Sunday Rider: No Apologies

Sunday rider: no apologies

AT LARGE

RESPONSIBLE? SURE. FORTY-TWO years old. Homeowner. Taxpayer. Veteran. College graduate. Dedicated father. Faithful husband. Loving son. Churchgoer. And: motorcyclist. Sport motorcyclist. Dainese Monza leathers. Spidi gloves and boots. Articulated back protector. Arai SuperVent. Scuffed kneepads. GSX-R750. Case guards. Fox shock. Metzeier Comp Ks. Kerker. Smoothbores. Solo seat. 100watt bulbs.

Monday through Saturday: Ford Taurus wagon, cruise control maxed at 61 mph.

Saturday: homeowner chores until dinner. After dinner, GSX-R preflight. Tires, chain, suspension, fuel. Fasteners.

Sunday, 0600: slip out of bed without awakening her. Check on kids. Still asleep. Shower and shave quickly, quietly. In the spare bedroom, don riding gear. Kitchen: drink one cup of juice, eat one cup of cottage cheese with granola topping. Start coffee. Leave note: “Gone fora quick ride. Back before eight.”

Let in cat through back door. Raise garage door. Push GSX-R out. Lower door. Final preflight. All okay.

Sun just over horizon. Birth of another priceless day.

Straddle bike. Stretch legs to center kneecups over knees. Key on. Touch start button. Engine fires quickly. Allow oil to warm at low rpm. Don't want to disturb neighbors. A minute, then snick into first. Idle down driveway, onto deserted suburban street. Wave to paperboy. Part-throttle through empty streets.

Engine warms calves. Leather supples up. Eyes sharpen as sun climbs. Cool wind through visor window exhilarates.

Suburb still sleeps. Gridlock gone. Traffic lights speed the trip to countryside. At Launch-plus-ten minutes, twisty acquisition.

Visor down, locked. Slide around on seat to warm thigh and butt muscles as rpm builds.

HILLS, CURVES NEXT 50 MILES.

Pavement check: dry, good grip.

Smile.

Go.

Throttle open to the stop. Across the fields, the song of the Four. Flat on the tank, looking through bubble just above the tach. Breathing in grunts. Adrenaline shoots into system. Third gear. Fourth. Fifth. Up from bubble. Brakes on gently for sweeper. Down a gear. Peel. Dive for the apex. Tires wiggle, not fully warm yet. Knee kisses tarmac, skips off. Back behind the bubble. Fourth again.

All systems okay. Smile again. Esses ahead.

This time, run hard into braking area. Peel-off marker: old gate on right. Down two gears, slam it down to left, pop body out, knee first. Front end slides, bites.

Yeah.

Gas on. And on.

Eat your vegetables, young man. Look at me when I speak to you. Apologize to her; this instant. Say your prayers. Brush your teeth. Stand up straight. Be ltome by eight.

Downhill righthand sweeper. Last week's best: 9500 in fifth. Move slightly left, shift apex one foot forward. Suck in air. wait until the voice screams the warning ("Now!"), but wait just a split-second more, then slip into airstream with knee and shoulders, forcing front end down, down, down, throttle on, on. still on while bike shudders and jerks over the ripples, wind noise howling through helmet—there’s the apex! — then absolutely full-on throttle uphill. flat on tank, under the paint, eyes to tach—almost eleven grand— snap-shift to sixth. Front wheel lofts over ridge, bike rears. Stay plastered on tank, thottle open. Wheel drops, perfectly aligned.

Road still deserted. Sun warms back along mile-long straight.

You call that a si tup, mister? Em talking to you, boy! Drop and gimme fifty. What did you call me, boy? Did I hear you say "sir"? I better have, boy.

Hairpins. Slow. Deceptive. Gentle throttle needed. Brake early, smoothly. Sit up for leverage. Dip carefully across washboard, roll on gas. Grip still good. Flick left, right, left, right, straight, gentle left, gas on, gas off, brake, right, right, left, gas on hard —uphill —catch third, fourth, then back to third, left again . . ..

Hey, sorry, man. He was your squad leader, wasn 7 he? Good dude. What the hell we doing here, anyway?

The cliff section. Rocks on the road. Adjust line to miss them. Bike objects to rough treatment, sudden turns, near-bermshots. Not graceful. Revs up, down, up, down. Hard work. But do it right and it’s sweet, so sweet. Sweat runs into eyes.

Open road at last. Under the bubble again, throttle open. Engine sings. Heat pumps up and back. Gentle curves for two miles. Time to catch breather.

Cum laude? That's wonderful, son. Right, dear? I guess the Army did you some good after all.

GSX-R swoops from side to side. Dotted lines blur together. Signposts flick past. Sun, wind, snaking road. Engine noise sucked backwards by sheer speed. Early-morning bug splatters violently against bubble.

Too soon, the turnaround point. Down through the gears, U-turn and head back. Throttle opens wide, engine howls again across the lush, dewcovered fields.

Do you take this man to be your lawful wedded husband . . ..

Truck appears, headed the other way. Roll off. Caution needed now. Heated blood begins to cool. Joints start to ache.

It's a boy! Congratulations ....

Back through the hairpins. The sweepers. The esses. Two more cars go by. Ahead, the last straight before town. Once more under the bubble. Throttle slides slam up. bike lunges into the sun.

35 ZONE AHEAD.

No. Not just yet. Shriek past sign, flat-out in top.

No excuses. No apologies.

Life. Steven L. Thompson