SwissGuy
Been Around the Block
I walked out of my House this morning at 0615. The sun had just come up, it was 60 degrees and everything was covered in dew. I had washed and waxed the bike the day before, and the droplets of water were beaded up perfectly on the bike, glinting like a scattered crystal. For a few minutes I just sat on my porch and looked at the bike, and had this intense feeling of joy and anticipation. I looked at it lovingly and thought "This machine is mine, I have fixed it with my own hands, I paid for it with the sweat of my brow, and it's the most beautiful machine on Earth." I checked each spark-plug, checked the oil, tested my lights, kicked my tires. All these took the aura of ritual and meaning, this ceremony of pre-flight checks. If I take care of this machine, it will do the same for me. I pulled on my gloves and helmet, zipped up my jacket, and sat down.
Turn the key to START, open the Petcock, flip the switch to RUN. A little choke, a little throttle. One kick, two kicks, a slight hesitation and then a smooth and soulful roar as it sprang to life. A blip of the throttle, for no reason other than to hear it purr at a higher note. A whiff of the greatest smell in the world, hot oil and gasoline. I lightly touch each pipe with a wet hand and hear a satisfying sizzle, yes, she's running perfectly.
I took it slow, puttering along, watching my little town come alive. The newspaper boy on his bike, old men raising their coffee-cups from their chairs as I pass, everything was quiet and pleasant and lovely. I turned onto my favourite riding road and stopped for a Cigarette. A few other early morning riders came by and we shared a friendly wave and an approving nod, as we are all brothers in the church of the Motorcycle, each acknowledging the other as someone who belonged and who understood. I remounted my machine, tightened my chinstrap until it was nearly uncomfortable, and shifted into first. By now the bike had warmed up, the exhaust note had changed, everything seemed a little tighter, to respond a little faster. The machine wanted to fulfill its purpose.
Twist the throttle, let off the clutch, 5,000rpm, 8,000rpm, 10,000rpm, shift into second. Grip the tank tighter with my knees and duck down, shift into third, lean into the curve and rocket out of it, tap the rear brake, lean. I'm not even looking a the speedometer anymore, unconscious of anything but the road in front of me, my hands and feet and eyes and body all forgotten, just noise and heat and the subtle tug of gravity and g-force. I wasn't thinking about the bills I have to pay, or the chores I had to do, or my obligations to family, or friends or society, I was thinking about nothing but the white and yellow lines bracketing the limits of my kingdom.
A long straight, flat and empty. The needle jumps toward the redline, a flick of the toe and fingers. The machine is roaring now, running as hard as she's ever ran, and running as well as she was built to run. The trees on either side start to blur, I unconsciously shift my weight slightly to keep the flattest part of the road. 85mph, 95mph, 100mph. I look down and see that magical number. The machine had more to give, but I was content. I coasted to a stop on a gravel pull off, took off my helmet and gloves, shut her down, and listened to the birds. My palms were soaked in sweat, my hands trembling slightly as I lit my cigarette.
100mph is not fast these days, it's nothing anyone is going to respect as a feat of risk and speed. Most of my friends who ride do that and more every time they go out, they cannot enjoy themselves at anything slower. But for me, it wasn't 100mph, it was "The Ton". That number was mystical, a communion with a past generation. Before me there were other men who were just as intoxicated with that smell of gas and oil, the sound and fury of engine and exaust, the feeling of emptiness and fullness that comes from an abandoned twisty road, that rush of pushing as far as you can, and then a little farther. It's just a number on a dial, 100mph, but yet to me, it represented so much more.
Turn the key to START, open the Petcock, flip the switch to RUN. A little choke, a little throttle. One kick, two kicks, a slight hesitation and then a smooth and soulful roar as it sprang to life. A blip of the throttle, for no reason other than to hear it purr at a higher note. A whiff of the greatest smell in the world, hot oil and gasoline. I lightly touch each pipe with a wet hand and hear a satisfying sizzle, yes, she's running perfectly.
I took it slow, puttering along, watching my little town come alive. The newspaper boy on his bike, old men raising their coffee-cups from their chairs as I pass, everything was quiet and pleasant and lovely. I turned onto my favourite riding road and stopped for a Cigarette. A few other early morning riders came by and we shared a friendly wave and an approving nod, as we are all brothers in the church of the Motorcycle, each acknowledging the other as someone who belonged and who understood. I remounted my machine, tightened my chinstrap until it was nearly uncomfortable, and shifted into first. By now the bike had warmed up, the exhaust note had changed, everything seemed a little tighter, to respond a little faster. The machine wanted to fulfill its purpose.
Twist the throttle, let off the clutch, 5,000rpm, 8,000rpm, 10,000rpm, shift into second. Grip the tank tighter with my knees and duck down, shift into third, lean into the curve and rocket out of it, tap the rear brake, lean. I'm not even looking a the speedometer anymore, unconscious of anything but the road in front of me, my hands and feet and eyes and body all forgotten, just noise and heat and the subtle tug of gravity and g-force. I wasn't thinking about the bills I have to pay, or the chores I had to do, or my obligations to family, or friends or society, I was thinking about nothing but the white and yellow lines bracketing the limits of my kingdom.
A long straight, flat and empty. The needle jumps toward the redline, a flick of the toe and fingers. The machine is roaring now, running as hard as she's ever ran, and running as well as she was built to run. The trees on either side start to blur, I unconsciously shift my weight slightly to keep the flattest part of the road. 85mph, 95mph, 100mph. I look down and see that magical number. The machine had more to give, but I was content. I coasted to a stop on a gravel pull off, took off my helmet and gloves, shut her down, and listened to the birds. My palms were soaked in sweat, my hands trembling slightly as I lit my cigarette.
100mph is not fast these days, it's nothing anyone is going to respect as a feat of risk and speed. Most of my friends who ride do that and more every time they go out, they cannot enjoy themselves at anything slower. But for me, it wasn't 100mph, it was "The Ton". That number was mystical, a communion with a past generation. Before me there were other men who were just as intoxicated with that smell of gas and oil, the sound and fury of engine and exaust, the feeling of emptiness and fullness that comes from an abandoned twisty road, that rush of pushing as far as you can, and then a little farther. It's just a number on a dial, 100mph, but yet to me, it represented so much more.
Gotta go for a ride myself today!
