Every time I go out after a couple of weeks of no riding, I remember anew all the reasons I love riding. I remember the etymology of exhilaration – because riding is, fundamentally – breath-taking. In a way I can’t define, the power of the engine; the way your balance changes through the curves, without ever faltering; the speed and the wind in your face; sets off a well-spring of exuberance. The only thing that stops me laughing from the sheer thrill of it is the knowledge that it would result in having to pick bugs out of my teeth.
On a short run, no long straight motorways, opening the throttle right up and racing the wind is more fun that a rollercoaster, because control of the ride is entirely in your hands.
The thrill of it all, I guess, is that the speed and curves and tilts and dips aren’t prescribed, aren’t the same every single time you go down a given road.
Every run is unique, and every run is down to the rider. It’s how you read the conditions and the road, how you react to traffic and potholes and diesel spills etc. How you deal with riding in a heatwave that can melt the asphalt (currently) or a wind chill of -15 (winter).
For something so reputationally dangerous and wild and rebellious, riding’s really all about control. And in that dichotomy, I guess, lies the thrill of it.
