As we lean into an impossibly long, high-speed sweeper on the outskirts of the Ocala National Forest, I realize I was thankful for two things: One, that we'd actually found one of the few decently radiused turns in Florida, and, two, the bike I was riding was a stout and highly capable tourer—but one unvarnished with frippery and fandanglery. A bike where you just turned the ignition on, thumbed the starter, and whacked the throttle. Nothing else to it. No hard drive to boot, no waypoints to plug in, no Bluetooth to connect. The ride was free, elemental, just the wind in your face, the soul-stirring prattle of the super-smooth Milwaukee-Eight engine underneath, and a couple of analog gauges on the dash to occupy your lower horizon. Nothing to distract from the simple act of movement, of pushing through air. Even the machine itself seemed eager, unencumbered, better equipped to hit the next apex, sans the cyber baggage of the modern world. But that's just my psychosomatic projection. Had I chugged too much of the H-D Kool-Aid?