motorcyclemeditation.com

Feels good to be on the motorcycle today, wind and G forces stripping away the grime after a trying dinner last night.

The meal held in a Mayfair hotel frequented by business people, okay for stopovers, wrong choice for a Saturday night, too self promoting. Apprehensions duly borne out, the early aside for all to hear, one does find this hotel convenient when one is in London, it does everything well and some things superbly. Rubbish pal, it’s teethgrindingly awful, makes you feel you’re at a business convention, there must be ten restaurants around here less expensive and more enjoyable.

Midway through the evening, an invitation, you really must come to Cannes, a modest villa, bought it ten years ago for a song, come stay there for a few days. Sounds lovely, thank you.

Not bloody likely, unspoken rules of conduct will be too restrictive once you get there. Besides, played this game before, if you accept there are but two ways forward, one, you reciprocate, before you know it you’re permanently subscribed to someone else's competitive exhibitionist rigmarole. Two, you don’t reciprocate, then you’re pigeonholed as the receiver of charity, lodged lower in some internal pecking order, such being the principal organizing principle of certain brains.

Any time I want to go to Cannes, think I’ll go my own way thanks. Arrive unencumbered. Might even take the motorcycle. Some people would enjoy such a long ride, me, I always find about a hundred miles enough for a day, second thoughts, if I go to Cannes probably be by air or even better train.

Meanwhile, the motorcycle today doing the thing only a motorcycle can, washing out the mental gunk, started out feeling like a swan caught in an oil slick, besmirched, now rescued, the motorcycle’s detergent and astringent effects starting to work.

Clean cold air buffeting, blue clear skies, motorcycle whipping along at eighty, now, what was the problem again, remind me. Let’s go, motorcycle, find a Porsche to overtake.