James Deuce
8th June 2006, 00:08
The road called so I answered. I've this week off work and the weather has co-operated.
Did you know it takes 53 minutes from Martinborough to Maungaraki mid-week? That truckies help you past during the week?
This feels great. I don't have worry about anything except that black stuff in front and the other people using the road. Nowhere to be, no one to meet, no deadline, no worries. I take time to have breakfast with everyone. I go out when the road is mostly dry and follow my nose. I come home and I am likeable, not prickly or surly. I don't judge, I can see both sides. I can choose with little deliberation and no guilt. GO TO YOUR ROOM NOW!
I'm not happy that I don't work hard enough when I'm at work, that I don't contribute as much as I should at home, that I have NO DIY skills at all, that the bathroom needs painting, but I'm too scared to start because I'll waste $200 worth of paint and 6 days prep and I'll have to pay someone else to fix it.
Where's the keys?
It's still cold at midday, but it's as warm as it will get. There's a bike behind me that looks unfamiliar. I'll find out what it is. 80 km/hr speed limit and I'm taking no chances. I'm "joyriding", "wasting petrol", and "planetary resources", but I can feel the sausage monster stirring, saying "fuck it!".
I'm being seduced again and I like it! The best part of work is getting to work and getting back home. I have gear to wear and a bike to ride. The rest of the time I am ridden, I am but one gear in many.
The Aprilia Caponord goes past at the first opportunity, but I like corners. What's the point of risking a brush with an ignorant bureaucracy to enjoy the straight bits? Sure enough, even sticking to the limits that "they" say are safe, that the sausage monster snorts in derision at, I'm slowly but surely reeling the Capo' in.
This isn't a race (my ego has bulging veins at its temples), but it is satisfying to see the slight double take from the rider ahead, that the nana despatched 5 kms ago is following my wheel tracks- safe distance Mabel! Mabel!
The ratty Corolla ON MY SIDE inspires the auto finger function. This finger is fat (phat) thanks to Winter gloves. The rat car's rattus pilot sneers in return. Double Yellow lines, blind corner, sausage wants to kill. Nana breathes, and marvels that the Capo' pilot is braking for 35 km/hr corners. It's quiet, the Capo'. Standard pipes. Top box. Fabulous bike. Nana admires his restraint. Sausage wants to howl past, helmetless and laughing, to reach across and gently tap his kill switch to the off position.
Instead the view! LOOKIT THAT! overwhelms. We're not supposed to look. Concentrate on the road they say. We shouldn't let our souls out when riding. "They" need a bitchslap. Capo' man is looking too.
Capo' man takes the bend out of the bends on the way down the hill. Why? I ride to go round those bends. I take a wide line so I have to leeeeeean a bit more. It saves him no time - he goes no faster than I, but I guess (hope) he is having fun too.
The snarl of long delayed road works, to "improve" the journey of those who have sought lifestyle beyond the confines of a City?Suburb? convention, only to take it with them, and to extend their misery to hitherto unknown levels. 2 hours to work. 2 hours home. Not allowed to drink and drive. Reduces the reaction times. Drink COFFEE - piss stop - aaargh no toilet, no roadside trees, only workmen, and fellow hive beasts. Legs plaited. Bouncing in seat, without dignity, unable to to realise that we can see you picking your nose, yelling at your wife, tying a knot in your penis to keep the yellow fluid that threatens your dignity, to keep it within your bladder.
Capo' takes off again - the road is straight. I need to refuel the bike. BP91. I'm playing mind games with myself, trying to prove that the Corporates who claim that oil is suddenly nearly as expensive as milk or fruit juice, that whatever they do to my ride's fuel, whatever they call it is meaningless in the greater scheme of things. It's just dead dinosaur juice that explodes when vapourised and ignited. But it is everything to us. It is in and of everything we see and use. Cycling through existence again as "product". All "product" is made of the same stuff as stars.
The poor guy at the counter asks if I have an AA card. I rant. He laughs nervously. I think the sausage beast may have ranted instead of the Nana. I am suddenly quiet and flee. Into traffic. Tooting horns, flying fingers. Through a yellow.
The trip off SH1 to SH57 is almost surreal in a Daliesque way. Speed is meaningless, there is so little traffic I can barely keep up with the speed limit. I keep expecting to have to slow for the weekend hordes, scattering from their City/'Burb to places not often seen, in unfamiliar surroundings. For badly tuned diesels, with snarling sausage beasts at the wheel, foot pressed firmly to firewall, engine relined at 2500rpm in 3rd, belching unburnt dinosaur juice and soot at all who approach.
They're not there. I laugh out loud at my delusions/psychosis. Road works. 30k/hr. Gravel. Not gravel. Mud. slippery. Sausage takes over and nails it. Work men look up. Aghast. You're not supposed to do that. "Fuckety DID", screams the Sausage and we're back to 100km/hr. Nice bit of road. Nothing holding us back. No need to overtake or slow. 80km.hr at Linton. KBer warned us about that. The Nana subconcious has already slowed. Thank you KBer.
My favourite corner. Sweeps up hill but there is a truck with a wind tunnel on the back. And cars backed up. Sausage has a tanty.
