M25, an old favourite, cars moving smoothly at seventy, such being far too tame and for the likes of the machine beneath. Whisking past the soporific traffic, nothing special, surprised only to see a Fireblade sitting serenely in the flow, no faster motorcycle on the road, well okay pal, you must be more amenable than me to the daily sludge of behave-yourself admonition, each to his own, see you later alligator.

A Ferrari sitting low and powerful, pulling aside to let me through, shame that, thought there might have been an opportunity to demonstrate accelerative powers of motorcycle versus car. Streaming through.

Everything serene, but something else present, soon realising what, the Fireblade. Headlights in my rear view mirror, matching strides.

Traffic still moving at seventy, quite thick, but yielding many spaces. On my motorcycle, ninety, passing the cars at zero risk, an enterprise requiring first, timing, second, the balance conferred by peerless motorcycle engineering. The Fireblade falling back.

The traffic thickening, my motorcycle pausing, then swooping through. The Fireblade closing.

Ahead, the traffic clear for some reason. Ninety five. A hundred, my limit, prudential. The headlight behind rocketing forward. Okay pal, maybe you ain’t so compliant, go ahead. My motorcycle pulling aside. Fireblade adjacent, a few yards together, motorcycle bodylanguage for a smile, my glove raised, also his, then goodbye, him arrowing forward.

As with a thousand motorcycle journeys. All the same but different. Nary a one without adventure, even when it’s silent there’re points to ponder, Kafka, Joyce, family, London, the irksomeness of authority, the nature of danger, the closeness of death, the triumph of engineering, the mathematics of the world.

These things, for the motorcyclist, alive. But already said. For which reason, ride, don’t read.

Ergo, finis.