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LADYDUCATIDOC CLUB SPIRIT
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If thoughts that the motorcycle is only a iron and the ducatisti, cold individuals, turns page.
This is my turn on the Ducati. The states of mind of a Ducatista. One bike and go, the night is mine.
Many times to grip the handle-bar, knows them to horse better (if many), part in order to leave itself,
in order not to go, it is gone from the truth in order melting with the time and the space in the speed.
All the places, a single place. It is watched only ahead, listen to only notes of the mechanics,
the air is ripped that it wraps to us in its whirlwinds, begins the dance, the pact with the gravity,
the heat of the motor and the aromas of the rubber accompany to us with to reflected small of luminous spies and pointer oscillations orchestrate them.
The power that we control and we free is that cerebral one, is jolt but firmly in saddleback,
a hard jolt, the weights and the masses are moved, perceive the soft job of the suspensions,
then a dry blow come transmitted to the arms, oscillate the helmet and endured after, nearly a takeoff,
we aim the sky in order to find again to us, contain and we absorb the forces,
with the motor to ball we aim the horizon watching the infinite, like a river in flood,
the unrestrainable impetuosity pushes to us towards the next fold in order to caress asphalt.
Instantaneous, flash of enterprises sport they slide in the thoughts, duels of Fogarty, detached of Bostrom,
raids by horseback of Bayliss, fights of Capirossi compose a landscape mosaic that is inspiration.
We are they. Lately me he has seemed of being Neil Hogdson, at least one hundred times.
We meet others centauri, therefore we only perceive that asphalt slides lightning,
the speed renders drunk to perceive the world, we intercross express the look,
we share the idyllic state and escaping, a hand signal in order to demonstrate that we know ourselves from always.
We dominate the elements, fire, earth, air and water, our machine them fold to the wish of the thoughts,
transforms in appeals to the matter, seems magic and alchemy, but it is science and acquaintance,
and more and more aware riemerge in we the value of men like Taglioni, Bordi, Domenicali,
modern conjurers producers of dreams.
Allegretto andante, lively, we listen to the sounds, tones and semitones, solo, the road is a pentagram,
our Ducati becomes a matchless musical instrument, executes shares like masters musicians.
In growing of emotions it knows them the concentration, a discharge of shivers covers the dorsal thorn,
to shake ago the fear that if it goes some, polishes perceives the limit, is on the thread of the shaver,
with the energy concentrated in the wrist conquers margin more and more,
defies we same in order to explore disowned feelings, we rationalize and we return to make trot along the horses,
like the quiet ones after the storm, admire the landscape and we listen to the Ducati, a baritone.
I sing softly in the helmet the songs of Marco Lucchinelli, before all, Star Fortune.
We are free, worries of the real life are remained to house, thoughtlass like children,
suspended in a temporary paradise, us would not stop nobody.
The motor is round and full, pump as our heart, we ride a myth, we are the Freedom, like modern knights,
explore the world, ambassadors of a brand that is intelligence, history, courage and victories,
proud we show our colors, our standards, run encounter to the future in order makes us to sweep up from
the intense emotions that Ducati knows to give.
The raid by horseback is ended, the Ducati is firm in garage, would not come down more,
hour can dedicate all my attentions, control the details, prepares it for the next escape,
that it will be still more satisfying. Is the rest of the warrior, the same warrior symbol of my Club.
Us only knightly parades have not been battles but.
A turn in motion in order to tell to the world, one new history, one fantastic history for being told in the time,
one future, engagement and passion history sure victories: my turn in Ducati.
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