"With the exception of a nice, twisty little wind through the Peace River valley, the run to the North West Territories' border was almost due north and as straight as Hans Blix. This was fine for the first hour or so, as early morning mists rise and the body and bike both come up to operating temperature. However, the straight line thing begins to pale rather quickly after that and the true rider begins to squirm about, hoping and praying that some twisites will magically materialize or some foreign-looking dude in a jet black Lamborghini will pull alongside and point ahead with his racing gloves.
Those of you who have never ridden a motorcycle (never a “motorbike” if you please) are missing out on a whole new dimension of the planet Earth. A run up a highway like this in a car concentrates on inner pleasures like music, news, things to sip at and chomp on but also gives you time to worry about the boss, the wife or the bank account. A straight highway in a car is sought after because, simply put, cars lean the wrong way. Yep, go get your ultra expensive Ferarri or Posche and watch yourself brace against the turn, head and upper torso banging against the door when things get dicey. Then drone straight on after the apex and fiddle with the temperature controls while you watch the movie of your trip through various flat screens otherwise known as windows.
A motorcycle on the other hand flies quite like an airplane that skims but a few feet above the ground. You don't watch your own movie on a bike, you direct and star in it and nobody, aside from an armed police officer or two, can tell you what and what not to do. If it's cold out then you are cold, if it rains you get wet, if you ride through the Rockies you just crank the neck a bit and stare straight up at the majesty of it all. You smell the smells, catch the wind, dodge debris on the road, and wave to kids and hitchhikers, with whom all motorcyclists have an unwritten bond.
As you prepare to enter turns you zip the throttle a few times, braking and down-shifting just so and then you crank the bike over, keeping a steady hand on the gas as you skim inches above the pavement streaming below. As you start to straighten up at the turn exit you get hard on the gas and the bike JUMPS forward. As you continue to shift up and accelerate hard you are ppp-pulled back on the seat and you get the great sensation of being tied to an endless, huge rubber band. That stupid grin comes up and then things start to blur a bit as your velocity brings you within range of the Canadian Criminal Code. Again.
But things are different in the Prairies.
I pondered this great dilemma and opened the mind to the LSD-25 softened cortexes of yesteryear searching for a solution. As we droned along the mind twists and folds into itself as one initiates some of the standard straightline defence techniques such as using the killswitch to trigger neat backfires, jamming the centrestand on the pavement to cause a huge arc of sparks that are visible in the mirrors, laying flat on the bike and letting the legs dangle out the back so that the toes of my boots would skip and jump as they occasionally touched down, or seeing how far I can go with my eyes closed."
Those of you who have never ridden a motorcycle (never a “motorbike” if you please) are missing out on a whole new dimension of the planet Earth. A run up a highway like this in a car concentrates on inner pleasures like music, news, things to sip at and chomp on but also gives you time to worry about the boss, the wife or the bank account. A straight highway in a car is sought after because, simply put, cars lean the wrong way. Yep, go get your ultra expensive Ferarri or Posche and watch yourself brace against the turn, head and upper torso banging against the door when things get dicey. Then drone straight on after the apex and fiddle with the temperature controls while you watch the movie of your trip through various flat screens otherwise known as windows.
A motorcycle on the other hand flies quite like an airplane that skims but a few feet above the ground. You don't watch your own movie on a bike, you direct and star in it and nobody, aside from an armed police officer or two, can tell you what and what not to do. If it's cold out then you are cold, if it rains you get wet, if you ride through the Rockies you just crank the neck a bit and stare straight up at the majesty of it all. You smell the smells, catch the wind, dodge debris on the road, and wave to kids and hitchhikers, with whom all motorcyclists have an unwritten bond.
As you prepare to enter turns you zip the throttle a few times, braking and down-shifting just so and then you crank the bike over, keeping a steady hand on the gas as you skim inches above the pavement streaming below. As you start to straighten up at the turn exit you get hard on the gas and the bike JUMPS forward. As you continue to shift up and accelerate hard you are ppp-pulled back on the seat and you get the great sensation of being tied to an endless, huge rubber band. That stupid grin comes up and then things start to blur a bit as your velocity brings you within range of the Canadian Criminal Code. Again.
But things are different in the Prairies.
I pondered this great dilemma and opened the mind to the LSD-25 softened cortexes of yesteryear searching for a solution. As we droned along the mind twists and folds into itself as one initiates some of the standard straightline defence techniques such as using the killswitch to trigger neat backfires, jamming the centrestand on the pavement to cause a huge arc of sparks that are visible in the mirrors, laying flat on the bike and letting the legs dangle out the back so that the toes of my boots would skip and jump as they occasionally touched down, or seeing how far I can go with my eyes closed."
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