For the first year that I owned my 77 CB750F2 I rode it almost every day straight. I figured I had to earn the right to be called a “biker” and not a Poser. Sun, Rain, freezing cold weather. It didn’t matter, and for that first year I actually enjoyed it. That’s been a few years ago and I decided that I am more of a fair weather rider now. Maybe it’s because I’m getting old, or… well… really that’s probably the only reason. Anyways, I just don’t ride it “year round” like I did that first year and only take it out on occasions once the weather turns into liquid sunshine. I should explain that I live in Oregon, and while we have some great summer weather, it really does rain for 9 months out of the year here. Tonight I decided I needed a good solid ride since the weather was nice with the sun still shining low in the horizon.
The air was crisp as I straddled my beast and turned the Key. Huh. That’s weird; the lights flashed for a moment and then went black. While she pulls like an Ox, she’s always been temper mental with the electronics and I should have figured she’d pull this. She knows our little outings are coming to a close and it’s like she’s having a hissy fit. Colder in silence than any women I’ve known, she sits there. I gently pull at the side cover to expose her fuses, and then pull the first one for inspection. Gently I tug at it and find it to be solid, but the connector has come loose… She can be so stubborn.
I wiggle the connection around and get it to set ever so delicately, replacing the fuse with a held breath. I know as soon as I turn the motor over it’ll vibrate loose again but maybe, just maybe, she’s appeased and we can go for our ride. As the key turns over, the lights come on. A few moments pass as I wait expectantly for them to turn black. Instead, of course, the battery is not charged enough for the electric start, more of her pouting. But with just a couple of quick kicks, she fires right up. She’s as eager to put some miles behind us as I am.
There is some nice riding north of our home with a small choice as to which path to follow. Our hunger is for speed and we know the road we must take to push ourselves. The sun is full, but just above the horizon. These feelings of angst are heightened by the quickly setting sun. They are also heightened because part of the ol’ girl’s temperament has the rear lights not working. The brake light still lights up, but the running lights are out. I’ve fixed them once before, but when she’s moody…
I carefully cruise through Coburg and take in the warmth of feelings you only get from a small town. The neon red Open sign in front of the Pizza parlor slash movie rental store flickers a little. The patrons can be seen inside enjoying themselves. I pass a park with children giggling as they play and their parents are grouped together talking not far off from them. Even riding by, I was aware that they were long acquainted friends and most likely their children would also become long acquainted friends in time.
The speed picked up to Thirty-five miles an hour as the road makes a sharp turn to the left and accelerating through that turn snaps us from the lull of the town to the purpose of the ride. The need of this ride. Glancing up and to the left the Sun has just touched the tree lines, not much time. As we pass by the local fire department there is a canopy of trees that momentarily blocks the sun, the cold stings so quickly I shudder. Only a moment later and the air surges with warmth, not hot by any means, but warm enough that I already begin forgetting the cold as I pour from the canopy into open air. Holding at thirty-five I lean forward a little expectantly. Before I even really pass the sign I am already at forty-five miles per hour. I lean forward still. I can see the next sign, but not enough to read it. An eternity passes waiting for that final sign. All it says is “End of 45 MPH Zone” but the Throttle is already open and I’ve shifted at least once. To my surprise I’m already doing eighty and we haven’t even started the long straight stretch that was beckoning us before we began. For an instant we share a special moment remembering when eighty miles per hour was so fast. It was too fast. Now it feels like a normal, comfortable cruising speed.
I begin to slow down as the first of two ninety degree corners approaches in the all too familiar “S” shape. I can’t remember what the recommended speeds for these corners are but it doesn’t really matter as I twist the handle bar slightly to the left. The pitch comes on hard and I lean solid to the right and rocket through one, and then heave to the left for the quickly upcoming second sharp corner.
After a few more random curves a pattern begins. First curves, then some small straight stretches. More curves, and another stretch. Nothing long enough for a wide open throttle, not with more curves only a little ways off, but it’s a fun little exercise in cornering and speed control.
I’m already riding the long stretch in my mind’s eye as my real eyes are actively scanning the road ahead and nearby surroundings. A quick check on the sun reveals strong light, but the beginnings of sun streaks are evident as the tree line breaks them up. As they break the sun up. With three-quarters of the sun still above the horizon I can clearly make out the modest houses that dot the road. They are like little doorways to the vast fields behind them. In the distance dark blue tinted mountain ranges make a jagged wall against a light sky but I barely brush my gaze across them focusing on the road ahead of me.
It’s only been a few miles and already I’m relaxed in my thoughts. I clear them still in preparation for what lies ahead. Just another corner, one more corner. It’s so clear in my mind’s eye, from the first long segment to the small community church right at the slight bend before the second greater stretch of road. The corner is not enough to alter speed but I always use caution at this juncture. Not because of cops, although I have seen one parked there before, but for the church itself. While in the middle of nowhere it sits on a slight bend with a second road making a “T” straight out from it on the left. I am slightly surprised at a full parking lot but it is Sunday night. Actively scanning that corner I ease off the throttle and kick it down a gear. I think I’m in third but it’s not all that important compared to the Revs, which are at a comfortable 5k. As I ease past the church I drop my head and resume to picking up speed. With quick glances at the tach I count off. First 6k, followed by 7k, and then 8. Wait for it. Wait for it… the needle touches 9 and I’m moving just over Ninety miles an hour. I can feel in my wrist the strain of holding the throttle completely open, not a pain, not by any means, but tenseness from the pressure. Pushing to Nine and a half thousand I roll off and kick my toe up slamming the wrist, and the throttle, back down. The Revs drop but I feel the burst of speed and chance a glance at the gauge. With no surprise I watch the needle skim over that one little white line. That white line we are all aware of. Whether we’ve done it or just talked about it we know what it means and the value it holds. I have no time to ponder this as it seems the old girl is already pushing nine and a half RPMs and I do have one more shift to make.
Only the very top arch of the sun is visible now, and light is quickly dimming. I take quick, short looks over my shoulder to make sure the road is clear and slow down for what is probably an illegal U turn. For a moment we sit there. This is it. This is the moment in time I’ve truly longed for. This is when I Gander at life’s greatest mysteries and the wonders of the world. I’m teetering at the edge of stillness and the brink of accelerating.
I don’t feel like time has slowed, it has simply stopped. There is no breath to hold because I’m simply not breathing. I’m not existing. Not really. For what man calls time I suppose a second or two passes, but in those moments I enjoy an eternity of nothing. An eternity of everything. I am one with all that there is and removed from it completely. Time skips and the force of acceleration strains against me. Pushes me slightly back on my seat even as I’m shifting into second gear. Third gear goes so quickly it’s a surprise that I remember to shift into fourth and as I top out at 110 mph, I ease into fifth gear. I’m already at the church and taking that bend faster then I normally will. My head is not touching the tank, but I doubt I could slide a bare finger between the two. Knees pressing so hard against the tank feel as if they might dent it, but they press harder from the elbows I have tucked in against them. Ripples shoot down my back as the wind drags against my shirt trying desperately to rip it off.
It’s not long before I resume the casual lope of curves and stretches and shorter still until I reach Coburg, and then home.
This is why we do it. Why I do it. Despite all the idiots in their cages and reckless drivers, this makes riding a motorcycle worth while!
I hope you enjoyed my ride tonight as much as I did
Rachet-
