To some, motorcycles are just another form of transportation. To others, they are a dangerous obnoxious nuisance of the road. But to a very select few they are the thrill, the buzz, the excitement of a life time, an adrenaline rush like no other. An adrenaline rush that nothing can match, whether it be professional riders that get paid equal to major athletes of this day (upwards of 2-3 million dollars). or amateur riders -- the “weekend worriers” with no sponsor, paying out of pocket. They all do it for one reason: the buzz, the thrill, the excitement. My dad used to be one of those amateurs, those “weekend warriors,” risking everything for a couple hundred dollars for finishing 1st; but no one does this for the money. No one - not even the best riders - can tell you why they do it, risking their lives at over 185 MPH. All you could get out of them is “because I love it." Everything beside you being a blur; everything in front of you being your destination. For as far back as I can remember, I remember motorcycles. I remember walking across the street to our garage in Weehawken, NJ to see my dad's motorcycles, his tools and all the other essential parts and pieces. As far back as I can remember, I remember motorcycles. I remember sitting next to my dad's office and him saying, “Go play quietly. If you want a dirt bike you have to let me work.” I remember sitting on the bike, acting like I was in the race even though I couldn't even reach the foot pegs. I remember falling asleep at nap time watching old motorcycle races taped off of TV: Racers dueling it out at over 185 MPH, literally fighting, some even going as far as to try to elbow the other off the track and into the gravel pit. It didn't matter if you were fighter for 1st or 21st there was a battle every spot; every spot up would mean more points. Many things are passed down from generation to generation and racing is what was passed down to me. Like your cells, it