Vincent Hayes flipped through the channels, bored. All these channels and nothing to watch. He really was thinking it was time to drop cable. His attention was quickly captured, however, by a familiar image coming over the screen. There on the History Channel, was a dated picture of the old motorcycle factory that had once been the pride of the state. But it had closed down years ago.
Intrigued, he watched the program. It was a history of motorcycles and racing, showcasing the Grand Prix, which he used to dream of participating in when he was younger. Of course, life and maturity had tamed him and dashed those particular dreams.
The announcer went on, “Burnhart Factories was the place to get top-quality motorcycles for decades. People said they 'flew off the line' and their bikes 'lived and breathed'. Watch their commercial, from 1968!”
An faded commercial flashed on, and a dark man smiled into the camera. “Burnhart's. There's a breath of life in every bike. I guarantee it.”
This cut to a picture of a leather-clad man riding a motorcycle with a girl in a skimpy outfit. “My bike rides like it craves the road!” the man called to the camera.
“And it feels so alive!” the girl chimed in.
The dark man came back on. “Our bikes WANT to ride! If you want a bike, or you just want to be part of the magic of Burnhart's, come visit us and see for yourself! A motorcycle lover's dream come true!” As the announcer murmured the address, Vincent clicked off the TV.
After all these years, it was time to finally see the place for himself.
The two-hour drive seemed to take only minutes. With such a love for motorcycles, he had always meant to visit the factory, but, again, life happened, and he never quite made it.
But now, at twenty-four years old, he finally had the chance to do it. He was finished with school, looking for a job...What better time to take a road trip?
Reaching the factory, he parked in front of the entrance. He was almost embarrassed to show up in the old Buick that he drove around in, but that was what he could afford. And it wasn't like anyone would see him. One day, he intended to get rid of the car and purchase the ultimate motorcycle, maybe a Ducati 1098S...
Of course, that was if he ever got a decent paycheck...
He walked up to the glass entrance doors, which had seemed quite grand in the commercial. Now they were boarded shut from the inside, and the glass was cracked and broken. Letting out a sad sigh at the sight, he skirted the building, thinking of all the beautiful bikes it had churned out in its day. So many people had walked these grounds, famous celebrities, politicians, authors...Funny, the building didn't look in that bad shape on the side here... Exactly what year had they closed this place?
When he came to the very back, there was a very new-looking door which, when he gripped the knob, actually opened.
A touch of foreboding swept over him, and he paused. Why was the place open? Why was there a new door here? What if someone was squatting inside, or worse?
But the sheer thrill of the building's past beckoned to him. He had to enter. He had to breathe the air of the famous Burnhart Factory! He walked through a small, dark hall and turned the corner...
There, before him, was a shining Ducati 1098 motorcycle.
“What the hell is this here for?” he gasped, glancing around. They only made these between 2007 to 2009! This place had closed long before this...
He swept his hand down the side, and he could have sworn he felt the bicycle shudder...
“Did someone know I was coming? Did they...leave this for me?” Had someone read his mind?
No one seemed to be present, but the place was not as dusty or dirty as he would have expected. Trying to be as quiet as possible, he studied the large room. It was high-ceilinged, spacious, and did not seem to contain as much machinery as he would have thought would be needed to fabricate any kind of vehicle...
He stepped onto a conveyor belt, which was so clean as to be suspicious. Several nozzles stuck out further down, and then the belt led off to a door, which was now closed. “Okay. That's...I guess most of the machinery is back there...”
Suddenly, a mist shot out from the nearest nozzle, coating him with something that could only be described as a sweet-smelling water. “What's this?” He lifted up his hand to smell it, chuckling at the fact that he had somehow started up the ancient machinery.
“It's your wildest dream.”
A man had stepped out of the shadows, and with a start, Vincent realized it was the dark man from the commercial. Virtually unchanged.
“My dream?” Head swimming, Vincent regarded the man as he approached. How would this man know what his deepest desires were? And....why was his skin starting to tingle?
