Ride into danger

[sunhuntin]

amen.....awesome works!

[froggyfrenchman]

well explained, yet somehow still dosnt do a good ride justice...

[merv]

Its simple for me - it just feels good.

[frogfeaturesFZR]

Amen. It's a GOOD addiction !

[Hailwood]

Beyond, that has to be one of the finest pieces of writing to appear on this site in years!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

How does one award bling?

[Hailwood]

sorry just worked out how.....idiot!!!!!

[Macktheknife]

You ride the path of danger. You ride where many will never go and do what many will never do and yet, as has been said before, you will live more in one minute, than most will live in a lifetime. You have placed your trust in a modern, powerful machine and in your ability to make split second decisions and your ride into danger brings you to the edge and back again.

To a biker, nothing can describe the feelings and emotions that go with a good ride. Words fail us and appear as the scribble of a child on paper.
We know the risks, we are aware of the dangers, but the call of two wheels on the road, beckons us like a junkie without a fix.

Once bitten, it will be forever in your blood. May we all live long and enjoy the freedom and joy of riding our modern day steed.

Wonderful stuff, well written, bling awarded.

[yungatart]

It is very hard for mere words on a page to capture a feeling or the essence of something .... but this almost does it! Brilliant!

[Skyryder]

Good post. Says it all........ well almost.....................no words can completley say it all can they.

Skyryder

[Edbear]

point is you can get killed doing ANYTHING!! LOL!!

Anything....???

[babyB]

so well done good read & very true. and at the same time we will never be trualy able to justify the feeling it brings

[Terminated]

You sling your leg over your bike, turn the key and thumb the starter while a hundred horses or more come to life. The engine burbles as the oil starts to warm, lubricating the hundreds of parts that in a few minutes will see your face splitting from the sheer joy of sticking the stirrups into something that is a hundred times more powerful that a Palimino Stallion under a cowboys boot over a century ago.

The bike jumps a little as first gear is engaged, eager for you to twist the right hand. You slowly release the clutch, taming the latent power that you are about to unleash. As you enter the road, you gingerly allow the horses under the tank to wake up and the rubber that lines the wheels to get warm.

Then the throttle is turned and the bike drops into the first corner. The wind whistles around your helmet and the horizon approaches at a faster pace.
Your mind melds with the machine. You look ahead to the next corner, planing your lines, your speed and your angles. Into the corner and flick the bars as the bike comes up and drops into the next. Your world is full of differing angles as your bike flicks from side to side. The horses under the tank, now fully awake, thrust you forward to your next vanishing point.

Well written Beyond, a good read and I could not help but recall the following:
[Where we switch from the colt to the motorcycle]

The Man from Snowy River
Andrew Barton ‘Banjo’ Paterson

THERE was movement at the station, for the word had passed around
That the colt from old Regret had got away,
And had joined the wild bush horses — he was worth a thousand pound,
So all the cracks had gathered to the fray.
All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far
Had mustered at the homestead overnight,
For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are,
And the stock-horse snuffs the battle with delight.
There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won the cup,
The old man with his hair as white as snow;
But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly up—
He would go wherever horse and man could go.
And Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a hand,
No better horseman ever held the reins;
For never horse could throw him while the saddle-girths would stand,
He learnt to ride while droving on the plains.

And one was there, a stripling on a small and weedy beast,
He was something like a racehorse undersized,
With a touch of Timor pony—three parts thoroughbred at least—
And such as are by mountain horsemen prized.
He was hard and tough and wiry—just the sort that won’t say die—
There was courage in his quick impatient tread;
And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye,
And the proud and lofty carriage of his head.

But still so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay,
And the old man said, “That horse will never do
For a long and tiring gallop—lad, you’d better stop away,
Those hills are far too rough for such as you.”
So he waited sad and wistful—only Clancy stood his friend —
“I think we ought to let him come,” he said;
“I warrant he’ll be with us when he’s wanted at the end,
For both his horse and he are mountain bred.

