). They are personal choices that run a gamut from horse riding out on the open plains, to rock climbing in Monument Valley, piloting a glider over the Pacific coast, or—in my case—riding a motorcycle damn near anywhere.
Recently, I…
