motorcyclemeditation.com

A hundred mile ride on motorways, traffic thinning after the first hour out of London. Amidst unconstrained space, the motorcycle going gradually faster and faster. After a while, ninety on the speedo. So, eighty two real, only twelve above the speed limit, just about okay. But a few months ago, thinking through the same issues, working out a personally acceptable cruising speed, setting it about ten miles an hour slower. Creeping standards.

At mind’s edge, the vestigial memory of siren voices, their tedious message, speed kills. A lobbyist philosophy ossified into this single unalterable refrain, impervious to refinement or discussion or counterargument. Once heard someone respond, it’s not speed that kills, it’s inappropriate speed, a point self evidently true once expressed. Got short shrift. Probably due to the lobbyist impossibility of admitting space for debate, ever conscious of the need to retain funding.

Authority’s authority thus inauthoritative. Nothing left to do but decide for yourself. As it should be. A conclusion highly palatable for a rider, the wind and the freedom once you’re on a motorcycle predisposing you against any sort of deference except that hard earned.

From a junction, another motorcycle joining the flow. Passing it as it picks up speed, studying it, the model hard to discern but meaty looking and competently riden. Another significant attribute, not a police motorcycle. Checking the rear view mirror, there it is, about a hundred yards back. Checking again, the gap increasing, looks like I’m going faster. Later, checking, yes, there’s its single headlight, looks like we’re going similar speeds.

Meaning what, I wonder. Maybe that the road’s dynamics support some sort of intuitive optimum motorcycle speed. Maybe some sort of silent motorcycle bond, it’s fun sometimes to travel in tandem, spaced but in contact, in which case the one behind will keep pace.

Ninety on the speedo. Behind, a kindred spirit, jointly contemptuous of lobbyists. Twenty miles of this, then past a junction, the motorcycle behind peeling off, adios compadre, ride safe, thanks for the company while it lasted.