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More Than Just a Twenty Minute Ride. Mon May 30, 2011 1:04 am
Guest
Guest
Today was a slow, unhurried day for a Monday. I didn't have to work for the man. That's always a good thing. The late-May air was still warm, and Queensland seasonal. I didn't have a lot on, the bike's a daily rider, and there were some things on the bike needing tending to. So what does any self-respecting biker-type with a few tools and a passion for two wheels do? He spends the arvo in the open garage fiddling and diddling with this 'n' that on the motorbike; tools scattered about, music playing in the background, birds calling and diving overhead, school kids laughing and carrying on about the neighbourhood, until the late-Autumn rays slanted long and golden across the valley.
The tools away, the bike idling and the helmet donned, I pulled out of the driveway and took the long long way to the servo. I needed some fuel but needed a ride more. I could be there in five minutes but pushed it out to fifteen or twenty, taking the country roads through paddock and over hill, avoiding the commuter roads which the four wheel cagers clog and congest on their way back from their city jobs to the sleepy haven 'burbs.
Around the roundabout, off down the hill and along the forest edge I ripped. The recent heavy rains had washed the road's surface clean. I leaned the bike deeply into corners, rolling on the throttle and accelerating smoothly through the bends, testing the grip of the tyres against cooling tarmac. The last golden rays of the sun dropped to the horizon but still felt warm against my face. Cows grazed idly, sulfur-crested cockies swarmed and squawked, the laughter of several kookaburras filtered through the gumtrees. The world is as alive at dusk as it is at dawn in the Australian bush.
My destination was the local BP up the road a country mile, which has 98 octane and is my bike's choice. I pulled in, topped off the tank and as I was walking back to the bike another bike rolled in, his exhaust thrumming. As he pulled off his helmet I glanced over and caught a flash of contentment on the rider's face, his grin visible. He'd just ridden in from the direction I'd come from. Very few cars take those roads. They don't much go in the direction of most homes or businesses, or anywhere in particular. They're perfectly paved, ideal for two wheels with their curves, sweeping corners, tight and quick or long and smooth. Most people in their daily drive wouldn't notice their beauty. I suspect he knows those back roads as I and most area motorcycle riders do. Selfishly, I hope they keep it to themselves.
I rode home as the sun set against brilliant clouds of orange, just making it to my driveway as darkness fell. My bike's inside now, my helmet and gloves on the shelf, the boots tucked against the wall. I find it hard to describe to others (the everyday, non-motorcycle type) what the feeling of riding two wheels on an empty, fast road is like. I hope I describe to you what it's like for me in a worthy manner, and with proper reverence. I trust we share a similar experience. That's our secret.
Cheers!
The tools away, the bike idling and the helmet donned, I pulled out of the driveway and took the long long way to the servo. I needed some fuel but needed a ride more. I could be there in five minutes but pushed it out to fifteen or twenty, taking the country roads through paddock and over hill, avoiding the commuter roads which the four wheel cagers clog and congest on their way back from their city jobs to the sleepy haven 'burbs.
Around the roundabout, off down the hill and along the forest edge I ripped. The recent heavy rains had washed the road's surface clean. I leaned the bike deeply into corners, rolling on the throttle and accelerating smoothly through the bends, testing the grip of the tyres against cooling tarmac. The last golden rays of the sun dropped to the horizon but still felt warm against my face. Cows grazed idly, sulfur-crested cockies swarmed and squawked, the laughter of several kookaburras filtered through the gumtrees. The world is as alive at dusk as it is at dawn in the Australian bush.
My destination was the local BP up the road a country mile, which has 98 octane and is my bike's choice. I pulled in, topped off the tank and as I was walking back to the bike another bike rolled in, his exhaust thrumming. As he pulled off his helmet I glanced over and caught a flash of contentment on the rider's face, his grin visible. He'd just ridden in from the direction I'd come from. Very few cars take those roads. They don't much go in the direction of most homes or businesses, or anywhere in particular. They're perfectly paved, ideal for two wheels with their curves, sweeping corners, tight and quick or long and smooth. Most people in their daily drive wouldn't notice their beauty. I suspect he knows those back roads as I and most area motorcycle riders do. Selfishly, I hope they keep it to themselves.
I rode home as the sun set against brilliant clouds of orange, just making it to my driveway as darkness fell. My bike's inside now, my helmet and gloves on the shelf, the boots tucked against the wall. I find it hard to describe to others (the everyday, non-motorcycle type) what the feeling of riding two wheels on an empty, fast road is like. I hope I describe to you what it's like for me in a worthy manner, and with proper reverence. I trust we share a similar experience. That's our secret.
Cheers!
-o: 
