The harsh winter light is creating dark, deep shadows as a light film of canyon sand slowly ambles across the road and the suspension begins to settle down. With a finger on the front brake and a twitch in my soul, the apex comes and goes. Then the twitch turns into a twist as I hit the exit and the 10 roars back. Revs up. Stands proud. Puts the heat to the ground as I watch the normally docile yellow lines which run down the middle of the road quickly contort in fear. One corner becomes the next corner, which soon is the last corner, and minutes or perhaps seconds later I find myself briskly running up the side of yet another magical mountain face. The Duc both basking in the moment and yet seemingly craving more. A bend later its prayers are answered as the road begins carving its way West with the kind of free spirited whiplash that warms the hearts of tire manufacturers around the world.

Soon I’m ripping up a short straight and through a series of kinks in the road, before basking in a gigantic bend to the right which reveals absolute and total magnificence at its finest. A glowing, twinkling, deep blue body of water called “The Pacific Ocean”.

Supposedly the name ‘Pacific’ was coined by the famed Portuguese explorer Ferdinand Magellan in 1520, and the literal translation of the original text means “peaceful sea”. Screaming down the straight before hitting a near one-eighty degree turn, I can’t help but feel as if that definition only partially scratches the surface of the issue. Just three weeks ago I blasted up the coast and took the time to take in the beauty of a huge chunk of the Pacific - and yet right now as I watch a small slice of it from the corner of my eye, it feels like I’m looking at a completely different beast. The distant cousin of the hot blonde at the end of the bar, whose both vaguely familiar and yet completely captivating all on their own.

As the 180 bends and the bike attacks, its obvious that somehow I’ve managed to stumble myself into one of those terrific days of riding where it seems as if you can do anything you want, whenever you want. The kind of day when all seems right in the world because you and the bike are so closely aligned that it starts doing things before your done thinking about them. After spending almost a week on the ST3, the 1098 feels like an altogether different bike. Not different from the ST3 - that’s obvious - but rather different from then the last time I rode the 1098. Suddenly its elegant and brash and a whole new kind of nimble. Hitting the next corner, I’m once again reminded why it was worth trading up for this hotrod ride. Between the lack of weight, the svelte tank, the tight handling, and the ridiculously addictive powerband, I feel like I’ve spent all day smiling - and from the moment I swung my leg over it this morning, I’ve kept finding myself wondering, ‘where’d the motorcycle go?’