First you hear the rumble, then you feel it in your bones.
It’s just your biker buddies, you recognize them by their tones.
The pack heads for the highway, destination... who cares.
Its all about the riding, and the scenery... anywhere.
Some trips we go cross country, just to log the miles.
Fifteen states in one holiday, adding bugs to all those smiles.
The weather doesn’t matter, for that we have the gear.
A thunderstorm or mountain hail is better than a deer.
We don’t make reservations, we’re not sure when we’ll stop.
Only time off work when half used up, will turn us towards the house.
It’s tough to describe the feeling, some call it being in the zone.
That never ending urge to ride, with partner or alone.
Some live to ride some ride to live, it’s written on a shirt.
Sometimes when lost you find yourself, another popular verse.
When too old to ride on two, that’s when we go to three.
It’s hard to give up riding, the best way to be free.
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