And then he overtakes a really slow moving truck as we exit the intersection together. I slip in behind a Holden Crewman (cool family vehicle) with a WR250F on the tray. There is nothing, NOTHING to the WR. It is slim. It looks like two wheels, some handle bars, and two giant radiator guards/scoops. I bet it's fun. The Crewman nails it past the behemoth truck with the wind tunnel. It sounds really nice. Aftermarket exhaust, V6 too, surprised at how quick and nimble it is.
Past the truck. Sigh, Daihatsu Sirion. Travelling at 140 down the loooooong straight, blue rinse glowing in the winter sun. Wait for it! Hard braking down to the corner advisory speed. Who's your Nana?
Past. Ashurst. Want coffee. Cafe shut! Newspaper on windows. What?
Oh well. Where's that back road, the horse road or something? I want to see the windfarm by myself, no one else, no stress, no one looking at me disapprovingly. Oops wrong road. No stress, I don't need to be anywhere. "Not the approved or recommended route to Taihape". Que? Por Favor? Nanny State. Even the Nana laughs this time. We turn. North St. Aha! Funny old character filled one way bridge is being replaced. The Windfarm must be a Windfall. Typical. Change comes because we have to keep up appearances.
Saddle Rd. That's it! Covered in gravel from a semi-failed resurfacing. No matter. Bike moves and grips, but never feels unsafe. WInd it up. What a road. They're so BIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIG. Did you know one guy in Germany runs all those eco-weenie wet dream power plants?
The light is O for Awesome. Someone with a tripod has noticed. We talk. I can't hear him but nod and say what I think would be appropriate. I can see that he thinks I am a bag of slightly roasted. He hides in his car and then moves it so I can get a clear series of shots. Madness is a positive benefit. nuts.
Downhill is better. The road is drier and there is less gravel. I need to Go. Now.
"Hellow fellow traveller". He is as crazy as me. His lovingly cared for Mountain Bike has front and rear panniers and a TRAILER! We have a laugh about being cold, wearing too many clothes, and needing to pee. He is a good dude.
Small towns and public toilets. They are always well sign posted, they are clean and smell nice, even in Winter, they have door locks and no grafitti. Even inside. But I want to know who is easy in this town.
Back on the road, I see my new cycling friend disappearing around a bend. We wave in that airy expansive way that us crazy people use to salute kindred sausage beasts.
The road has ridges here. I try to ride along the ridges making minute steering inputs. A challenge. Pongaroa. Nana says it's too late in the day, too dangerous, and you're too tired, GO TO YOUR ROOM. 42kms? But, but that means my journey will be over in less than half an hour!
Did you know it takes 53 minutes from Martinborough to Maungaraki mid-week? That truckies help you past during the week?
This feels great. I don't have worry about anything except that black stuff in front and the other people using the road. Nowhere to be, no one to meet, no deadline, no worries. I take time to have breakfast with everyone. I go out when the road is mostly dry and follow my nose. I come home and I am likeable, not prickly or surly. I don't judge, I can see both sides. I can choose with little deliberation and no guilt. GO TO YOUR ROOM NOW!
I'm not happy that I don't work hard enough when I'm at work, that I don't contribute as much as I should at home, that I have NO DIY skills at all, that the bathroom needs painting, but I'm too scared to start because I'll waste $200 worth of paint and 6 days prep and I'll have to pay someone else to fix it.
Where's the keys?
It's still cold at midday, but it's as warm as it will get. There's a bike behind me that looks unfamiliar. I'll find out what it is. 80 km/hr speed limit and I'm taking no chances. I'm "joyriding", "wasting petrol", and "planetary resources", but I can feel the sausage monster stirring, saying "fuck it!".
I'm being seduced again and I like it! The best part of work is getting to work and getting back home. I have gear to wear and a bike to ride. The rest of the time I am ridden, I am but one gear in many.
The Aprilia Caponord goes past at the first opportunity, but I like corners. What's the point of risking a brush with an ignorant bureaucracy to enjoy the straight bits? Sure enough, even sticking to the limits that "they" say are safe, that the sausage monster snorts in derision at, I'm slowly but surely reeling the Capo' in.
This isn't a race (my ego has bulging veins at its temples), but it is satisfying to see the slight double take from the rider ahead, that the nana despatched 5 kms ago is following my wheel tracks- safe distance Mabel! Mabel!
The ratty Corolla ON MY SIDE inspires the auto finger function. This finger is fat (phat) thanks to Winter gloves. The rat car's rattus pilot sneers in return. Double Yellow lines, blind corner, sausage wants to kill. Nana breathes, and marvels that the Capo' pilot is braking for 35 km/hr corners. It's quiet, the Capo'. Standard pipes. Top box. Fabulous bike. Nana admires his restraint. Sausage wants to howl past, helmetless and laughing, to reach across and gently tap his kill switch to the off position.
Instead the view! LOOKIT THAT! overwhelms. We're not supposed to look. Concentrate on the road they say. We shouldn't let our souls out when riding. "They" need a bitchslap. Capo' man is looking too.
