So we went on this motorcycle trip but I do not want to bore you with the dreary details. There is one experience that I would really like to share though. I am sure that experience would stay with me for a long time to come.
It was a beautiful mountainous road, perfectly paved, with the green hill on the side with blooming yellow flowers and the deep valley on the other. Several thousand feet down below, the rocky stream was visible and its quietness stood testimony to the brilliant depth. The sky was blue with patches of white fluffy clouds and the sun shone benignly over the black tarmac weaving through the exquisite wilderness. The road curved and dipped and rose and danced as it followed the contours of the terrain. And I had a motorcycle.
The curves were marked for speeds in the range of 30-40 miles but it would have been such a criminal waste if I had followed the guidelines. Do you know how it feels when your speedometer is reading 80 and you see the complete curve ahead ? You could brake and let the steam off but then you would have to be rational. And I hardly am. I downshifted a gear and turned the throttle to induce controlled acceleration and steadily started to lean. More and more. To the extent the my toes were centimeters away from the hard, unforgiving surface. And my face was probably a foot above the yellow line that separated the oncoming traffic. And I could see that yellow line moving past me. Faster and faster. Curving into the corner. Faster and faster. And the oncoming traffic was whizzing past me so close, I could smell the grunt of their tires. And it was all so quiet. Like an eternity soaked in vacuum. It was all so still. Like a painted bird on a painted ocean. And it was all so serene and pure. Like the smell of Rajnigandha and a foggy morning. At this point you don't really have half measures. A hesitation to lean could easily send you flying down the valley. An inclination to break could hurl you into the oncoming traffic. Everything has to work with clockwork precision. And I somehow managed to do it every single time.
I am not really proud of a lot of things but that memory certainly makes me happy. The feeling is hard to describe. Its the adrenaline rush associated with a gamble of such high stakes. Its the satisfaction at having played the game to your capacity and on life's own terms. And winning. Or at least putting up a respectable performance. It might be stupid in a lot of eyes but the emotion is difficult to explain to someone who has not experienced it firsthand. Its liberating. Its spiritual in some sense. It elevates you, if only for a few moments, above the pandering suffocation and all permeating stupidity and widespread randomness. For those few moments, nothing else matters.
It was a beautiful mountainous road, perfectly paved, with the green hill on the side with blooming yellow flowers and the deep valley on the other. Several thousand feet down below, the rocky stream was visible and its quietness stood testimony to the brilliant depth. The sky was blue with patches of white fluffy clouds and the sun shone benignly over the black tarmac weaving through the exquisite wilderness. The road curved and dipped and rose and danced as it followed the contours of the terrain. And I had a motorcycle.
The curves were marked for speeds in the range of 30-40 miles but it would have been such a criminal waste if I had followed the guidelines. Do you know how it feels when your speedometer is reading 80 and you see the complete curve ahead ? You could brake and let the steam off but then you would have to be rational. And I hardly am. I downshifted a gear and turned the throttle to induce controlled acceleration and steadily started to lean. More and more. To the extent the my toes were centimeters away from the hard, unforgiving surface. And my face was probably a foot above the yellow line that separated the oncoming traffic. And I could see that yellow line moving past me. Faster and faster. Curving into the corner. Faster and faster. And the oncoming traffic was whizzing past me so close, I could smell the grunt of their tires. And it was all so quiet. Like an eternity soaked in vacuum. It was all so still. Like a painted bird on a painted ocean. And it was all so serene and pure. Like the smell of Rajnigandha and a foggy morning. At this point you don't really have half measures. A hesitation to lean could easily send you flying down the valley. An inclination to break could hurl you into the oncoming traffic. Everything has to work with clockwork precision. And I somehow managed to do it every single time.
I am not really proud of a lot of things but that memory certainly makes me happy. The feeling is hard to describe. Its the adrenaline rush associated with a gamble of such high stakes. Its the satisfaction at having played the game to your capacity and on life's own terms. And winning. Or at least putting up a respectable performance. It might be stupid in a lot of eyes but the emotion is difficult to explain to someone who has not experienced it firsthand. Its liberating. Its spiritual in some sense. It elevates you, if only for a few moments, above the pandering suffocation and all permeating stupidity and widespread randomness. For those few moments, nothing else matters.
2 comments:
So this is the proof that you survived the motorcycle ordeal. I hope you are not typing with bandaged hands because that would explain 4 days taken to write 4 paragraphs.
ROTFL! nice play of words to describe the adrenalin rush :) Looking forward to having my own dose of it now
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