Maybe I will embrace this new, plodding riding style. An old plodder on an old BMW, combined age 107
Greek philosopher Plato quoted his ageing playwright mate Sophocles as saying, “To my great delight, I have broken free of (lust), like a slave who has got away from a mad and savage master.” I can’t say I’ve aged enough to empathise, but I had an epiphany about the motorcyclist’s equivalent of Sophocles’ drooping indifference when I rode sedately around a corner the other day and felt fine with it. In fact, not only did I not feel an urge to dip my footpegs closer to the tarmac, I quite enjoyed the slower pace.
Struth, this is serious! I’ve not only come face-to-face with the emasculated state of whatever riding ability I used to have, I’ve embraced it.
No way! Like any self-respecting motorcyclist, I was meant to hurtle into the distance of age with the throttle open, the tyres sliding and a posse of highway patrollers spearing into the bushes behind me. I was supposed to arrive at the finish line with a rancid liver and lung cancer, deaf from the rock’n’roll and wind noise. The last thing I would see is my rider’s licence exploding like a New Year’s Eve cracker.
But this?!
Maybe I must accept it. All the available evidence says it’s natural and normal. All the community-safety indignation of our modern society says it is the righteous and moral way to be.
It’s not just that I’m on a 50-year-old bike with 50hp, skinny tyres and ordinary handling. I felt, though didn’t quite recognise, the first twinges of it when I last rode on an AMCN Motorcycle of the Year test, just a few years ago. Despite the excellent credentials of some of the bikes, I held back a little, conscious that I wasn’t hitting apexes quite as fast as I used to but putting it down to the fact that I was no longer regularly doing that kind of riding. Either way, it’s me, not the bike.
There’s more to it than age, too. It started years back when the traffic offences began to attract larger punishments than murder. And when the cops lost their sense of humour about it all. If they had their way they’d award demerit points just for writing about the desire to ride fast (no, I’m not being paranoid — they can already cancel other licences because of what people think). Anyway, they won with me and I keep my bum down and head up now, rather than ignoring the speedo and hoping I don’t get caught.
But I wouldn’t say I’m doing that willingly.
There’s the knowledge that I don’t bounce like I used to. Geez, I had some big tumbles as a young fella in jeans and a Brando jacket and rarely felt much pain. But now I can’t jump off the back of the ute without fretting about the consequences of landing badly. There’s also the certainty that I cannot react as quickly as I did. I saved some frightening near-crashes thanks to good reactions in the past – but these days can only watch in motionless horror when I lose control of a piece of buttered toast.
So, it’s most definitely sensible of me to slow down a bit. What a horrible thought.
I have discovered the joy of sightseeing. For a long time I could describe in detail the view down the tar confines of a heap of great motorcycle roads but asking me to tell you what the countryside looked like was like asking an Isle of Man TT racer where to find the best views on the island. Not that I was remotely as quick as those blokes, but speed is relative and what I saw went by as quickly as my little mind could process it.
Going slow, I’ve seen some incredible views for the first time despite riding past them millions of times.
Now that I’m older and less bike fit, a slower ride gets me to my destination in better shape to do it all over again the next day. So there’s another reason I’m enjoying it.
It actually doesn’t sound that bad, does it? Maybe I will embrace this new, plodding riding style. An old plodder on an old BMW, combined age 107.
No! Sophocles’ idea that being freed from lust is a “great delight” is a blatant contradiction. I love speed and deep cornering, my mad and savage masters. Does anyone make Viagra for the throttle hand?
