The ground is still wet from last night’s rainfall when the bike comes out of the garage. Mud and muck cover the asphalt. When the bike turns over for the first time in months, you patiently tell yourself that today is not a day to press it. Today is not a day to push it. Logically you find yourself dictating all of the reasons why this ride needs to be mellow: the roads are still slick, leaves and rocks and mud cover the corners, and a summer’s worth of spilt motor oil has come back to life. So instead of rushing out to blast the canyon roads, you tell yourself that today is a day to relax. A day to simply be on the bike and enjoying a ride. And as you pull out of the driveway everything you’ve said or thought makes ‘perfect sense’ to you.
Twenty minutes later what seemed to make ‘perfect sense’ now seems questionable at best…
With clarity hanging in the air, the road opens itself up into a vibrant and unabashed celebration of emptiness. The cars and houses fade away. The camouflaged debris disappears. A clean sweeping swatch of romantic loneliness quickly combines with that pent up full fledged moto-release that’s been itching to come back with vengeance.
And then the bike barks and the corner quickly bends beneath it.
Instantly the throttle jock inside comes out to play. Plants the rear tire. Twists the right wrist. And you chuckle under your face shield. As if it’s not you doing the piloting but someone else. And maybe it is…
Two corners later you find yourself feeling absolutely certain that you’d pass a lie detector test as you vibrantly disavowing any knowledge of the smooth and mellow ‘perfect sense’ syndrome for riding. With the tires gaining confidence and the roads clearing out, the day seems destined for something beyond ‘mellow’.
Turning your attention to the more pressing matters in life, you fixate on the road that lies ahead. An asphalt highway leading you towards your best and brights dream in what feels like an eternity. In quick succession the bike shoots forward. Blasts down another quiet canyon road as you dart in and out of fallen piles of rocks while passionately listening to that harbinger of a roaring engine take control. Then the throttle blips once more, the clutch comes out, the bike roars back to life and immediately you feel an instant form of clarity take hold of you. As if you’re finally yourself after months of being someone else. Another quick and sudden burst goes by and then you twist your wrist once again as you realize that the engine’s rage is releasing months of pent up frustration and dispair. Minutes or maybe moments later, the very ground you’re covering seems three shades brighter.
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Thanks for another great story that capture the feeling of riding perfectly. Living through another winter on the Canadian prairies, at least I get to ride vicariously through your writing.
Hey Tillman, appreciate the kind words - Stay warm