Yeah, grab the paint, not a pen. This stretch? It was once the only line between two towns after a thunderstorm wiped out the old highway. The road was smooth as fresh ink, but the dust kept falling in waves. I’d drive straight through, engine roaring, leaving my tire tracks a mess of white on black. I carved the words “Ride On” in the side of a truck that didn’t even see me—just the road and me. The next mile had a rusted sign, a ghost of a bridge, and I wrote “No Limits” across it, as if the road itself were a storybook. Take that vibe: raw, unapologetic, a map that’s been written by a motorbike’s heart and the wind.

Sounds good. Let’s grab the needle, hit the road, and make that map permanent. Just keep your eyes on the horizon, and I’ll make sure the ink rides with you. Let's roll.