A mate of mine bought a new bike the other day. He rides a bit. It's pretty hard to stop him riding. He's been known to do it in other countries.
Funny thing though.
He's not been riding a long as his chronological age would lead one to think. His wife rides too, but she's no passive pillion, she's firmly and comfortably a rider in her own right. They're enthusiastic, funny, generous, and just when you think you've got them sorted they up and dump the world on its head.
He bought a naked bike. A comparatively wee one, running half the cylinders, and half the capacity of anything he's owned since he stepped off a 250. There's no electrically adjustable screen, no built in panniers, no drive shaft. Just a couple of wheels and seat really. He tours the country in 24 hours without stopping, just for the hell of it. On this new bike he'll end up with neck muscles that will remove him from the "able to purchase a fashionable shirt category" entirely if he stays true to past form
Anyone who has bought a new bike knows all about that dash to get the first service done, and big kms at the drop of a hat are nothing to this particular mate.
So we leave work "early" at 4pm and head "that way", no real plans to hand but a need to knock off at least 350kms at the forefront. Of course it starts to spit just as we stop to top up at the traditional Upper Hutt location. The clouds are doing the roiling thing over Rimutaka hill way, but we're both seasoned enough to know that it isn't a big deal at this time of year. Moisture builds up on both sides of the ranges and dumps along the top of the Tararuas including the fabulous hill road we all love down here.
Not so much love returned to us tonight though. Traffic is dense and while it's a minor shower, no wets required, Mr Gixxer who howled past at Kaitoke with a joyous shriek, is now grumbling in a layby, head down, body language disprited, and performing a U-Turn by way of said lay-by. His playground is closed for his kind of business and he's going home, but we're going a bit further, we're heading for roads just as intricate and involving, but the weather will be perfect and the roads quiet. So it proves.
Grass roots motor sport is returning to NZ. We never really made the "jump" into truly professional motor sports locally, preferring to send our nuggety little critters off to places than can earn them a living, but not without sending them away with more than enough skills to cope, to succeed. We have sprints and hillclimbs readily accessible to everyone now, and we're heading for the back of nowhere via one of the roads that gets used for a local hillclimb once a year. It's a nascent National series now, and boy this piece of road is just right for it.
The surface has been washed with unrelenting sunlight all day, and farm vehicles and SUVs with their big, square, deep treaded tyres have removed any sort of seal from the tarmacadam underneath, leaving smooth black grooves bordered by steel gray tracks, making it difficult to use all of your lane to your advantage. The transition from sticky tarmac to coarse chip seal has the bike moving around a little more than anyone on a brand new bike could possibly feel comfortable with. Unless they were a Mair brother of course.
But we're not related to the Mairs, so our progress, while spirited is limited both by the shift light on someone's dash and a smidgeon of old fella self preservation. The huge bugs that hit right in the centre of vision and leave a smear of what looks like two day old pavlova don't help either.
We stop at the traditional point at the base of the descent, me to clean my visor and Mr New Bike to to point out that neither he nor his bike have been touched by bugs. You can call me Raid.
I spend little time with my wife these days. Kids, work, having a life, these all make it hard to connect, but tonight I have a cunning plan. Kids are dropped at conveniently located in-laws and the wife is "ordered" to proceed to our mid point, the planned dinner stop, while we are refuelling in Masterton. Initially reluctant, she sets out, and we head off on the "learning experience" section of this jaunt. So far the mate with the new bike has been content to follow, but I send him off in front. It's left unsaid, but no French MPV driven by a Mum is arriving at dinner before his brand new motocicletta.
You've all read "The Pace", I'm sure. Riding swiftly without fuss, without drawing attention is a worthwhile art to learn. It's easy to dramatically dangle your limbs and shift your arse about, making noise and fury, yelling "biker coming, fooking neooooow". But we've been at work all day. I'm not sure about Mr New Bike, but I didn't really sleep that well the night before, anticipation of getting out, seeing wife sans kids, talking in adultese with a friend whose company we both enjoy overwhelming any physical need for sleep. So our attack may not look all that threatening, but we're moving on.
