Driven by the sudden requirement to drive into Central Bristol every morning for six weeks in the morning rush hour, over the last month or so, I've excavated one of my two Honda XBR 500's, (single cylinder 500cc short stroke, chain driven SOHC) got it going, on the road & MOT'd. Then I set out to do at least 25 miles a day to get myself back into some kind of riding trim having been off a bike for perhaps five years. Bearing in mind that I'll not see 63 again, I thought I'd slowly increase my ability to ride a physically small bike by increasing the daily mileage as I went along.
It was hard going at first, but on Monday morning the sun shone and the road beckoned, so I resolved to take the bike walkies to Bridgewater, some 35 miles away. Much of the A38 is 50, 40 & even 30 limit these days and the time when me and my Triumph, Velocette or Vincent used to blat along undisturbed in the low eighties has - alas - long gone. Nonetheless, we made Reasonable Progress where we could, even throwing in an 8 mile stretch of M5. All went well, although a mysterious petrol blockage stopped me a couple of times. I was enjoying myself in a low key way, looking at the scenery and enjoying the cool shades of green in the English springtime countryside.
The road was quiet and about twelve miles from home on the return leg, I suddenly found the Groove I'd been looking for! I was overtaking some traffic when the distinction between bike and rider blurred, the grey ribbon unwinding in front of me became the only thing that mattered and, in a way that only some will understand, I was at one with the road.
My shoulders hunched forward, forearms flat as I urged the little Honda along, running smooth and clean in every gear, changing up at the point of maximum torque and long before the redline. In this position ("Riding the front wheel", we used to call it) you can see nothing of the bike unless you actually look down and the illusion of sweeping magically along within a yard of the road is strong indeed.
I was dimly aware of the *elements* of the experience, but the concentration of riding fast on a physically small, responsive,. lightweight motorcycle became the matter in hand, as it were. Then the 30 sign appeared at the end of the switchback coming into Bristol from the south west and the bark of the exhaust softened to a more civilised blurr.
As I came out of the house to sit on a log in the sunshine, coffee in hand and dog at my feet to contemplate my twenty year old bike, plinking quietly as it cooled, I remembered what it was that had kept me in the saddle for much of my adult life.
I've been away, but I'm back now ;o))
Regards,
Kim Siddorn