motorcyclemeditation.com

London back to its heaving jostling self after the holiday season, the motorcycle easing its way past traffic thickets at all the regular places. Coming up to Finchley, a long line of cars progressing slowly in resigned patience. Two hundred yards in front, green traffic lights, too far away for the motorcycle to make them in time, best take it easy, rather use the red light time to get there than go for it, brake, sit there fretting.

These peaceful ruminations interrupted by the emergence of a big black Mercedes, turning slowly from a sidestreet into a gap in the queue, then almost stopping, then proceeding with exaggerated slowness.

The traffic behind, blocked and frustrated, as intended. Not everyone however. The motorcycle freewheeling past, breezily heedless of the enforced funereal tempo. A casually contemptuous riposte to the Mercedes’ casually contemptuous intervention.

The lights now red. The motorcycle stopping at the front, the Mercedes stopping alongside. Black polished paintwork, wide low wheels, fat exhaust pipes.

Window winding down. On the motorcycle, feigning indifference. Observing the driver peripherally, as if with earplugged ears and vision obscured by the helmet. Heavy fleshy features, black leather jacket over white silk teeshirt, medallions, gold watch, diamond earring, suchlike laughable pimp accoutrements.

A grunt from the driver, ignored. Being ignored, for him a provocation, why else the Mercedes. A grunted sentence, some sort of threat buried in a heavy Russian accent, better be careful, he may pull out a gun. Still however ignoring.

A speck of dust on the motorcycle revcounter calling for attention, a finger on the glove licked, the speck gently lifted, inspected. Thinking, here we have a clash of systems, power versus freedom. You keep your power, pal, enjoy its pimpish delights. Meanwhile don’t imagine I’m part of it. Or if you do, tough, what you see before you is its perfect repudiation, a motorcycle.

The lights turning green, the motorcycle sweeping off. The Mercedes stuck behind a new queue of traffic, its driver still growling, probably. Whatever, pal, go intimidate someone else.