“He hails from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko’s side,
Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough,
Where a horse’s hoofs strike firelight from the flint stones every stride,
The man that holds his own is good enough.
And the Snowy River riders on the mountains make their home,
Where the river runs those giant hills between;
I have seen full many horsemen since I first commenced to roam,
But nowhere yet such horsemen have I seen.”

So he went — they found the horses by the big mimosa clump —
They raced away towards the mountain’s brow,
And the old man gave his orders, ‘Boys, go at them from the jump,
No use to try for fancy riding now.
And, Clancy, you must wheel them, try and wheel them to the right.
Ride boldly, lad, and never fear the spills,
For never yet was rider that could keep the mob in sight,
If once they gain the shelter of those hills.’

So Clancy rode to wheel them—he was racing on the wing
Where the best and boldest riders take their place,
And he raced his stock-horse past them, and he made the ranges ring
With the stockwhip, as he met them face to face.
Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash,
But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view,
And they charged beneath the stockwhip with a sharp and sudden dash,
And off into the mountain scrub they flew.

Then fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges deep and black
Resounded to the thunder of their tread,
And the stockwhips woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back
From cliffs and crags that beetled overhead.
And upward, ever upward, the wild horses held their way,
Where mountain ash and kurrajong grew wide;
And the old man muttered fiercely, “We may bid the mob good day,
No man can hold them down the other side.”

When they reached the mountain’s summit, even Clancy took a pull,
It well might make the boldest hold their breath,
The wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden ground was full
Of wombat holes, and any slip was death.
But the man from Snowy River let the pony have his head,
And he swung his stockwhip round and gave a cheer,
And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down its bed,
While the others stood and watched in very fear.

He sent the flint stones flying, but the pony kept his feet,
He cleared the fallen timber in his stride,
And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat—
It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride.
Through the stringy barks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground,
Down the hillside at a racing pace he went;
And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound,
At the bottom of that terrible descent.

He was right among the horses as they climbed the further hill,
And the watchers on the mountain standing mute,
Saw him ply the stockwhip fiercely, he was right among them still,
As he raced across the clearing in pursuit.
Then they lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met
In the ranges, but a final glimpse reveals
On a dim and distant hillside the wild horses racing yet,
With the man from Snowy River at their heels.

And he ran them single-handed till their sides were white with foam.
He followed like a bloodhound on their track,
Till they halted cowed and beaten, then he turned their heads for home,
And alone and unassisted brought them back.
But his hardy mountain pony he could scarcely raise a trot,
He was blood from hip to shoulder from the spur;
But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage fiery hot,
For never yet was mountain horse a cur.

And down by Kosciusko, where the pine-clad ridges raise
Their torn and rugged battlements on high,
Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze
At midnight in the cold and frosty sky,
And where around the Overflow the reedbeds sweep and sway
To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide,
The man from Snowy River is a household word to-day,
And the stockmen tell the story of his ride.

[andrea]

yeah nicely put, ive had one of the guys at work come up and ask "what is it like riding a bike" cause he's thinking of getting one, so i tell him its fun and stuff and then all of a sudden the other guy comes up and says"YOUR GONNA DIE, YOUR GONNA DIE THEY ARE DANGEROUS" blah blah blah. oh man its like everytime i mention something about motorbikes this guy just has farken butt in and say the same farken thing like a broken record repeating itself over and over . i think the funniest thing is he started telling us the story bout why his dad scratched off the bike licence type off his licence. he said that his dad was riding his bike and then all of a sudden a logging truck came out, his dad couldnt do anything to try and stop in time so the bike somehow slid on its side and went under the truck and his dad became paralysed bu t temporarily. but funny to say that is the second story how his dad became paralysed LOL. the first one he said his dad came off his bike and smacked straight on into one of those light posts thingy's.

[awesker]

oh mate, loved it!

[Crazy Steve]

We will die....One way or another...

And when I do die.....I dont wanna be remembered as the Frckin Pussies that tell me everytime they see me on a bike..Not to ride it!!!!

Anyway Smoking kills more people every year than Bikes....

And the last smoker I ask if they needed two lungs...Told me to Fck off...

Crazy Steve.