motorcyclemeditation.com

The M25 busy but cars in the outside lane still doing ninety, motorcycle keeping easy pace, front tyre a few feet from the car in front. All feeling safe. But you never can tell.

Uncle died, Easter day. Climbing three stairs, alive on step one, infarcting on step two, dead on step three. In the previous weeks and years, cheerfully indifferent to badgering about lifestyle. A good way to live, a good way to die. A good thing to ponder on a motorcycle.

Not really well known to me, but still a fixture. Aged four, sat on his knee on the farm tractor, he letting me think I was steering, the earth baked hard beneath, the unrelenting sun above. Parched by dust, flapping at flies, the tractor’s ancient diesel engine clattering. Hay drying in a ramshackle stack, ready to go and play in, snakes slinking unseen from rowdy childish noise.

The uncle departing to foreign shores, a different life entire, mostly out of mind. When last seen, a cheerful hello and a discussion about motorcycles, infallible bonding topic to those interested. His pride, a five hundred in the days when a five hundred used to be big. Did a ton once, needle on the speedo quivering, his finger demonstrating, his eyes twinkling. Had to give it up eventually, kids.

Now here on the M25 today, a different life entire again. My motorcycle bigger than twice five hundred, difficulty is keeping it down to a ton rather than hectically trying to get there. Roads wide and straight, traffic flowing. In conditions like these, accident rates irreducibly negligible, won’t stop the hectoring of course, take a leaf out of my uncle’s book, ignore it.

Then one day, the end. Maybe my turn’s going to be on a motorcycle, maybe today. Tough. If it happens, hope it’s just me, nobody else gets hurt. A good way to die.

Wonder if he’s looking down. Wonder what he’d give to feel the wind, hear the roar, harness the g’s. Wherever he’s at, hard to imagine he could do like me, know the sharp edge of danger, scoff at the tutting.

Okay, change down, flash past the car in front, there we are uncle, an easy ton. a long unrestrained blast in your memory, a salute to you and to hell with whoever feels different,