motorcycles
August 27th 2007 02:12
My father had a small Honda which I’d ride pillion on when I was a lad. That was always a thrill, clutching on tight to my father’s waist, or if I was more game I’d have my hands behind me holding the bike’s frame.
Watching skilled motorcyclists is nerve-wracking. It looks so damn dangerous. And it is. When they turn those tight corners and lean out, it screams disaster to me. But of course, the riders are in complete control. It’s all about physics ... and I was never any good at that.
With the big engine warm between your legs, your leather-gloved hands gripping the thick girth of the handlebars, your helmut head strong and safe, gunning the clutch … you feel 9-foot tall and bulletproof. Not that I’ve ever actually had the opportunity for that kind of getup. But I can imagine.
And then there’s that famous piece of literature: Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.
I do love the old school designs; the Nortons, the Triumphs, the Harleys. But those stretched body frames - the choppers - they ooze cool, although I’m sure they’re not that easy to steer. But that terrifying monster of a cycle called the Tomahawk sends chills down my spine. In my dreams I might be zooming along the Autobahn on one of those. The nightmare would be when I lose control at 180kms per hour.
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