Capo' man takes the bend out of the bends on the way down the hill. Why? I ride to go round those bends. I take a wide line so I have to leeeeeean a bit more. It saves him no time - he goes no faster than I, but I guess (hope) he is having fun too.
The snarl of long delayed road works, to "improve" the journey of those who have sought lifestyle beyond the confines of a City?Suburb? convention, only to take it with them, and to extend their misery to hitherto unknown levels. 2 hours to work. 2 hours home. Not allowed to drink and drive. Reduces the reaction times. Drink COFFEE - piss stop - aaargh no toilet, no roadside trees, only workmen, and fellow hive beasts. Legs plaited. Bouncing in seat, without dignity, unable to to realise that we can see you picking your nose, yelling at your wife, tying a knot in your penis to keep the yellow fluid that threatens your dignity, to keep it within your bladder.
Capo' takes off again - the road is straight. I need to refuel the bike. BP91. I'm playing mind games with myself, trying to prove that the Corporates who claim that oil is suddenly nearly as expensive as milk or fruit juice, that whatever they do to my ride's fuel, whatever they call it is meaningless in the greater scheme of things. It's just dead dinosaur juice that explodes when vapourised and ignited. But it is everything to us. It is in and of everything we see and use. Cycling through existence again as "product". All "product" is made of the same stuff as stars.
The poor guy at the counter asks if I have an AA card. I rant. He laughs nervously. I think the sausage beast may have ranted instead of the Nana. I am suddenly quiet and flee. Into traffic. Tooting horns, flying fingers. Through a yellow.
The trip off SH1 to SH57 is almost surreal in a Daliesque way. Speed is meaningless, there is so little traffic I can barely keep up with the speed limit. I keep expecting to have to slow for the weekend hordes, scattering from their City/'Burb to places not often seen, in unfamiliar surroundings. For badly tuned diesels, with snarling sausage beasts at the wheel, foot pressed firmly to firewall, engine relined at 2500rpm in 3rd, belching unburnt dinosaur juice and soot at all who approach.
They're not there. I laugh out loud at my delusions/psychosis. Road works. 30k/hr. Gravel. Not gravel. Mud. slippery. Sausage takes over and nails it. Work men look up. Aghast. You're not supposed to do that. "Fuckety DID", screams the Sausage and we're back to 100km/hr. Nice bit of road. Nothing holding us back. No need to overtake or slow. 80km.hr at Linton. KBer warned us about that. The Nana subconcious has already slowed. Thank you KBer.
My favourite corner. Sweeps up hill but there is a truck with a wind tunnel on the back. And cars backed up. Sausage has a tanty.
And then he overtakes a really slow moving truck as we exit the intersection together. I slip in behind a Holden Crewman (cool family vehicle) with a WR250F on the tray. There is nothing, NOTHING to the WR. It is slim. It looks like two wheels, some handle bars, and two giant radiator guards/scoops. I bet it's fun. The Crewman nails it past the behemoth truck with the wind tunnel. It sounds really nice. Aftermarket exhaust, V6 too, surprised at how quick and nimble it is.
Past the truck. Sigh, Daihatsu Sirion. Travelling at 140 down the loooooong straight, blue rinse glowing in the winter sun. Wait for it! Hard braking down to the corner advisory speed. Who's your Nana?
Past. Ashurst. Want coffee. Cafe shut! Newspaper on windows. What?
Oh well. Where's that back road, the horse road or something? I want to see the windfarm by myself, no one else, no stress, no one looking at me disapprovingly. Oops wrong road. No stress, I don't need to be anywhere. "Not the approved or recommended route to Taihape". Que? Por Favor? Nanny State. Even the Nana laughs this time. We turn. North St. Aha! Funny old character filled one way bridge is being replaced. The Windfarm must be a Windfall. Typical. Change comes because we have to keep up appearances.
Saddle Rd. That's it! Covered in gravel from a semi-failed resurfacing. No matter. Bike moves and grips, but never feels unsafe. WInd it up. What a road. They're so BIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIG. Did you know one guy in Germany runs all those eco-weenie wet dream power plants?
The light is O for Awesome. Someone with a tripod has noticed. We talk. I can't hear him but nod and say what I think would be appropriate. I can see that he thinks I am a bag of slightly roasted. He hides in his car and then moves it so I can get a clear series of shots. Madness is a positive benefit. nuts.
Downhill is better. The road is drier and there is less gravel. I need to Go. Now.
"Hellow fellow traveller". He is as crazy as me. His lovingly cared for Mountain Bike has front and rear panniers and a TRAILER! We have a laugh about being cold, wearing too many clothes, and needing to pee. He is a good dude.
Small towns and public toilets. They are always well sign posted, they are clean and smell nice, even in Winter, they have door locks and no grafitti. Even inside. But I want to know who is easy in this town.
Back on the road, I see my new cycling friend disappearing around a bend. We wave in that airy expansive way that us crazy people use to salute kindred sausage beasts.
The road has ridges here. I try to ride along the ridges making minute steering inputs. A challenge. Pongaroa. Nana says it's too late in the day, too dangerous, and you're too tired, GO TO YOUR ROOM. 42kms? But, but that means my journey will be over in less than half an hour!