Virgil Tracy was a sensual man. As an artist he had to be. His senses connected him to the world around him, sensitive to the subtleties of the air, the colour, the emotion on the wind. They both grounded and supported him. But Virgil was also a Tracy. There was something in the Tracy genetic structure that called to speed. And from time to time he indulged that need. And let it roar. The light turned green and Virgil let off the clutch, slipping the bike into gear and leaving rubber on the pavement. Behind him Kayo let out a whoop, and he grinned in glee. The olden but golden Harley throbbed beneath him and tore up asphalt, white lines blurring into one as he accelerated. Sun shone off her chromework, sparkling with each move of the bars. The speedometer continued to climb. As wind tore at his jacket and the arms around his waist tightened, he found himself laughing out loud at the pure sensory high.