In the beginning, God created the Centaur, and he saw that it was good and right. God showed him the boundless spaces and told him: "All this is for you." The Centaur appreciated and ran away pawing, and no one saw him again. Then God created Man and these, after eating the fruit of the Tree of Wisdom, learned of the Centaur and since then he has always remained - let's blame the "genetic memory" - a damned envy of him. Anyone who has ever ridden, or more easily - nowadays - rested their butt on the saddle of a motorcycle, knows perfectly well how the spirit of the Centaur awakened to him urgent, irrepressible, rogue and mocking, regardless of clichés, perennially attracted to the concept itself of nullity of the limit. The Centaur is the only being - except perhaps prisoners - who fully understands the meaning of prison and wants to escape it in every way, even the four concrete walls of his beloved home or the four metal walls of his own - when and if it ever had it - automobile. There is no scent of a woman that can compete with the fragrance of the air that slaps you while you run on your motorbike and the Centaur knows this perfectly, as it has acquired, over the centuries, a series of behaviors that have gradually distilled themselves and insinuated into the chosen team of those who have made traveling by motorbike a work of art rather than a life choice. With all the corollaries and moral codes, of commitment, subsistence and ethics that this entails. The Centaur has within him the medieval Knight, who wandered - almost always in search of something, just to give a public motivation to the pure personal enjoyment of riding - the leitmotif of his existence, therefore inevitably with that purity of soul, that sovereign detachment from all self-interest, that dedication to mutual aid not only for damsels in danger but for anyone who deserved it or required it. The centuries have slipped silently on the shoulders of the world but the paths traced by these indomitable spirits have been covered with asphalt and once again traveled by modern Centaurs who no longer hear neighs through the metal screens but much more vigorous rhombuses. Today, the infinite roads of the soul are trodden by millions of Centaurs but the most undisciplined and hidden paths are discovered, and even yearned for, by ideal brotherhoods, lonely nomads, small groups of brothers sometimes united by their colors, like the banners that fluttered. in the wind now forgotten. Centaurs who make the world their homeland, who make those who meet their people, who help and do not ask - if not respect - any compensation. Timeless knights, you can find them by chance, you can see them dart away, with a smile on their face, lovers of the rule of silence, free from lies and vain earthly flattery. After all, what do they ask for, if not the road under the wheels, the sky above their heads and a plate to share with their dearest companions? Let's look at them with envy, because we are only human, while they... They are...
Papa Doc for MPM GENS