0
Start button,
bit of throttle,
rumble finds its rhythm,
settles into pattern,
the joy of internal combustion.
Plunge into street, into the roads, into traffic.
Plunging into another day, just another day, yet another day, today.
01 : Out of The City
Heading out of the city,
playing through the dance of vehicles,
objects, controls,
riding out, surfing the throttle,
the pulse and flow, just one of billions,
just me.
Distinct and brutally discreet, strangers, utterly alien, converging upon
the exit,
occasional glances,
some with recognition, some not,
occasionally acknowledgement, sometimes mutual,
always the deep ecology of nested navigation and fluid systemics.
Cut across the chevron bottleneck
10 : Quicken
Careful little weave across the congested lanes,
pre-intuitive senses straining,
body-sense by now contains the machine,
and subtly glows and pings off the tarmac.
I’m going to fucking-miss this.
Into the gully,
holding a spatial margin of roughly 40mm between my unusually wide profile,
and the deceivingly soft blur of cages and their stuttering appendages.
Beautiful torque,
gently pounding,
cops in their proper places,
usually stationary.
011 : Engaging
The city starts to fade, we accelerate, vehicles spread a bit, average about
90,
judging from about 125.
Cut wide into the blind curves,
keep an eye on the taxis,
their phenomenal ability to move sideways.
There are those riders who punish errant vehicles with the removal of side
mounted rearview mirrors from said vehicles.
Questionable wisdom in that, but tempting.
The mind does interesting things. I ride a 1981 Goldwing GL 11,
its half Japanese, half American, Honda.
Its a bit like an armchair without the armrests,
ontop of four laterally opposed combustion chambers,
non standard fearing,
dual 100watt spots, high,
and a rectilinear widscreen swooping back at me,
like the cockpits of those fighters in Battle Star Gallactica.
‘Loud pipes save lives’,
and I like to be heard.
I like to be seen, and I like to move.
100 : Interchange
New constructions going up,
slip through the Allendale Off-ramp tar-picnic at 145.
On the wing your riding position is a bit like the horse-stance
in tai-chi and chi-gung. Knees forward, from the pelvis Dantin,
spine relaxed, arms loose and round,
slightly aggressive incline.
Apparently conducive to the flow of chi, which is useful in manipulating the
third of a tone, worth of steel, chrome, and enamel while you think about other
things,
a hair breadth away from certain mutilation,
or unimaginable intensive trauma.
It feels good to post this.
I.P. and the Art of the Motorcycle Intercity Commute
0
Start button,
bit of throttle,
rumble finds its rhythm,
settles into pattern,
the joy of internal combustion.
Plunge into street, into the roads, into traffic.
Plunging into another day, just another day, yet another day, today.
01 : Out of The City
Heading out of the city,
playing through the dance of vehicles,
objects, controls,
riding out, surfing the throttle,
the pulse and flow, just one of billions,
just me.
Distinct and brutally discreet, strangers, utterly alien, converging upon
the exit,
occasional glances,
some with recognition, some not,
occasionally acknowledgement, sometimes mutual,
always the deep ecology of nested navigation and fluid systemics.
Cut across the chevron bottleneck
10 : Quicken
Careful little weave across the congested lanes,
pre-intuitive senses straining,
body-sense by now contains the machine,
and subtly glows and pings off the tarmac.
I’m going to fucking-miss this.
Into the gully,
holding a spatial margin of roughly 40mm between my unusually wide profile,
and the deceivingly soft blur of cages and their stuttering appendages.
Beautiful torque,
gently pounding,
cops in their proper places,
usually stationary.
011 : Engaging
The city starts to fade, we accelerate, vehicles spread a bit, average about
90,
judging from about 125.
Cut wide into the blind curves,
keep an eye on the taxis,
their phenomenal ability to move sideways.
There are those riders who punish errant vehicles with the removal of side
mounted rearview mirrors from said vehicles.
Questionable wisdom in that, but tempting.
The mind does interesting things. I ride a 1981 Goldwing GL 11,
its half Japanese, half American, Honda.
Its a bit like an armchair without the armrests,
ontop of four laterally opposed combustion chambers,
non standard fearing,
dual 100watt spots, high,
and a rectilinear widscreen swooping back at me,
like the cockpits of those fighters in Battle Star Gallactica.
‘Loud pipes save lives’,
and I like to be heard.
I like to be seen, and I like to move.
100 : Interchange
New constructions going up,
slip through the Allendale Off-ramp tar-picnic at 145.
On the wing your riding position is a bit like the horse-stance
in tai-chi and chi-gung. Knees forward, from the pelvis Dantin,
spine relaxed, arms loose and round,
slightly aggressive incline.
Apparently conducive to the flow of chi, which is useful in manipulating the
third of a tone, worth of steel, chrome, and enamel while you think about other
things,
a hair breadth away from certain mutilation,
or unimaginable intensive trauma.
It feels good to post this.