on the road again

On the road again, the asphalt hums beneath me as I stand poised between two iron beasts, ready to ride into the hallowed earth of Andersonville, Georgia. This is not merely a journey its a ritual, a silent pact with the open road and the ghosts it carries. The two Harley-Davidson cruisers, gleaming like dark steel sentinels, are not just machines; they are my companions, my armor, my canvas. One, with its rear-mounted spare tire, speaks of the unyielding spirit of the open highway; the other, its tall windscreen and saddlebags, whispers of the stories were about to collect. Im the artist here the grin on my face, the red lanyard in my hand, is my brushstroke, my declaration: I am here, and I am not afraid. Behind me, the traffic lights stand like silent sentinels, indifferent to the roar of the engines about to ignite. Ahead, the green hill rises, a quiet monument to the fields and the fallen. Andersonville is not just a destination; its a cathedral of memory, a place where the weight of history presses down on the road, and where the roar of the engine becomes a requiem for the lost. This is not a ride. This is an offering. A promise to the road, to the wind, to the ghosts that still walk these lanes. I am not merely going to Andersonville I am walking into its soul. And the road, with its rumble and its roar, is my witness.

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