Don't get me wrong, I think bikes are terrific. I own several of

Host: The afternoon light slanted through the wide garage doors, illuminating the dust that hung in the air like old memories. The place smelled of rubber, oil, and rain-damp concrete — that scent of machines that had lived and breathed long before the digital world took over. Outside, the low growl of traffic hummed through the city streets, steady and indifferent.

Jack stood over a half-dismantled motorcycle, sleeves rolled, his hands blackened by grease. His eyes, cold grey and thoughtful, studied the metal like it was a problem only philosophy could solve. Across the room, perched on a workbench, Jeeny sat with a cup of coffee, her hair tied back, her face glowing in the dusty light. A bicycle leaned beside her — bright, simple, clean — a quiet rebellion against the noise of the room.

Pinned on the wall behind Jack, amid blueprints and old race posters, was a clipping with Brock Yates’ quote:
“Don’t get me wrong, I think bikes are terrific. I own several of my own, including a trendy mountain style, and ride them for pleasure and light exercise.”

Jack: With a wry grin, wiping his hands on a rag. “You see, Jeeny, that’s the kind of line that separates men from machines. He talks about bikes like they’re hobbies. I talk about them like they’re religion.”

Jeeny: Smiling over the rim of her coffee cup. “That’s because you don’t ride for pleasure, Jack. You ride for escape.”

Host: A faint breeze drifted through the open door, carrying the smell of wet asphalt and the echo of a passing horn. Jack’s jaw tightened, his eyes lowering to the bike before him — a vintage Triumph, scarred and silent.

Jack: “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Jeeny: “It’s not bad. It’s just... telling. You don’t exercise your body when you ride. You exercise your ghosts.”

Jack: Laughs quietly, shaking his head. “You make it sound like therapy.”

Jeeny: “Isn’t it? That’s why people love bikes — all kinds, not just your roaring beasts. Even the simple ones, the ones without engines. You start pedaling, and suddenly the world’s rhythm matches your own.”

Host: She looked toward the doorway, where her bicycle gleamed in the fading light — a modest thing, but elegant in its simplicity. The kind of bike made not for speed, but for presence.

Jack: “That’s cute. But your kind of bike doesn’t make my blood move. It doesn’t roar back when you push it. It doesn’t remind you you’re alive.”

Jeeny: Tilting her head, softly. “Maybe it reminds you you’re trying too hard to prove it.”

Host: The words hung between them like smoke. Jack tossed the rag aside, walked over to the sink, and rinsed the grease from his hands, the water running black before turning clear again.

Jack: “You think I don’t know that? I’ve built machines all my life — fast ones, loud ones, dangerous ones. But it’s not about proving anything. It’s about feeling something pure. The faster you go, the fewer lies survive.”

Jeeny: Standing now, crossing her arms lightly. “And the fewer connections you have. You outrun the noise, but you also outrun the people trying to reach you.”

Jack: Dryly. “Says the woman who rides alone through parks on Sunday mornings.”

Jeeny: “I don’t ride to disappear. I ride to arrive. There’s a difference.”

Host: A sudden silence filled the room — not empty, but charged. The rain had stopped, leaving the world outside glistening and still. Jack leaned against the workbench, his voice lower, thoughtful now.

Jack: “You know, Yates had it half-right. Bikes are terrific. But calling them ‘pleasure and light exercise’ — that’s missing the point. They’re freedom. They’re the one honest machine we still have left.”

Jeeny: Smiling faintly. “Or maybe you’re missing his point. Maybe he didn’t need to worship the machine to enjoy it. Maybe that’s real freedom — to love something without needing it to save you.”

Jack: Quietly. “You think I’m trying to be saved?”

Jeeny: “I think you already were. You just keep forgetting.”

Host: The faint hum of the city outside began again — engines starting, tires hissing over wet pavement, life resuming its motion. The golden light of the sun cut through the rainclouds, touching the edges of metal and chrome until everything shimmered.

Jack: After a pause. “You know what I envy about people like you? You ride slow. You see things. When I’m on the road, everything blurs. It’s beautiful, but it’s gone before I can name it.”

Jeeny: “Then stop running. Let the world catch up.”

Jack: Smirking faintly. “You make it sound so easy.”

Jeeny: “It’s not easy. But it’s simple.” She nods toward his bike. “Try pedaling once in a while instead of throttling.”

Host: Jack laughed — genuinely this time, the sound surprising even him. He looked down at her bicycle, its quiet simplicity almost mocking his obsession with noise and speed.

Jack: “You know, I could probably fix that thing for you. It looks like it hasn’t seen a real mechanic in years.”

Jeeny: Playfully. “Maybe I don’t want it fixed. It squeaks a little, but it still gets me home.”

Host: The light shifted again, soft and golden, as the two of them stood surrounded by tools and time. The contrast between them — engine and chain, roar and whisper — seemed to hum with its own kind of harmony.

Jack: “You think the world needs both kinds of riders, huh? The ones chasing the wind and the ones letting it pass through them.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The world needs the roar and the quiet. The burn and the breath.”

Jack: Smiling, finally. “You sound like a philosopher on two wheels.”

Jeeny: Grinning back. “No, just someone who knows that peace can travel at any speed.”

Host: Outside, the sun broke fully through the clouds, and a thin beam of light fell across the floor — illuminating the two bikes side by side: one powerful, gleaming, restless; the other simple, steady, worn smooth from use.

In their stillness, they seemed to understand each other.

And in that moment — the hum of the city, the smell of oil and rain, the quiet laughter shared between two people who moved through the world differently — Brock Yates’ words hung like a bridge between philosophies:

Some ride to test limits.
Some ride to find balance.
And somewhere between the throttle and the heartbeat
lies the pure, unspoken joy of motion itself.

A reminder — that whether we move fast or slow,
the road is always the same:
it only asks that we keep riding.