They're having the motorcycle fight again. And Logan's barely listening to himself anymore. Free spirit, baby, gotta have wheels, yadda yadda yadda, wind beneath my claws. And all the time he's thinking: Okay, Scott HAS a motorcycle. And yeah, he doesn't ride it as much as I do, but he DOES ride it. Hot sun and engine oil and bugs splatting into him, so why does he always, always smell like soap? Not some perfumey shit, nothing…complexiony. Just…soap. And why am I thinking about Scott and soap? Jesus.

They're having the motorcycle fight again. And Scott's barely listening to Logan anymore, he's heard the Poet of the Road speech so many times. And Logan thinks he's James Dean or something but really what he has is a basic disregard for the principle of private property, at least if it's somebody else's private property. So Scott waits for the wrap-up of the speech and then says, calmly, "I accept that you feel you need a motorcycle. But what do you think gives you the right to strap your hands across my engines?"

And then thinks, I did not just say that. Jesus.