“Get ready, you're going to be loving this in a minute.”
Vincent could only stare. “Love what?”
“I suggest you lie down.”
“Lie down? Oh, God!” Vincent suddenly stiffened. His body began to shudder and quake, and he slipped to the floor. He tried to rub himself on his shin where he had fallen, but his arms felt leaden and hard to control.
“Told you!” said the man. “Candace!”
A woman emerged from the door at the end of the conveyor belt. She stepped to the floor and walked over to Vincent, smiling. “Get all of your body onto the belt, Vincent. Here, I'll help you.” She arranged him on his side.
“How do you–”
“Know your name? Oh, that's Mr. Burnhart. He knows everything about you. He knows what you want. Can you put your arms and legs together?”
Vincent tried, but found that his limbs were not responding to his commands. In fact, he seemed to be freezing in place... “Can't...really...move.”
“I'll do it for you. Stay on your side.” She put one arm on top of the other, then did the same with his legs. “They're getting pretty heavy!” she commented. “Which is just what we want. You're doing fine!”
“Fine?” Vincent wanted to question her more, but the tingling was becoming more powerful, and he began to moan.
“What is this? This stuff is making me feel amazing...” A strange pleasure was penetrating his skin, getting deeper and deeper with each minute. His clothes began to disintegrate, leaving him stark naked, but he didn't care. The spray's effects took hold where his clothes had once been, and now his whole body was being bathed in wave after wave of pleasure. “Oh, more of that, stuff, please... What is it doing to me?”
Instead of answering, the dark man walked over to the shining motorcycle Vincent had first encountered. He patted its handle bar.
“You'd like the 1098S, correct, Vincent?”
Vincent could only grunt enthusiastically.
“Yes, Tommy wanted to be the 1098, and I had no problem with that. Isn't he amazing? He came out great!” He twisted the radio dial on the motorcycle. “You happy like this, Tommy? Is it all you imagined?”
The bike seemed to come to life. “Oh, God, Mr. Burnhart, it's better than I could have imagined! I don't know why you don't turn yourselves into motorcycles too!”
Mr. Burnhart smiled. “Oh, I have. And it's such a remarkable experience that I want to share this chance with others. It's a win-win for us all! I get the money for selling you, and you get your dream come true! You get to be a bike, you get to be ridden and taken care of...”
The motorcycle shook with proud laughter at Mr. Burnhart's words, and Vincent could only stare. This motorcycle was talking...it was once a person?
Mr. Burnhart grinned. “You can still move your mouth for a bit more, Vincent.”
“Okay. Really. What's happening?” Vincent asked, both hopeful and frightened at the same time. If this were true, if he could really be turned into a motorcycle... It was his deepest, deepest wish...to be ridden down the road, crunching the pavement, the wind at his side...
But it was also impossible...
“Candace, wanna ride me?” asked the bike.
“Later, Tommy. I want to watch Vincent change. I never get tired of that.”
Someone had to be talking through a microphone into that motorcycle...That had to be it, and it was all a trick...Vincent tried to focus on the shapely blonde near him, but the pleasure was making his vision blurry, and he began to spasm.
“He's ready,” Candace murmured.
“Enjoy your change, my friend!” Mr. Burnhart cried out.
“What?”
Two robotic arms reached down from the ceiling, clamping his hands together. Another set reached down and clasped his feet together. Then something black sprayed down on them.
His palms began to meld together, and Vincent watched in awe as his fingers began to stretch. They grew longer and thinner, and he gasped in amazement. These were spokes. His hands were turning into a front wheel...
“Holy...hell...” he breathed.
His arms were now coalescing, hardening and turning metallic, and waves of pleasure racked his changing body. “Thank you. Thank you,” he whispered, his attention being drawn back to his spokes, which, at their opposite ends, began to expand and create a tire around them. He could feel every bit of it, the hardening of the spokes, the softening into rubber of his tire... He couldn't wait for it to touch the pavement...
