I know this doesn't really belong here, but the big bikes won't appreciate it. I wrote this today in a fit of inspiration. I make no claims to greatness or fitness for public consumption, but here it is. It is vaguely based in facts that occurred over the course of two rides on my B4 around Lake Couer d'Alene in northern idaho in the fall of 2006. Mostly its just random stuff that came into my brain on the road today. take it or leave it.
Untitled
andrew@basement:~$ cat bandit_ride
The sun has just cracked the horizon as she rolls up to a row of strange, shiny monsters. She doesn't know them and they make her nervous. They are all gleaming triumphs of technology: low, sleek and powerful. Not a one is more than two years old and she is nearly 15. They are bristling with muscle: the smallest is fully half-again her size. Her rider is nervous too. He doesn't know these bikes or their riders. He's never even seen them having joined this ride after a few email exchanges with the local rider's group. And he's late.
The others, like their bikes, are young and strong -- not yet weighed down by the responsibilities of life. They aren't yet tied so strongly to the duties of adulthood as he is. A few quick introductions, a chugged cup of too-hot coffee, are the only prelude to getting on the road.
Her rider positions her in the middle of the pack. He is unsure of himself and his ride. He hasn't riden in a few years and she is new to him. He is unsure of her abilities, but he has known and loved her sister, and is tentatively confident that he will love her too. He found her unloved and neglected by young men just like these other riders. Those other riders didn't truly know her and had let her age under their cursory care. He knew her heart was strong, but her lungs had been damaged, her skin was rough and pitted, her shoes were cheap and worn. His first flush at finding her -- she and her sisters were rare and scattered -- had faded some just as she had faded from her once shiny glory. She paled in comparison to his memories of her glorious sister. Despite this though, he had helped her back to her feet. He had replaced her damaged carburators and tuned them so that now, for maybe the first time in her life, she could truly breathe. He had adjusted her valves so she wouldn't chew herself to death, tweaked her suspension to help her stay on the road and done all those other little things that hadn't been done for so long. Lastly he had gently wiped her down with a well used rag. She could feel his caress and knew that he could see her soul, just a little.
As they pull away with the pack, she snarls just a little through the Yoshimura can, more like cornered prey than confident predator. These guys ride fast, though responsibly, in a nicely staggered line. The others make their various blustery noises: the big yellow italian is throaty and growling; her bigger japanese brothers and cousins make various noises from whispers to snorts to howls. In front of her is a 929cc cousin who is quiet and refined but very strong. In front of that Honda is an untamed Yamaha yowling ferociously through an open pipe. Behind her, the Ducati is rumbling as only a Duc can. She feels small and insignificant between these various beasts. The line stretches out seven strong with her in the middle as they move out onto the freeway.
They ride so fast; she is unhappy. She is struggling and winded. Panting she struggles to keep her position. This isn't what she bargained for. Her rider is uncomfortable. She wasn't made for this and he is feeling it. The wind is pounding him and she can do nothing to protect him. They are naked together hurtling down the highway at over 100 miles per hour. The others are relaxed and calm. For them this is easy, almost a game. They seem to almost laugh at her; the small weak worn little one fighting and failing to hold her own amongst their greatness.
The freeway winds into the mountains and the traffic around them fades. In a long sweeper the speeds climb even higher. She is pushing as hard as she can now. Her rider is pleased -- a week ago she couldn't even do this -- though they are losing ground on the pack. The Duc is snorting behind her, frustrated at this rolling road block in his path. Her brothers and cousins are leaving her behind without a thought. at 110 miles per hour she is done pulling and is now limping to 111 and then maybe 112. She is screaming at the top of her lungs and running out of air. Her rider tucked in tight, tries to make it as easy on her as he can. Its not enough, but he holds her tight and settles in, happy with her, caressing her with his legs. He eases off the throttle -- that's enough old girl. Just then the pack dives for the exit. He eases off more. Sitting up, he lets her ease down the ramp. She shudders, panting and wheezing, as they roll into a patch of gravel by the road.
Now shut down, she is fuming and hot, almost sweating, from the hard run. The other riders are stretching and chatting. Her rider stays on her with his hands on her tank. He is panting too. The other bikes are composed and calm. They were non-plussed by this quick freeway jaunt. Too soon they are back on the road, a winding piece of blacktop alongside a broad flat expanse of lake. The road is smooth and rolling -- nice. The roadway is wet with dew in the shade. The lead rider takes it slow and she is grateful. Her rider is nervous about her tires in the wet. Her tires are old, worn, and were cheap to begin with. They will not hold they way they should.
