motorcyclemeditation.com

Coming off the A40, the junction thick with battling traffic, the motorcycle picking its way steadily toward the lights. In front, waiting for green, a Porsche, black, twin rear aerofoils. The motorcycle settling behind it.

Ahead, a clear stretch of road, three lanes curving right, then curving left, then a long straight. The motorcycle having been through the course countless times.

Lights still red. The Porsche revving. The driver still in an overhang of frustration from missing green last time round, probably raced to get through, changed his mind at the last moment, braked, swore, stopped, then having the longest wait. The compensation, after countless hours held up behind slower cars, now suddenly at the front of the grid.

The empty road ahead. Under starters orders. In the Porsche, arms flexing, jaw jutting. Traction control engaged, gear paddles at the ready, in his mind at least, just like on television. Cheering crowds in baseball hats lining the track, tension building, silence descending.

Lights green, the Porsche away like a slingshot, instantly ten lengths in front of other cars, arcing through the curves and into the straight. Checkered flag beckoning, adoring fans hysterical.

Just behind, the motorcycle. First gear, staying with the car like a limpet. The Porsche opening up. The motorcycle keeping pace. Alone on the road, just the two machines, all the rest left far behind.

In the Porsche, motorcycle headlights filling the rear view mirror. An implacable presence where none should be, like a pilot seeing the missile behind, tracking, closing in. A sensation to shrivel the soul. The Porsche hesitating, confidence wilted. The motorcycle pulling out, opening the throttle, a kick like electricity, hurtling forward.

Slowing down to sixty no sign of the Porsche. Other traffic catching up, overtaking. First one up, another motorcycle, a five hundred, open helmet, rider looking at me sideways, big grin, gloved hand extended, thumb up.