Both sets of arms retracted into the ceiling, and the conveyor belt began to move further down. “Make me amazing. Please,” he gasped, and Mr. Burnhart approached closer.
“Oh, we are, Vincent. You'll love your new self. You'll never want to go back to simple flesh and blood.”
“No, never!” he murmured, in a dreamy haze.
His feet had already merged, and as his legs did the same, he could feel them shrinking. He shook with anticipation as he felt his back tire forming. He was no longer two-legged, he was two-wheeled! “Yes!” he yelled triumphantly, making the man and woman chuckle. “It's real! It's real!”
“You go, Vinnnie!” yelled the motorcycle.
Another clear spray hit him, and he moaned as it fell onto his transforming flesh. This particular spray was now tickling his insides. As they shifted and changed inside of him, he began to giggle uncontrollably.
“Yeah! I love that part! You're starting to develop a motor...You know, your stomach turns into your gas tank!” Tommy called out. “And then you just want to guzzle that stuff!”
“We'll give you some fuel as soon as you can stomach it!” Candace uttered, her eyes sparkling.
“Oh, God, the pleasure is almost...unbearable...” Vincent moaned. His innards were swiftly forming into machinery.... cylinders...motor...exhaust pipes sprouting from behind....
Something was massaging and pushing him into his proper form, and he realized it was more 'hands' from the ceiling. Each touch sent another burst through his hardening shape, and another clear spray at his head sent his skull into changes. It flattened and curved, his eyes stretching into two headlights, his ears lengthening and thinning into handlebars. A robotic hand pushed at his forehead, thinning it and pushing it back as it became transparent and formed into a windshield. His mouth was stretching...
“My mouuuuutthhh....” His lips were sealing shut, his nostrils were closing...
“Oh, don't worry about that!” giggled Candace, and a robotic arm came at his still-soft dashboard and inserted a small device. Vincent's surface hardened around it, making it appear as if it had been there all along.
“That's your radio, the one thing that has to be added. Even the instruments- speedometer, odometer...They're part of you. You form them as you change. But this radio is special. You can talk through it!” she explained, reaching out a gloved hand and flicking it on. All that came through it was a series of Vincent's ecstatic moans, but he felt it was nice to know he could still communicate as a motorcycle.
Something popped from his side. “Your kickstand exists!” Candace proclaimed.
By now, he was approaching the door at the end of the belt. A red spray showered over him, and he felt himself harden further. A seat formed on his back, and he groaned as his body neared the end of its transformation. The hands pushed and pulled, compacting him further, smoothing his bright red finish.
His continuous shuddering led to a sound of metal hitting against the scratchy surface of the belt, and Candace ran her glove over his frame. “Try to stop that. You'll ruin your finish.”
“But...but I can't...I feel so...amazing.” His words sounded slightly tinny through the radio, but it was still close enough to his voice that he didn't mind. “Oh, so damn good...”
Candace smiled. “I know. I know. You're just about done. I'll meet you in the next room.”
The belt pulled Vincent into a smaller room where he was deposited onto a small display stage, a harsh light glaring down on him from above. It felt deliciously warm against his metal.
Then he saw himself.
The wall to the side of him was all mirror. And a shiny, perfect Ducati 1098S reflected back at him.
I'm perfect! I'm a Ducati, for real! Even down to the writing...
The words “Ducati” were printed on the top near his seat, and “1098S” was lower, on his side...
Damn! I'm one hell of a machine!
But he was not moving anymore, and he missed the feelings and the vibrations of his new body in motion. God, he couldn't wait to hit the road!
He lay there waiting, relishing just how good this felt! He felt so strong, sturdy, and invincible! And he was! Who could kill a motorcycle? Who could hurt a motorcycle? He was a machine! He was immortal! Well, unless someone took him apart...
Before he could ponder this particular unsettling thought, however, Candace entered. She paused before him, examining him proudly. “My dear, you are just...You're breathtaking! A beautiful, sexy machine!”
