You come through the doors and down the steps knowing that you've done a good morning's work. The tang of the cold air hits you, awakening you from the slight torpor induced by the library. The sky is clear and blue; there's enough wind to set the leaves shifting restlessly, but not so much as to make riding a chore. You strap on your helmet as you head for the bike, and decide the sun is bright enough to warrant sunglasses, which means you don't have to fiddle with your goggles. You reach the bike, put your bag in the topbox, pull out the choke not all the way, and Boanerges fires up willingly.
You stand up as you go over the speed bumps, listening to make sure you only hear the usual rattles. The poor guy who's copped the weekend shift in the gatehouse doesn't respond to your nod and grin as you go past, but then, you probably wouldn't either if the tables were turned. It's maybe only then you remember the blog entry you read the other night about
riding in the rain, and you decide to pay more conscious attention to the impressions of your ride. Too often, you're concentrating on what will need doing when you get home, or what to get people for Christmas, or the crassness of the consumer society we live in, Santa's grottoes springing up like poisonous fungus the day after bonfire night - corporate mushrooms, all magic removed, guaranteed. Sure, you smell the smoke from the cigarette on the lips of the guy waiting to cross; you hear the constantly changing burble or roar of the engine, you see the colours of the autumn leaves against the pale blue, you feel, even through your winter gloves, the road texture change as the bars gently move in your hands, but none of it endures past the moment of its realisation. There is a passive awareness, a Zen acceptance that these things are, and then are not.
You pull off the main road, out of the slowly moving stream of cars, and as you lean the bike into the turn, you open the throttle, maybe more than you should in a 30 zone, but it's a wide, empty road, and no obstructions to conceal sudden hazards. And on a day like this, a ride like this, it would be a crime against your own humanity if you didn't. All these considerations barely register as you accelerate, but it's enough for you to know that the calculations are constantly being recalibrated.
As you rejoin the next major route, you consider the driver in front. Granted, it's not necessarily his choice to be plodding along at 30, but you pity his isolated existence, removed from the environment. The air is fresh on your cheeks. All he can feel is the dry sterile air from his heater as he looks out at the picture nicely framed by the windscreen surround. All he can hear is the gibbering inanity of the radio. He may as well be at home, watching the telly. You're only driving home, but there is pleasure, deep pleasure, in the journey itself, not just your anticipation of your destination.
At the top of the hill, there's a right onto the dual carriageway; if you're lucky, the lights on the pelican crossing just after will be green, so you can open the throttle more as you come through the turn, knowing that the rear tyre will just grip even more eagerly. As the bike straightens, you again think of that blog entry; you've valued your dignity, or your backache, too much to ever tuck in properly behind the vestigial fairing, but now you do. There is, as promised, a quieter pocket of air, and you reach high speeds more quickly than normally, or is that just a trick of the pose? But your hold on the bars has changed, the steering seems less positive, and, perversely, you miss the familiar wind blast. So it's back to sitting up straighter, you become an airbrake as you slow to pass the speed camera, then wind it on again for the long sweeping bends at the bottom of the hill and the climb up the next.
The second camera has gone, missing, presumed lost to an irate driver, so you wind on some more up the hill. Boanerges revs tirelessly. The incongruous memory you have, of your Russian teacher's sound effects for an act you didn't expect him to refer to - thank the gods it was only
son and not
lumiere - is prompted by the wind whipping your cheeks. Not for the first time, you reflect on whether an open face helmet is really appropriate for a large motorcycle. You know, though, that if anything happens at this speed, it won't matter what you're wearing on your head: "This helmet may not provide protection against all possible impacts." You also know that like this you are more connected, safer, more aware of what's going on. After all, your full face lid also frames the world into a widescreen projection - letter box format. You need it on the M62, on the tops, in the rain, preparing for the side winds to hit again once you pass that next truck, but round town you need the advantage of every sense being in play.
Approaching the roundabout, there'll be space to filter down the side; you just know that car will cut across to the outside with no signalling. Did he know you were coming up alongside? The car at the front is moving, you glance, it's safe, wind on past, the bike leans left then right then left again. More throttle, straighten up, more throttle... Thinking about it, you know you must have been counter-steering and shifting your weight first one side then the other, but you have to think to know that you did. At the next big roundabout the lights are just changing in your favour, you again subtly shift and the bike leans in response to your inputs; you've hit the traffic light sequence just right, and move on smoothly round, shifting gear as the revs rise.
All too soon, you're home, but today at least you're wise enough to realise the folly in contriving another destination. You grin ruefully as you acknowledge that thought and put your bike in the garage. As you close the padlock, turn, and walk down the driveway, the air is fresh; you hear how the crunch of the gravel is muted by the fallen leaves, and realise how well these complement the red Leeds brickwork glowing in the autumn sunlight. Just your usual commute.
