It had been a fun ride. By then, I’d gotten used to my single-cylinder steed and Justin to his. We took corners – the blind ones, the long sweeping ones, the banked ones and rutted ones – much faster than I had suspected my tires could handle. My heart would jump right out of my throat when a car would fly just as recklessly around from the other direction, and I’d swallow it back down as silently as I could over the Sena’s. Didn’t want Justin to slow down just ‘cuz he’s concerned I’ll get into trouble. So I kept it to myself. I tried to keep pace. The road to York was fast and light, full throttle on the A and an M or two. Our path to Yorkshire’s left shoulder was satisfyingly slow in comparison, curvy as all hell, challenging on a few different levels and beautiful beyond belief. Whatever reservations I had about England were made up for, as it was every time, when we rode through the countryside. Justin bobbed in and out of site through the trees, up and down massive bulbous hills.