A year after our reunion, in the middle of winter,
a sudden message arrived from my friend:
“I’m passing near your place on my way to the mountains. Want to ride with me?”
There was no reason to refuse.
I said yes immediately.
Before sunrise,
I waited in the parking lot of a home‑center near my house.
The air was freezing, but my chest felt strangely warm.
And then—it came.
A distant exhaust note I had never heard before.
Headlights slicing through the darkness.
As the light and sound drew closer,
the long‑buried longing inside my chest began to tremble.
A sight I had never seen.
Yet a sight I had always wanted to see.
In that moment,
I thought, “Finally… it’s time to ride.”
🛠️ A year of quiet preparation
On the train to work,
I sketched the garage over and over again.
Daydream drawings.
Realistic dimensions.
The balance between dream and practicality.
What shelves to build.
What lighting to use.
How I would welcome the Seven.
Those sketches weren’t just doodles.
They were my way of pulling the dream closer to reality.
I never showed them to anyone,
but the process had already begun long before this day.
🚗 A rite of passag
This wasn’t some shallow excitement.
It was the moment when the “younger me,”
kept hidden deep inside for years,
finally shook hands with the “current me.
One foot slips in.
A hand on the frame.
Lowering my body slowly into the seat.
Tucking in the other leg.
Each movement felt like asking myself,
“Am I really allowed to enter this world?”
and at the same time quietly affirming,
“I’ve finally made it here.”
Just getting into a Seven demands a kind of resolve.
That’s why, for me, it became a ritual.
🚗 “Full winter armor” as a warm‑up ritual
I pressed my down‑jacket‑swollen body into the tight seat.
Fastened the simple vinyl‑leather door with its snap buttons.
Then tightened the seatbelt,
put on goggles,
wrapped a neck warmer,
and pulled a knit cap low over my head.
It felt like a ritual—
a preparation to step into the extraordinary.
With each action,
I shed a piece of my everyday self.
🌙 And then, into the darkness
The engine’s vibration seeped into my body.
Cold air stung my cheeks.
Streetlights streamed past through the goggles.
In an ordinary car, this would be just “transportation.”
But the Seven is different.
The moment it moves, every sense comes alive.
After so many years,
I had finally reached this place.
And the first step was
“driving into the darkness.”
🚗 Similar to a motorcycle—yet a completely different world
Acceleration, wind, vibration—
yes, there are similarities to a bike.
But the perspective is different.
The ground feels impossibly close.
Ten centimeters of asphalt beneath your backside.
The world ahead flows by as if you’re skimming the earth.
This low viewpoint is something even a motorcycle can’t give you.
The Seven doesn’t just feel fast—
it changes the way the world looks.
🔊 The sound enters your body
It was still the city, so there were traffic lights.
We repeated 30‑to‑60 km/h acceleration again and again.
In a normal car, that’s just “speeding up and slowing down.”
But the Seven is different.
The low‑rpm exhaust echoes off buildings.
Acceleration presses your body into the seat.
Wind slaps your face.
Streetlights streak past the goggles.
For the first time in years,
I felt my “animal senses” return.
👥 And the presence of him beside me
My friend was driving—
the same “one‑and‑only” friend I rode motorcycles with in our student days.
The wind and exhaust made conversation difficult.
But we didn’t need words.
“How is it?”
“—!”
Not spoken.
Not heard.
But understood.
For a brief moment,
we were both back in our twenties.
🌄 At the mountain entrance before dawn, a different world begins
In the dim light before sunrise,
we stopped at a convenience‑store parking lot to rest ourselves and the car.
Removing the vinyl‑leather door changed the air instantly.
One traffic light ahead,
and everyday life would be gone.
Beyond that point, there was only “the road.”
🚗💨 Engine, gears, wind—and the body awakens
Shift up through second and third, feeling the powerband.
Then immediately drop back to second and brake.
Turn the wheel and dive into the corner.
Throttle on.
Shift to third while searching for the next corner.
Hold back from using fourth,
climb the gentle curve in third.
A brief burst on the straight.
Back to second.
Blip the throttle to keep the revs alive.
And into the next corner again.
Asphalt, sky, tree branches.
Exhaust synchronized with the throttle.
My friend’s shifting, throttle work, braking.
Everything merged into a single rhythm.
🏍️ My body remembered “that feeling”
Pressure on the outside foot,
body leaning inward.
Eyes fixed on the next corner
and the possibility of an oncoming car.
The movement was exactly like riding a motorcycle.
My body remembered instantly
what I thought I had forgotten.
🌫️ Time outside of everyday life
This time felt just like being on a bike.
Something I had forgotten.
Something that didn’t exist in my daily life.
I wasn’t “getting my riding back.”
I was reclaiming a piece of time
that existed outside of work, home, roles, and responsibilities.
A time where only my senses existed.
In that moment,
the Seven stopped being a mere dream
and became something essential to my life.
🌄 The quiet time after the run
As we exited the mountain and slowed down,
we descended through scattered sunlight and open sky.
It was a completely different kind of fulfillment than the thrill of the run.
Tension melting away.
Morning light growing stronger.
Wind turning gentle.
It felt like my body was slowly savoring the afterglow.
🚗 The “return trip” back to everyday life
From the rhythm of the mountain
back to the rhythm of the city.
Driving among ordinary cars,
the world we had just been in felt like a dream.
But the dream remained in my body—
the feel of the throttle,
the echo of the exhaust,
my friend’s profile,
and the movement of my own heart.
🏡And in my driveway, an answer appeared
When he parked in front of my house,
I thought, “I don’t want to forget this sight.”
I pulled out my phone and took a picture.
No—more accurately,
I had been waiting for this moment.
Taking that photo wasn’t just documentation.
It was proof that the long‑smoldering feeling
had finally taken shape.
“Someday, it’ll be mine.”
That wasn’t longing anymore.
It was a quiet certainty—
a step before commitment.
🌱 This is where the story begins to mov
This day wasn’t simply “a push from behind.”
It was the day something deep inside me quietly decided.
A year of sketching garages.
Reuniting with my friend.
Riding before dawn.
That single photo in front of my house.
Everything connected into one line.。
🌅 The “discomfort” born when returning from the extraordinary
The mountain run awakened something buried inside me—
wind, sound, sightlines, rhythm, my friend’s presence.
It felt like coming back to life.
But the next morning, reality returned.
An old house.
A single parking space.
No roof, no door.
A daily life soaked in routine.
Seeing that, I thought:
“This won’t do.”
No—more precisely:
“Like this, I can’t welcome that feeling into my life.”
🏡 The constraints of a small house became the reason to act
Normally, these would be reasons to give up:
No space.
An old house.
A garage is impossible.
Dreams should stay dreams.
But remembering that time in the mountains,
the “constraints” became the very reason to move.
“If I want to bring that world into this place,
I’ll have to build it myself.”
In that moment,
the old house and the cramped parking space
became “materials” in my hands.
