11,000 times a minute

Eleven thousand times a minute the crank goes around and around. Eleven thousand times a minute the pistons go up and down. Suck, squeeze, bang, blow is the sequence that makes the Blue Meanie go. A gasp of air comes in and goes out. Over and over again the process repeats itself. Almost three thousand liters of air and a few drops of fuel mixed to perfection and used all up. Every minute this goes on as I ride past the people in their wheeled boxes. I hear the sound of the wind, feel the warmth of the sun, smell the tortillas cooking at the bakery. There is no radio, no cell phone calls, nothing to distract me from the world around me. There is speed and motion, sunlight and warmth. I feel the pitch, yaw and roll and I am focused. I am focused on the imminent dangers and the unparalleled pleasures around me. Eleven thousand times a minute the crank goes around as I ride.


Text © Crownedstoat – All rights reserved
Crankshaft photo courtesy of Wikicommons - Alex Kovach

A Curious Encounter

This morning as I rode the big Blue Meanie to work I had something occur which I have heard about but until that moment had never encountered myself. As I pulled onto the main street that leads to the on ramp of the interstate I saw a Japanese cruiser in front of me. I pulled up next to the bike and saw that the rider was a mid fifties grey bearded guy who proceeded to pointedly ignore me. Usually when I pull up next to someone on another two wheeler there is an acknowledgement of some fashion.From a simple head nod to a conversation about each others bikes I have always had a cordial interaction. It doesn't seem to matter what either of us is riding we understand that the other person knows what it is like to catch a bug in the teeth and taste that gooey, vegetale taste. We have both had a cell phone talking box driver drift over into our lane and had a fender close enough to polish if we wanted to reach out and do so. We both know that without a jacket rain at fifty miles an hour hurts and that gravel is a poor substitute for asphalt to fill potholes. Perhaps the rider I was along side today had a bad morning. Perhaps he was lost in thought or perhaps he was just anti-social. I'll never know but it was the first time a fellow two wheeler chose to respond in such a way. Then again maybe it was my cologne.



Text © Crownedstoat – All rights reserved
Harley riders on I4 photo courtesy of Wikicommons - Ian Griffiths