The sweet smell of freedom

Since the days when men were men and er, girls were girls, riding motorcycles has been associated with freedom. But I never cared much for that kind of nonsense - until I ventured abroad for the first time to the South of France with my biking buddies. The previous day we'd left northern France behind to reach the south, where we'd be spending many more full days' riding. Then yet another winding stretch of smooth tarmac that rivalled the world's best GP tracks sucked us deep into the glorious Alps. It struck me I had no clear destination, no job to go to, no responsibilities, no one to answer to, no weight over my shoulders; all I had was my motorcycle, many roads to ride and all the time in the world. I was free.