Vincent could see through his headlights, which he was thankful for. He had retained all his senses except for smell, which he figured he wouldn't miss anyway. All he wished was that this woman would ride him...maybe naked?
Even motorcycles could dream...
“I have to turn your voice off here for a minute, Vincent. Gotta tweak you.”
“No–”
Click. “Sorry, but I can't have you distracting me. I have to make sure you're all transformed the right way. I don't want you to explode or...implode...or...well, malfunction. Yes, you're a machine now, but, like all our bikes, you have a human soul, and we don't want to lose it.”
Oh, take off your clothes and rub yourself on my seat...Vincent thought lasciviously.
Candace dipped her gloved hands into another clear liquid and ran her hands all over Vincent's frame. In his mind he was shrieking in delight, and the smile on Candace's face said that she was quite aware of his feelings. But she continued on in her work, polishing his surface until it gleamed. Then she began testing out his instruments, making sure they had properly formed and were in working order. “Oh, you are beautiful, Vincent,” she repeated as she tested his mirrors.
“He's a work of art,” said Mr. Burnhart, entering the room and admiring him. “Is he in proper working order?”
“I think he's ready to try out.” Candace pulled off her gloves, ogling the motorcycle hungrily.
“Want the honors, Candace?”
“Oh, please!” Candace turned Vincent's radio back on. More moaning ensued.
Mr. Burnhart started to laugh. “Overwhelming, huh?”
“Yes. Yes! I love this. I love it! Thank you. Please, please ride me! I'm ready!”
“You are. And you're in perfect shape,” Candace announced, grabbing a helmet.
“You're virtually indestructible. That's why we have a lifetime guarantee on all our bikes. You never need maintenance! You never need to even add air to a tire! You just fix yourself!”
“No! Really?”
“But you still need gas. You need some kind of energy to go.”
“Oh, God, fill up my tank!”
Mr. Burnhart chuckled. “Candace will help you with that.”
Candace rolled him outside to where he could see a gas pump. The feeling of his newly-formed tires against the pebbles in the sand was remarkable. He could feel every stone, and each bump sent a new rush through his whole chassis. The road! He needed the road!
“Here's dinner, Vincent.” Candace pushed down his kickstand and lifted the gas hose. When she stuck the nozzle into him, Vincent's whole form shuddered.
“Yeah, don't even say it,” Candace smirked, and began to pump the gas.
The liquid filling his empty tank was a whole other new sensation, and he could only liken it to the pleasure of eating a delicious meal on an empty stomach. Gushing and swishing, it rushed in and filled him up until he was sated. The next thing to do was kick back in front of the TV...
No! No kicking back! He was a motorcycle now! He had to move!
Something was coming to life inside of him, and he shouted in glee. Electricity, power... it felt like his whole body had come alive! She had turned him on, and his motor was purring joyfully!
“90° V-twin cylinder, 4 valve per cylinder Desmodromic, you've got it, kid!” Candace threw on her helmet, jumped on his seat, and they were off.
The experience was what Vincent's dreams were made of; he embraced the attractive woman with his cushioned seat, and she gripped his handlebars hard. She was driving him to greater and greater speeds, and his body sang, the wind whipping around him, his tires gripping the pavement, spinning up the dust... He kept screaming and cursing with such abandon that Candace threatened to turn off his radio – or turn him off completely.
“Don't ever turn me off!” he yelled above the wind.
She rubbed his windshield reassuringly.
Vincent stood in a showroom, silent and still. Candace ran her hand down his seat. “Sorry we had to turn your radio off, but we can't have you scaring away the customers.”
He understood this, but they couldn't keep him quiet forever. Mr. Burnhart had counseled him on how to interact with his owner. He could speak all he wanted, but he was forbidden to make any mention of his origin, including the factory. Mr. Burnhart was making dreams come true, both by changing some people into bikes, and providing others with them at an affordable price. But too many of these bikes popping up would raise suspicion.
