A Long Way Down

Ten days. Not all that long. Ten days to be away from bikes, biking, the roar of a Ducati, the smell of the grease. Well, not so much the smell, but you get the general, wistful, theatrically-alluding idea.

Working a long way from the homestead is generally manageable, but occasionally, just occasionally, the distance feels further than air miles can stretch or lost boys can fly, a necklace of Little Chefs and M&S Motos stringing out and separating me from the roar of a fire, the warmth of one’s own bed, the ample and cosseting familial bosom and the rosso of Bologna (is that wine or motorcycles? You choose).

Today’s stroll back from a replenishing lunch saw a lime Kawasaki Ninja bowling along a boulevard in too low a gear, its engine straining for revs but making an industrial, Marshall amp-blowing din nonetheless. Its presence was welcome, like a contraband sweet-thing whose appearance isn’t needed, but whose contented, continued existence is gratefully acknowledged upon an unexpected glimpse, a sense that all’s fine in this stressed and topsy-turvy world.