motorcyclemeditation.com

A week sitting on a beach, watching the shenanigans. Tourist sports such as waterskiing or paragliding carrying no attraction, the thrills too bland compared with motorcycling, rather spend the time reading.

Lunch at a rooftop restaurant, fresh swordfish steak, fragrant lemon squeezed on top, salad. A glass of white wine, ice cold to disguise its shortcomings. Sun beating down but shady under vines and the breeze cooling. Blue sky above, rocky hillside below, then blue blue sea.

Also a mazy clifftop road winding down from the next town. On it, tourists with newly hired motorcycles, mostly Vespas. Their engine power near nonexistent but the riders still breathless in excitement, motorcycle magic weaving its spell. Directness, openness, simplicity, unfetteredness. Unaccustomed, the spell doubly powerful.

Intoxication not however limited to the joys of riding. Stop off at an eatery, beer, another one, food, wine, okay, let’s go.

Twisting unfamiliar roads, buses bearing down, goats scampering across. Surface scattered with dirt and sand, especially on the corners. Along the side, a single low cable slung between posts, then a drop to the sea a long way below, throw a stone over the edge and three seconds pass before it hits water. But you have to throw the stone quite far out to get past the rocks and rubble on the way down.

The hired motorcycles themselves in doubtful condition, brakes soggy and frames twisted from prior amateur escapades. Come off on these roads, a quite likely eventuality, you’ll be flayed by the surface, run over by a bus, decapitated by a cable, broken by rocks, and drowned.

The tourists oblivious. Three abreast, heads low, racing. Shorts, flip flops, sometimes a tee shirt. No helmets. Pink foreheads peeling in the sun, smiles spread wide. Their only technique learned from television commentary, brake late for corners.

After a while, unable to watch, choosing a restaurant with no view of the road.