Hunting The Snark

For the snark was a boojum, you see.

• Home

A given Sunday. 3/11/2007

Last night, I made the decision to do something that I hadn’t been doing for a long time. For at least a year and a half. I have been neglecting my hobby of late, due to extenuating circumstances. And in my chosen hobby, there is a particular subset of the biking tribes known as the canyon strafers. So this Sunday morning, I elected to go canyon strafing, up the hill, and back again.

Canyon strafers favour late model sportsbikes, although cafe racers and super motards are common, as are certain older bikes renowned for their handling. Leather suits are de rigeur, although there are those who prefer the ease of a riding jacket and body armour. Boots are a must, and knee sliders can be a very necessary option.

Members of the public looking on as riders go blasting through the tight, twisty, windy roads up the hill, think that we’re mad. We are. Canyon strafing is dangerous and insane, with absolutely no respect for speed limits or road rules. Woe betide anyone getting in the way of a bunch of speed freaks carving up the road, using it from edge to edge. No doubt there are riders who use the canyon roads sensibly, and do it within safe limits. But strafers are hard core.

Why do I do it? I used to do this on a weekly basis, whenever I wasn’t on a racetrack. My weapon of choice at the time was a motorcycle that didn’t feel comfortable anywhere else except heeled over in a fast sweeping corner, with the rider’s knee on the tarmac. But when I was on a public road, gunning the bike, reaching the sensible, safe limit, and then spitting in the devil’s eye and pushing the edge of the envelope, I would feel alive.

There is something about riding a responsive motorcycle, at some anti-social speed, that words cannot describe. The feeling you get when you look at a corner, and in a split second, gauge your entry speed, your peel in point, the radius. Watching as the horizon tilts crazily before you, giving you a more immediate sensation than any video game ever could. Your eyes search for the apex, using your knee and toes to determine exactly how far you are leaned over. You are concious of the sensation of speed, of the tarmac whizzing by in a grey blur. You find the apex, and clip it, and then, with a twist of the wrist, you apply power, feeling the tyre scrabbling for traction as you rocket towards the exit.

At this juncture, I would have liked to have inserted a picture of a rider on a superbike going kneedown on a public road, but I was having way too much fun riding to stop and pull out the camera to take a shot.

It was good today, riding through the canyons and up the hill. I meet up with faces I hadn’t seen in years, literally. Basically the first question I got was, “where the fuck have you been, we thought you’d died.” Shooting the breeze, bench racing, catching up with who was still riding and who wasn’t. And the sadness of finding out those who had perished on the road. The guys were glad to see me back, with Big Joe giving me a very warm welcome.

It would had to have been at least 18 months since I’d last seen Joe, and we sat down over coffee and caught up with each other’s lives. I resolved to, from this point on, spend more time riding. I had forgotten how much I missed the camraderie of the canyon strafers, where every ride is a near death experience. I know that someone who is reading this is going to be shaking her head, and wondering just what the hell she is doing with me. She had, on previous occassions, let me know in no uncertain terms that she wouldn’t handle the “phone call bringing bad news” thing very well. All I will say is this. My instinct for self preservation is stronger now, than it has been at any other point in my life. I am acutely aware of how dangerous riding is, and that mistakes made while riding a bike at ultra legal speeds bring about consequences that have a very high price. So I don’t push the envelope anymore. I ride in a safe, sane manner, taking things to the next level only when conditions are in my favour.

It was a good Sunday, finishing up with a banana leaf rice lunch with Joe and 2 of his friends, new riders I hadn’t met before.  They were a little dismissive of me, writing me off as another born again biker, until Joe related to them the story of me getting bored at 190 km/h, in the 5 a.m. darkness, following his Varadero down the highway a year or so, and belting off at something on the wrong side of 270 km/h.

• Posted in : On the road
• Author : thesnark

message
name email url

search

Recent Posts

• Muscle Contractions.
• The Three Bears
• Riding it.
• Ouch #2
• Immobility.
• Like cats.
• Still life.
• Memory Lane.
• An officer and a gentleman.
• All animals are equal

• Feeds

• Full
• Comments