Mounting
up
It's a continual source of frustration to see the blank look wash over people's
faces as you try to explain this motorcycling thing. Sometimes even folk who
are involved in the industry don't get it.
Bikes are a bit trendy at the moment. However in these times when hugging an
environmentally-friendly tin of whale meat is almost acceptable, I detect an
element of resistance. There's an air of "Yes, Dear..." resigned tolerance
that tips a reluctant lid to the inevitable exploration of one's personal space
with large and powerful machinery.
Motorcycling sometimes gives me the shits in a way that is so comprehensive
that it defies understanding. That's the result of writing/publishing about
the things for a couple of decades.
But all is forgiven every damned morning. This is such a tactile and gut experience
that it almost defies description.
Having tripped over the cat, fed the assorted birds and dogs, and finally made
it out to the shed, I pull the bike of the day out. The decision of which mount
was usually made the night before, depending on the weather, or how many people,
groceries, or far we're going, and all the other factors. That's actually a
major pleasure at the end of the day at the salt mine - deciding on the mount
for the next.
The choice isn't all that important. What really works is diving into the back
of the shed to find helmet, jacket and gloves. You can feel the pulse awakening
as you grab the gear and fumble for the keys to the gates - tripping over the
blue heelers along the way.
Then it's find the choke, hit the starter. And tense as you wait for that painful
morning turn of cylinders as they catch and fire - why is it always a pleasant
surprise when they do? (They should, dammit, but that doesn't take away the
joy of a healthy 'harrumph' of a big engine on full choke.)
You back it out of the shed and wheel it through the gates, and then go through
the helmet-and-gloves ceremony. This is akin to suiting up for battle, even
when you have no intention of fighting anyone. It's a formality which should
be done with care, checking the tension of the chin strap, pulling down the
gloves and then interlocking the hands quickly to check you have the digits
free and working.
By now you're backing off the choke, saddle up, blip the throttle, snick a gear
and engage with the motorcycle. This is the sexiest moment, if you get it right.
It's when you mould with the machine (yes, it sounds corny - but try it...),
slip the clutch and head out. For a ride.
Most days it's just a few kays up the road to the thinking factory. On occasions
it's to somewhere hundreds or thousands of kilometres away. In any case it feels
good.
Brake, tip, throttle. Brake tip throttle. And again. Each time, you are in a
very lonely and active sphere where you're intimately responsible for your health
and safety. While breathing in, feeling, and engaging with, the world around
you. On an impossible machine that's inherently unstable unless you keep it
moving.
Any alien life-form with half a brain would see this approach to getting about
the planet as serious weirdness, particularly in the face of alternative transport
(bus, car, train, walking) with far lower risk factors. Until you introduce
them to the pleasures of the morning ritual of mounting up and steering the
monster down the driveway...
Guy "Guido" Allen
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