Something is calling to me.
Something smooth, something slippery, something shiny with long elegant lines, something low to the ground that has the low hum of near-frictionless moving parts. It reaches forward and stretches with taut, beautifully-formed sinewy muscles, winking at me, dissuading an old friend from doing practical things today. It wants me to hear the whistle of wind in my ears; to see the scenery flying past me into unimportance; to gulp lung-fulls of cold, necessary air. It wants me to push and pull, grunt and strain, burn and ache ... it knows that I bask in the warmth that showers me with.
As I lay in bed tonight, I dreamt of being seduced by the playful maiden of acceleration.
With you, dear, I willingly go.