“You were one of the lucky ones,” the man had said. “And I'm glad to have made you happy.”
Candace came back and forth during the day, touching him when she could. How good it felt when she traced her nails across his handlebars! He realized that, even having known them for such a short time, he would miss both Candace and Mr. Burnhart, for they had made his impossible wish a reality.
He did enjoy being on display. People of all sorts came and admired him, several with the interest to buy. He had never had so much attention in his life; he felt like a bird needing to preen himself. He was an amazing machine, and he knew it.
The man that now stood before Vincent was no biker guy, nor was he jock-like or slick-looking. He wore a businessman's suit, with first worried Vincent, but when he saw the longing in the man's eyes, he was already convinced. This man could own him. The man's gaze traced Vincent's whole body, admiring its perfection, and when he spoke to Candace about him, Vincent saw that this man was well-versed in motorcycles.
“I used to race. My last bike was a Ducati1098, but it died. But after that, I got married, stopped racing...I kind of had enough with motorcycles. But I heard there was a 1098S for sale here, mint condition, new... I couldn't resist. Is that price for real?”
“For the right person.” Candace said thoughtfully, looking the man up and down. The man continued to study Vincent, and Candace watched him. “He's a beauty, huh? He rides like he owns the road.”
“He, huh? Not she?”
“I rode him myself. That's a he. Trust me.”
“Handsome devil,” the man uttered, circling the shining bike. “I'll take him.”
As the man went to fill out paperwork, Candace bent down and caressed Vincent. “You're going to love your new life. The guy – this is Trent West!”
The Trent West? The famous motorcycle racer from years ago?
“He says he misses racing, and he's going to start again. With you!”
Vincent shuddered impatiently, and Candace flicked on his radio. “I love you Candace,” he sputterred.
She flashed her wedding ring at him. “I'm taken, Vincent.”
Vincent somehow managed to blow a raspberry. “I wasn't asking you to marry a motorcycle, Candace. I'm thanking you and Mr. Burnhart for what you've done for me.”
“It's what we do, Vincent. It's what we do.” She clicked off his radio.
Vincent had his own place of honor in Trent's garage, which was a veritable shrine to the racer's past. Trophies and medals adorned the wall beside Vincent, leaving him in awe. He did hope Trent would starting racing him, because he was sure to bring him more awards. But then again, even if he didn't, he'd be fine lounging here too. He was owned by a legend, and just...being made him happy now.
“Let's see how you handle, guy!” Trent rolled him down the driveway. “You're so amazing, I didn't even need to test ride you. It's crazy. I just...I had to have you!”
Vincent wished he could answer, but of course, his radio was off.
Trent started him up. His motor purred, sending him into the same bliss that Candace had first introduced him to. He was driven through Trent's neighborhood at a decent pace, then he entered a dirt road...
He was flying! He was more alive than he'd ever been as flesh and blood! And Trent knew just how to handle him! The racer shouted in encouragement as Vincent hit eighty, ninety, one-hundred miles an hour! God, he wished he had been a motorcycle his whole life – the human part had been nothing, simply a waste of time!
It seemed like he had been riding forever and yet at the same time, it was as if he had only begun. But civilization was making an appearance at the end of the dirt road, so Trent turned him around and raced him back home. When they re-entered Trent's neighborhood, the racer slowed Vincent to a more manageable speed. “Let's hear what this radio picks up,” he murmured, switching it on.
How was Vincent to talk without frightening the man? “Hello, Trent,” he said quietly.
Trent froze, then started to laugh. “Cool! It's like Knight Rider! They seriously have a voice recognition system in you, guy?”
“I'm Vincent.”
Trent raised an eyebrow. “They named you, huh? Guess that woman was right. You're a guy.”
“Yup.”
“Yup? A computer says yup?”
“Yes.”
The man rode on in confused silence. “I didn't know they had this technology out at all, let alone back when they made you.”
