Everyone knows now what a perfect day Sunday was. After a leisurely start to the day, I met up with my lovely wife Heather, Hitcher and Mrs Hitcher, and another couple of mates at the Flying Fish in Martinborough. Hamish was also there, and it was marvelous to see him holding forth. He really can speak you know!
By the time we'd finished a leisurely lunch, everyone was ready to head off in various directions that invariably seemed to involve mowing lawns. Aha! I have the Gladstone Rd to myself and no one to hold up.
Travelling alone through limpid golden autumnal sun, bombing apexes of corners that usually require a button off and a change down on less sporting machinery, and drinking, postively wallowing in the bucolic wonderland that someone so lovingly framed with twisting bits of tarmac. Rolling into gullies shaded by deciduous trees turning golden brown, darting through the dappled sunshine painting a monochrome tapestry on the road surface, and rising to see the perfectly tended farms extending their patchwork across valley floor, spreading their varicoloured paddocks across valley floor and hillside alike.
Birds of prey hover, their laser-like precision gaze watching for the darting movement of rodents gathering food, Magpies darting out from roadside grasses long since gone to seed, dodging flocks of sparrows feasting on the seed distributed over the road by a gentle April breeze. Country roads off in the distance wend through gentle hills, promising side to side, apex to apex delights that only a lone motorcyclist, focused on finding the perfect line, the perfect entry, the perfect application of throttle that tests traction, tyres, suspension, and the self-preservation limits of rider marvelling at the perfect surroundings.
Here and there, houses, architectural marvels that challenge the settler mentality of weatherboard, and small windows so the furnishings won't fade, thrust their airy structures up from the top of hills, windows ajar, illuminated by nature, and beckoning it in, face a mighty mountain range in the distance....
SHIT, SHIT, SHIT....... Fuel light??? How much gas does this tank hold? WTF is F-Trip!!!? Oh bugger! 500km, time for 7,000 or so rpm and not enough knowledge of the bike to know if I can get the 40kms to the next gas pump.
Pause. Get off the bike. Take another sup of the peace and tranquility (even though you know the ruminants have been bred to produce more milk than they should, that they hurt while they wait for their turn in the maze of hoses and pipes that will bring relief) climb back on and use the extra rpm all the way toward the feed the noble steed beneath you needs. The extra pace brings extra focus, but the view cresting hills of the bigger valley, the bigger settlements, the bigger hills and mountains still gives the heart pause, so the brain can truly F E E L.
Distilled essence of hydrocarbon. The opposite relief of the ruminants funding the view. Full. Filled. Delighted. Content. Home.
667kms.
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Originally Posted by Jim2
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