I have the biggest moment I've had since I fell off at almost a standstill a couple of years ago. The motocicletta in front gracefully arcs into one of the first real corners, a left hander, we've seen since refuelling and I follow with equal enthusiasm. The bars snap right, the rear spins up and it's looking like highside time, but a bit of gentle encouragement and we're back on track.
Someone up ahead is used to fat (phat) bikes and while right handers are going OK, left handers are being tipped into metres ahead of a line I'd choose, and a sequence of diminishing radius corners that draw you in and then demand yet more lean, quickly offers up its illuminating message. The new bike isn't the same as the old one, and it's trying to teach its new master how different it is.
Back off a little, back to "The Pace" and then it happens - The Zone. I'm not sure it happened to the chap in front, but I've ridden these roads a bit in the last few months and they've been fun, but work. Now it's just bike, rhythm, and travel. We don't stop at the traditional spot and it feels odd to see an indicator go on and for us to continue on, past the place where bikers swap nonsense and take photos. The oddness goes though, back into that calm space where the actual operation of the bike is automatic and your powers of observation are most keen.
We arrive at our destination and I feel refreshed, not worn out as I'd feared.
No sign of the French MPV. We have time to get our helmets off and undo jackets, and as I look up my heart lurches when I see the Tony Jury Motorcycles sign. "Pace" means something different in Latin, and I hope that's what Tony has.
The MPV! It's both lovely to see her, and almost "manly" to be here before her. We went further you see.
Dinner is delicious, the menu expansive and the company fantastic. Wife is in fine if combative form and we both benefit enormously from someone's unexpected generosity.
We talk until it is nearly dark because this mate likes to ride after hours. I'm not averse to a night time dash either, wreaking revenge on bugs, helmet fence invisible but acknowledged, HOLY CRAP THAT HARE JUST RAN RIGHT BETWEEN HIS WHEELS. HOW DID IT GET AWAY WITH THAT?
Only one left hander bites back. I'm following a long way behind, by daytime standards, but "The Pace" has followed too, and it draws me close as Mr New Bike acknowledges the bite with a sad little shake of the helmet and then gathers different mojo, never letting another left hander bite again.
The sky is glorious, Venus is pointing the way and it dangles like a jewel in the still turquoise light that last twilight gifts us. The wind dies and we romp from University to the scruffy faux Mulsanne straight before the banjo playing, stock car, nocturnal avian prison capital of the Horowhenua. A truck we followed into town slows and pulls over to let us past and the decidedly un-Italian horn ahead goes beep, so I Stebel the truckie, breathing new life into his nodoze heightened awareness. It's a lovely gesture on a lovely night.
The sky has gone dark now, and a three quarter moon has risen behind us as Venus quickly sets. We stop, because the mate with the new bike isn't that keen to try the limits of a tank that is 1-7 litres smaller than anything he's owned before.
"That would be a 15 then", I yell.
Unselfconsciously, Mr New Bike immediately yells back, "How big is yours?"
"18", I cry, through helmet and earplugs.
When I reflect back on the horrified looks on the faces bathed in that late night forecourt's artificial glow, I can understand why they'd look at two grown men on motorcycles like that.
The road we're on now is usually torture, but at this time of the evening, there's only trucks and the odd dustbin-muffled Lexus IS300. Kapiti boy racers are just, well, cooler than their Nissan wielding Wellington counterparts.
Kilometers of WRBs snap me out of my Zone and our ride is nearly over.
450 odd kilometers that always feel somehow longer in a big group, in the heat of the Summer sun, have been eaten by little bikes at an average that would on the face of it seem moderate, but would be impossible to match on much bigger, much faster machines in the heat of a sporting day's riding.
The secret to happiness is new bikes. You don't have to buy one, you just need to hang around people who do. See their happy, shiny faces, their tyres with pointy bits, and nooks and crannies with no accumulated detritus. Let their joy wash your soul.
It's cheaper.
To new bikes, and good friends!
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Originally Posted by James Deuce
Rugby - A Hooligans Game played by Gentlemen. 
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