“Oh, Ducatis are way ahead of technology,” Vincent quipped.
“What's that supposed to mean?” Trent said suspiciously, pulling into his driveway and opening the garage.
Vincent wished he could smile. “I don't know. I'm just a motorcycle.”
Slightly disturbed, Trent turned off Vincent's radio and walked inside.
“Hey, guy! Wanna race?” Trent stood over him blinking the next day.
The bike shuddered slightly, which did not escape Trent's notice. “Well? Oh, I forgot.”
He switched on Vincent's radio.
“Oh, God, yes!” Vincent chirped.
Trent circled around him. “The computer is so good, I swear, it's like you're alive.”
“I feel very alive,” Vincent said slyly. “Now, please, ride me.”
This time Trent left Vincent's radio on as they rode, and they spoke like old friends. “You like being ridden?” The rider asked curiously.
“It's amazing. Absolutely exhilarating!”
Trent grew silent again. It was almost like talking to a person. In motorcycle form...
“Faster, Trent!”
“I don't want to get a ticket, Vincent. Let's get to the track. The local guys are doing a couple of laps, and there's money on it.”
“I'll get you that money.”
And Vincent won Trent the money. Trent went on to bigger and better races, and Vincent won them all. Despite Trent's age, he was welcomed back into the racing circuit, and through his old and new racing connections, he was able to enter into the Grand Prix, truly a dream come true.
Before the race, Trent parked Vincent next to another motorcycle. “I'll be right back, buddy,” Trent tapped his seat. “Bathroom visit.”
Vincent's radio was on all the time now, at his request. “I'll be waiting,” he answered.
When Trent walked off, the motorcycle beside Vincent stirred. “Hey, can you talk?”
Shocked, Vincent replied, “Uh, are you a...” He couldn't believe there were others out there like him. Yes, he'd seen Tommy, but how many other transformed people existed?
The bike laughed. “Mitch is...or was the name. Now I'm Lightning.”
Snickering, Vincent uttered, “Like 'greased'?”
“No. Just Lightning. How long you been a bike?”
“Few months. You?”
“Ah, I've lost count. Not like I have a calendar, you know? But it's been years.”
“Have you broken down or anything yet?”
“Broke down?” Mitch was silent. “Did Burnhart change you?” he asked suspiciously.
“Yes, why? There's others?”
“Of course! You think you're the only one? Some of the best cyclists are riding people!”
“Oh.”
“Burnhart told you you could fix yourself, right?”
“Yes. But...how?”
“Your owner's coming back. Nice meeting you.”
Mitch grew still, and the conversation was over.
Vincent barreled through the track, over hills around corners, and never once did he falter. It was a close race, he in the lead, followed closely by Mitch.
Suddenly, he gave a lurch. “I ran over something...” Vincent yelled over the din. “But I'll be fine!”
“Don't...hurt yourself...”
Vincent was shocked at Trent's shout. Did the man realize what he had said? “I'll be fine! Don't worry! This is what you always wanted! We have to win!” He could feel the air swiftly leaving his front tire. He could fix himself...
“Vin, we gotta stop. You have a flat. We're out.” He slowed Vincent down and drifted to the side.
“No, we're staying in.” Trent tried to dismount, but Vincent yelled, “Stay on me!”
He wasn't quite sure how to fix himself, so he simply focused on the tire, imagining it inflating and the rubber mending...
“My God, you're re-inflating?!”
And the pressure felt quite nice, Vincent had to admit.
“So there's hope?”
“One more second...” The tire was almost to where it should be... “There! Go!”
They were off, and Vincent tore over the pavement even better than before. “Faster, Trent! We've got it! We're catching up!”
They flew past the others and over the finish line.
“Vincent, you're awesome. Whatever the hell you are,” Trent exulted, pulling off his helmet as people ran at him in congratulations.
The crowd's applause was so thunderous that Vincent could feel the vibrations running through him. “Damned straight I am,” he murmured happily.