Unlike my Hondas, my Moto Guzzi is not a bike that disappears beneath me. It's a bike that speaks very clearly, in an intimate and uniquely expressive way. I've lately taken to riding it late at night, setting out long after the kids are tucked into bed. I'll disappear deep into the countryside, where the only illumination comes from the dim cone of my sealed-beam headlight. I go where the roads are long and empty and free of distractions, so I can better focus the subtle communiqus issued by this ancient machine. The alarming clatter of worn-out rocker arms. The slight wobble emanating from the front wheel, with yet another broken spoke. The hollow thud over big bumps when the fuel tank, riding on its weary rubber mounts, contacts the valve covers on either side. Some nights, if I listen closely, I'll hear a familiar voice uttering a message I waited more than 30 years to hear: "It's all yours, Aaron-I'm done with it now."