The scene: interior of a 1960 Buick LeSabre, white pterodactyl tail-wings gleaming in the rear window, safety belts tucked unused at my side; my grandmother is driving. The speedometer, a bright-red thermometer laid on its side, nudges its way to 40 degrees. I’m a little kid, so I pass the time calling out the make, model, year of manufacture and displacement in cubic centimeters of every motorcycle we see on the highway. I know how many speeds their transmissions have. I know their cylinder disposition, their air-induction inclination. I know their top speed, their quarter-mile times to the hundredth of a second, and can name the color choices available for each, year by year.