There is nothing like the silky smooth feel of brand new tarmac under the tires of the 250. Like my hand gliding over supple hips of silky skin. Just plain delicious. I’m 5 drinks and 3 hours in, and those who know me will tell you that I always say it’s better with 1 or 2 in, and I’m there. It’s not to warm, and the extra humidity isn’t too much. It’s 1 in the morning, and I’m going home. No women for me tonight. Hell, who am I kidding, it’s never women for me. I’m one of those nice guys, who always finishes last. But that’s not what this is about.
I merge onto 36 at speed, as I like to do to all merges. Enter the corner at the speed of the traffic you are merging into, stay steady on the throttle, and simply change lanes. It freaks people out. Like the econo-hatch who’s bumper I buzz as I glide into the fast lane and settle into a pace 5mph faster than they are going. I glide home at 80mph. I see what could be a cop 4 miles ahead. I roll of the throttle and lock into 4mph over the limit. Wouldn’t want to be caught doing the limit. They might pull me over and give me a sobriety test. Wouldn’t want to be caught going 8mph over the limit, because then they’ll ticket me for speeding and get suspicions about me being innebriated.
2 hefty tickets in 6 months certainly makes a person parranoid. I used to not get tickets. Then I learned to ride and everything changed. Now every corner is just boring at legal speeds and must be pushed thoroughly beyond legal speeds to be interesting. So what do I do instead to make the ride fun? I dial it down and concern myself with my own thoughts. Vigilance be dammed. I don’t care about being thorough. The man doesn’t wan’t me to stretch my legs. He doesn’t want me to let the 250 run the way she wants to run. The man who presides over my desk from 7 to 5 every day doesn’t want me to excel, but simply to do my job. The tax man doesn’t want me to make a better life for anybody, but simply make more money, as a robot, so I can give him more. There is just no winning in this system. The only place I can win is in my head, so that’s where I go, this dark night, at 1 am in the morning, flowing over the silky smooth road. Like running a hand over a thigh and hips of exquisite skin and pressing a kiss into her back.
I turn off onto my exit and downshift twice never even thinking of touching the breaks and merge onto the continuing road already at the limit, playing a game to keep the needle spot on the limit, now half of what it was before, just in case Johnny Law is watching. The law only applies when it’s present, and not just I have figured this out. The dressed up, shaved head, typically on the short-side-of-the-bell-curve-as-far-as-height-is-concerned dicks with badges are increasingly more present.
The economy sucks, and government jobs are guaranteed paychecks which us sheep pay for. It’s a good, stable job, because the citizens are too weak to resist it. Nay, the citizens are too damn pathetic to be informed enough, or care enough to support or tear down decisions which are ruining their lives. Drink this tea mother fuckers! Dilluted, sub-par harvests dumped in a warehouse for years is what we’re forced to drink on a daily basis. Fuck this. I just want to turn the throttle and say to hell with it all against the upcoming sidewall guiding a failure of an excuse of a turn, but I nudge the 250 to the left and she holds her line perfectly, carrying me to safety and continued suffering, just like a faithful dog who loves you too much to let you die without hope.
I turn into the apartment complex and cruise at a respectible RPM towards our prison, and then I park, very sad to turn to the key to the off position, but am too damn tired to go on.
Thank you my beautiful 250. You are beautiful indeed. Tomorrow I shall bathe you. You are good to me. Somehow, you let me do to you whatever I wish, and if that’s not absolute devotion and sacrifice, I don’t what is. Unfortunately your creator made you less than you could be, and because you are not a person, we can’t figure out a way to make you better. Pathetic you are, really. But I love you dearly, all the more probably because of it, because I am not only your rider, I am also your keeper, and your lover. If anything happens to you, I am responsible. Not you. I derive all the enjoyment out of our agreement, and so maintaining the relationship falls strictly on my shoulders. I will make you faster, stronger, more agile. We will fly one day with the big boys, and laugh at their feeble attempt to squash the underdog. All I can do now is thank you for your indulgence and patience with me and my learning experiences.
I am but a fragile excuse of a failed human being trying to survive in a broken world. For your loyalty, I will forever be grateful, and will treat you to all kinds of things tomorrow. For now though, I have to get some sleep and find energy to fight this beast again tomorrow. Sleep sweet my dearest, even though I’m leaving you outside tonight. Your strength never ceses to amaze me, and then I remember, you are but just a machine, and loving a machine is simply a waste of emotion. I’m sorry 250, but you are not my wife. Until I find one, you will stand in her place.
*NOTE: Riding while under the influence of alcohol or any other drug is a BAD decision, and should NEVER EVER be done by ANYONE, EVER! If it doesn’t get you or somebody else killed, it will probably get you in jail or off your bike for a VERY long time and cost you A LOT of money, so DON’T DO IT. If you fail to heed good advice, it is on YOU, and I have NO responsibility to you what-so-ever. YOU are responsible for YOUR actions. Make smart decisions, and DON’T SUE!