And Behold, a Black Horse…

By tdf, December 6, 2014

When He broke the third seal, I heard the third living creature saying, “Come.” I looked, and behold, a black horse; and he who sat on it had a pair of scales in his hand. And I heard something like a voice in the center of the four living creatures saying, “A quart of wheat for a denarius, and three quarts of barley for a denarius; and do not damage the oil and the wine.” Revelation – 6″ 5-6

Nursing a cruel hangover courtesy of the cheap but plentiful sparkling wine consumed during the listless work party last night, I rolled out of bed and forced my body to accept sustenance and a shower, just in time for the roar of my new beast to enter the neighbourhood and alert me to its arrival.

It has been but 11 days since my previous steed was maliciously half inched from my lair, sending me into a state of grumpiness and grimness, made all the worse through the unexpected return to the horrors of public transport after a four year escape. I am not at peace when surrounded by cretins, let alone crowds of the them hemming me into a corner, moving away only when they notice my grimace and hear my growl.

Hardly a train ride has passed without witnessing, with deep rooted disgust, kids and adult mincers alike involved in conversation, and the chitterchatter dies abruptly to silence, until a designated goon squeals ‘awwwwwwkwaaaaaaaard!!!’ and everyone bursts into chortles. What kind of punchline is this? An improvement would be for someone to punch the designated goon on the snout. I am well aware of my tendency to drown myself in fine russian spirits, yet have always believed that despite this, I keep my talons on the global pulse. Yet…what appears to have been missed by my perceptive senses is a definite move, which I now am convinced of, whereby spastic has become cool.

Another example is for the New Dumb to say something intended to produce amusement, yet the amusement cannot be drawn out, like sucking poison from a snake-bite, until the designated goon waits, waits…waits…then says ‘jokes’ or ‘jokes, man’ often with a playful pat on the shoulder. If I enjoy a toothsome meal at a restaurant, I cannot for the life of me, bring myself to comment afterwards…’dinner, man’. For it should be evident, that we have just eaten dinner. Jokes, man! Jokes infuckingdeed.

Thankfully those mornings of running for the train and been forced to endure daily periods of up and close and personal collision with the mindless masses are now gone. So why dwell eh? Everyone who knows me is already painfully aware of my hatred of the hipsters and shitsters, the mong and the mean. And other than the apparently fresh out of the tombs giant brute who was telling his daughter that he is no longer in prison, then spent 15 minutes attempting to explain how a phone number works to his brute progeny, there was truly nothing interesting or noteworthy to mention of my brief holiday in hades…

When I took this beast for a test ride last Sunday, it felt powerful, yet I was more focused on checking the brakes and agility than its potential as a racer. I actually pondered that it seemed slower low down in the revs than my haggard 99′ model. The sound was different, the clutch felt odd (too snappy), yet I was desperate enough to haggle the seller down to 7050 (from 7500) and have been eager for today to come since shaking paws.

Now assuaged by the vodka, the twisted synapses of my sparkling white wine addled brain was too debilitating to attempt much other than five trips around the local roads. Also, the weather is hardly ideal. Yet what is already apparent is that I was mistaken in my thinking of the fly by wire throttle and other motogp derived technologies proving mere gimcracks. For this black horse of mine is the devil’s steed.

It took probably ten minutes of riding before I found my smile from ear to ear blossoming into lunatic laughter.

One of the many aspects of my old 99 whore which I adored and provided constant joy was the insanely committed nature of the engine. This new steed is the same, if not more eager. 1st gear is solely LAUNCH. The engine redlines at 16500rpm. My ‘getting to know you’ excursions today took the engine to 6000rpm at most. For once you hit 4000rpm an avalanche of power demands centre-stage, with ferocity and immense commitment. Around town, it becomes a challenge to avoid moving swiftly from 30-40km/h to anything less than 75km/h with a dwarf turn of the throttle.

It turns swiftly, has zero interest in anything but berserker, sounds like a lioness banshee and brakes so so so brilliantly. In fact, already, without pushing the beast in any way whatsoever, she already feels like a rocket with wheels, lights and a number plate.

I have always ridden sportsbikes as if they were crossers, for that is how I learned, on a decrepit xt 250, with no lights or brakes,  riding through the english countryside, through rain, gales and snow. I enjoy the challenge, and the challenge with this r6 is to accept that below 4000rpm I am in command and the beast sleeps, is guided by my mind and claws, yet above 4000rpm, she awakes not with a yawn, but with a roar, as if the ONLY aim is chaotic, unbridled rage, and then, it is a case of holding on and praying to the gods who protect the self-righteous, honest and wild.

If the weather clears tomorrow, I shall cancel all other intended engagements, other than a visit to my ailing mother goose, to find a more fitting paddock. And at the earliest opportunity, I must head out of the city, into the wilderness, and allow this heinous monster to spread her wings and fly free.