motorcyclemeditation.com

Pulling into a fuel station to fill up, an interminable motorcycle chore.

After years of practice, choreographed to the second. Stay seated. Kill engine. Yank nozzle out of pump. Keep motorcycle vertical so whole tank is filled. Unlock cap, open it, by now pump will have been initialized. Fill up, allow to settle, top up the last bit, don’t be too precious, you can waste a lot of time squeezing in one more cupful. Close cap, kick down stand, go in to pay. Come out, reset tripmeter, start, go.

The routine a useful protection against the soulless environs, also a way of according minimal mindspace to the whole tedious business, like closing your eyes until something unpleasant has gone away, then resuming where you were before, an exclusion tactic.

Proceedings today however brightened by the entry of another motorcycle. Its presence signaled first by blast of engine noise, ah, that distinctive Ducati burble. Enter stage right a 1098, glistening red, an object of panting beauty.

Parking choreography of the dream machine directed not at efficiency, more at showcasing. A hush descending over the fuel station. Or perhaps that’s just in my head. The rider dismounting, somehow with more grace than usually seen.

Helmet coming off, then balaclava. Auburn tresses tumbling down. Her face stunning. A ballet dancer in red leathers. Long slender legs, gliding around the motorcycle. Slim gloved fingers elegant around the fuel nozzle. A toss of the beautiful head, hair swaying, gleaming in the sunlight.

Astride my motorcycle, trying not to stare. Failing. Time standing still. Except for the fuel pump, the tank suddenly full, nozzle spraying. Whoa there, whoa. The tank covered in white fuel foam. Not an inaccurate representation of my mental and physical state.

Gathering myself, sorting the motorcycle out, paying, going. Thinking afterward, did that really happen, or was it just fantasy. A minute later, overtaken at speed by a blazing Ducati. My heart still pounding.