The Rider

Years ago I used to wonder what riding a bike would feel like. Now I know, it fells just as natural as walking. Put on your boots, gloves and crash helmet. Twist the key in the ignition switch, start the bike and feels the engine come alive under you. Pull the clutch, shift into first gear, twist the throttle a tiny bit and release the clutch. Gain speed and keep shifting gears until you get in top. The speedometer tells you how fast you are going and tachometer tell you how fast engine is turning. Just as natural as walking, right?

Over the years, my motorcycle and I have gotten to know each other rather well. She comes alive under my touch. And in return for her life she gives me the response and performance that is her love. If I want to ride fast, in a roar, a flash and like a windswept blur riding a wild banshee howl from the engine, we streak across miles and miles of tarmac. Pulling our own little hurricane of turbulence and noise behind that tells the world, we are going fast. The landscape around is a sheet-blur in the helmet visor wit5h one fixed point, straight ahead. If I want to ride slow. The engine whispers softly as we barely rustle the dry autumn leaves scattered on the quite tree-lined boulevard. We can even dance together on those curvaceous mountain back-roads as we gently follow the rhythmic twist of the tarmac. A rhythm in symphony with nature herself as the road follows the inborn contours of the mountain. We enjoy life together.

Every once a while, as an idle hour catches me thinking of the life I lead, I wonder why the passion for speed and long distance travel. It can be said the t anything you do on the motorcycle is safe as long as it is not moving. Then why do I ride fast or lean it way over in turns that have a hard unforgiving mountain face on one side and deep gorge on the other. Why is every twisty piece of tarmac a silent patient dare, challenging me to conquer in the fastest that I can and come away alive?