Touch of Heaven

Yesterday, I went to the Croft Circuit leg of the British Superbike Championships. With my friend, Bob the Biker. I sat in the grandstand and watched as supertuned machines on two wheels, 2, 3, and 4 cylinder bikes with brake horsepower numbers in the hundreds, and engine capacities of a medium sized car rumbled past at around 180 miles per hour, the sound and vibrations rattling my eardrums and teeth.
But that was not it.

Yesterday, I walked through racing team pits, filled with Ducati 999s, Honda Fireblades, Yamaha R1s, R6s, Kawasaki Ninjas, Suzuki 1000ccs and what not. The stuff of magazines and dreams. I breathed in octane and adrenaline.
But that was not it.

Yesterday, I saw an English countryside field full of the best bikes in the world. From classic bikes which looked like they were from the 1930s or 40s, to bikes fresh out of the showroom. From Harleys to Hayabusas, and everything in between. I saw men, women and children in full leather biking gear, feeling completely at home. This was their way of life.
But that was not it either.

Yesterday, I was given a ride on a 900cc Ducati.

Yesterday, I was given a ride on a fucking 900cc Ducati, at fucking 160 kmph, by an expert rider weaving through the narrow English countryside roads. Taking corners at 100 kmph, while my heart was in my mouth and the low end torque and 75 horses were keeping my ass two feet ahead of the rest of my body at all times.
Yesterday, I was given a little touch of heaven

THAT was it.

^

Between the (y)ears.

I went to a different town last week, on work. One of my favorite colleagues, Bob, works in that office. I like him because he's a very nice, helpful, knowledgeable chap. Oh, and he also has a 900 cc '96 Ducati. He wants to buy an even more powerful bike now.
Another colleague I met that day, your everyday, mild-mannered chemist, had a 600 cc Kawasaki.
I love my colleagues. I don't really care about the bikes. I don't. No, seriously.

So we exchanged biking stories, discussed how these machines get our blood flowing to all the right areas. One of the ladies rolled her eyes and asked me "you're not a biker too, are ya, NS?".
I nodded, and she gave us a look as if to say, oh you boys. You young, hot blooded, crazy reckless boys.
That's what we must be, right? Young. It's like a pre-requisite. Who else would be crazy enough to buy such machines, which so drastically increase a person's chances of getting killed on the road, right?

Wrong.

Interestingly, Bob's 50, and the other guy's not far off.
The average owner of high powered bikes in this country is around 35 years old. Most of the ones I've seen / met are much older.
Young people drive in cars. Where it's safe.

Later, we were crossing the road to get to the pub. This was a village road, about 5 paces across? There were no cars, no cops, no cameras. I was just about to cross, when Bob stopped me. Bob the fearless rider waited for the pedestrian light to turn green, looked both ways, and walked slowly across.
'Safety first', he said with a smile.

That got me thinking, and later that evening I got to discussing this with my boss over some ale - why do we get more conscious of safety when we get older, when we actually have fewer years ahead of us? How come we are so reckless when young, when we have so much more to lose by way of consequences? Is this just the natural way of life?
Or do kids behave recklessly just because they think this is just how it is? How it's supposed to be, the James Dean factor.

This mental conditioning is interesting. I was listening to some John Coltrane the other day, a slow song called 'After the rain'. It made me feel, you know, a little melancholy. It reminded me of movie scenes where this sort of music is used to produce a feeling of sadness, depression, loneliness etc. Like a Woody Allen movie. And it works. But did I feel that way because I've been conditioned to, because I've watched all these visuals which associate these feelings with that kind of music? Or is the human psyche tuned to connect slow, extended notes with those sorts of emotions?

What would happen if I played this music to a tribal, or someone who has never watched tv / movies, never heard this kind of music or instrument, never been exposed to 'civilisation'?

Of course, the train of thought didn't quite end there, but this was the gist.

But soon, I got distracted by another big question which seemed far more important at the time - how long to boil beans before throwing them into the frying pan along with all the other goop?

One likes to eat healthy, after all.

^