Quickly the sun breaks over the hills and they are in the bright clean glow. The dew dries at the first lick of sunlight. The road rolls nicely and the pack is still relaxed. She is cooling and settling into a more comfortable world. The speeds are high, but she can do it. The corners are gentle and predictable. Her rider moves her through the gears, up and down, as they move from corner to corner. He is relaxing along with her and she feels him begin to move with her. His legs slide across her as they move from left to right. He is short-shifting her, keep her out of the powerband. But he's starting to push her into the corners a bit now. She can feel he's unsure and tentative. She is too. Together they lean into the corners and discover that she can handle it. The next corner she gives a little bit more.
Then, so fast, it happens. They are too hot coming into the corner. Her rider panics, squeezing his knees and her brakes. The corner is blind and closing. The radius is decreasing rapidly and the exit is nowhere in sight. Still hard on the brakes, he whispers "Please please please girl" and pushes her over. She grunts and shudders. The Duc is right on her tail and now he's mad, growling and snarling and bucking behind her. Her cousins in front of her are gone. The insanely screaming Yamaha is just an echo somewhere ahead. She is struggling as her rider tries to push her over but her brakes are clenched and forcing her back up. For just a moment they are suspended there. Together they are hanging between freedom and oblivion, flight and folly. The moment breaks. He breathes and relaxes as the memories kick in. She feels the brakes ease just a bit. Her soul leaps and over she falls. She can do it. He can do it. She feels him slide over with her and now she can see the corner clearly ahead of her. It rolls tighter still and she lays it out just a bit more. She brushes the line right at the tightest part. Her rider laughs and now he sees. Quick as can be, he twists the throttle. She laughs and then unleashes. Her heart is strong. She screams a howling retort at the Duc behind her. The Yosh can spits joyful fury at him as she rips out of the corner light on her feet. Her cheap shoes are hot and they hold. Suddenly they are on the straight. Somehow they've come through that corner fully 5 miles per hour faster than the Duc. Her Japanese cousins are right there, just half a turn ahead.
Now together, she and her rider, realize and remember what she is made for. This is where she belongs. She is the queen of this road. The Duc behind her bellows his anger while the Honda and the Yamaha ahead howl their laughs at her. They don't know. They are young and strong. Their riders are young and brave. She is old and worn. Her rider is aging and not so nimble as he once was. But she, no they both, were made for this road. Ignoring the laughs and
bellows, they look to the next corner. Its a tight right hairpin doubling back up the hill. He lets go and lets her take it. She tears into the corner, claws for traction and finds it. He is suddenly on the throttle hard. He's not short-shifting her now. They have plunged deep into the hairpin, cranked over hard and are now pounding out hot on the Honda's tail. She screaming now with joy and fury and his heart is in his throat. They are stung by tiny pebbles flying off the Honda's tire. They can smell his exhaust strong as he pulls away in the straight.
The road turns nasty, coiling left and snapping right like a snake in its death throes. All the bikes are working hard now; their riders pushing the bikes and themselves. But she isn't struggling. She's reveling in this road. She and her rider have never seen this road before, but they know it. They know every road like this. They are all the same road and they have ridden them all before. And they will ride them again. And together they will rule them. She laughs and snarls and howls and screams her way through all the corners. Faster and faster they corner. Deeper and deeper they plunge. Sooner and sooner, harder and harder he is on the gas and she begs for more. She is so hot out of the corners now that the Honda can't pull away anymore. She is touching her redline and shifting while still leaned over -- before the Honda can even come on the throttle. The Honda is off the brakes and rolling the corners before she even touches the brakes. The Duc is a noisy memory behind her, fading and fading.
The road becomes relentless, throwing more and tighter turns with every moment and still they press on. She is hot now and breathing heavy. But its not panting or wheezing. Its the deep heavy breathing of strength and power. Together she and her rider caress the corners, sliding across each other before leaping out of the depths of the turn to fly the straights weightless. The Honda gives up and eases wide, opening the door into the next corner. She slips through gently, not wanting to laugh in his face, but she does it anyway, deep in the turn, when he pounds the gas seconds before the Honda is allowed. The Yamaha, next in line, for all its open-pipe screaming and howling, is ridden by a rookie, a squid who revels in the noise of his bike instead of the seduction of the corner. He steps aside after just one turn. He knows he can't do it. He has held up the whole line all along. The leaders are long gone now and she is alone with her rider as the road ribbons out ahead of them. He tucks in, squeezes her close and lets her have her way. And she is gone, screaming and howling, popping and hissing, heralding her mastery of this road and all roads like it. She is in her domain. He loves her. She can feel it. She is home.
Later, the group gathers at a cafe for lunch. The atmosphere has changed. The other riders steal glances at her, curious about this lady, glowing red amongst their beastly rides. She is calm and quiet now, but they remember that moments ago she was a snarling bitch who slapped them down and made them feel their shame. Her rider is relaxed, easing himself in a chair, smiling. He is chatting and laughing with the others, but his eyes linger on her and she can feel his love. The sun crests the sky and she knows there are miles ahead of her today still. And there are miles ahead for many days to come.
thanks
A
Topic: B4 Porn (work safe!) (Read 3214 times)