Stolen…but never to be forgotten.

RIP zf316…

People ride bikes for a variety of reasons. Some like to purchase a beautiful machine then head to the street cafes to rub shoulders with other morons as they comment on the aesthetics and how they raced the police and won or trounced a battle down the strip;pretentious scum. Some like to get from A to B economically, swiftly and to avoid the traffic. And then there is a different breed, who ride, always, like they fucking mean it, whatever the weather, or nature of the journey. Those who ride 100 miles in a snow blizzard, to surprise their mother on mother’s day…

I am part of the latter, twisted tribe. Who have little to no concern for the look, the style,the sound, and focus everything they have into their ride. As with cars, a bike is an extension of self, yet a far more naked and therefore vulnerable extension. For there is a huge difference between racing around in a high performance sports car and riding an R1 through a hail storm. A car offers protection to all but the most extreme crashes,whereas a bike offers zero protection to even trivial adversity. A driver is in the scene, yet behind a shell of glass and steel. A rider is in the scene with no protection to the elements and all too common-place stupidity of other road-users but his own instincts and reflexes. And this is where the difference can be made, the lines can be drawn. One zooms around in the shallows. The other heads out always into the wilds of the deep ocean.

There is nothing brave, proud or worthy of praise to ride like you mean it, come hell or high water. It is simply a Way. Yet I must assert that it makes me sad to find incredibly powerful bikes treated as toy-dogs. Just for show…It is akin to owning a prize peacock and placing it in a cage from whence it can never display its brilliant plumage. Pure mong at its worst.

I have ridden a fair amount of bikes, ranging from the haggard XT 250 with no brakes, upon which I learned to ride in the english countryside, to my recently departed monster of a late 90s R6. It is never a question of what you ride, but how you ride…

When I ventured outside this morning and found my two wheeled steed missing, stolen,my heart sunk. My soul and spirit wailed. I was in shock. Part of me cried yet the tear ducts did not open, and rightly so, for such a loss is a drop in the well of woe in comparison to fighting for your survival every single day.

I just couldn’t accept that my beloved beast, with whom I had wrapped my arms around so tightly and hopefully as together we had diced with certain mutual demise time and time again, had…been taken from me.

It wasn’t the easiest bike to ride, nor was it the quickest. Yet it was part of me.Part of my existence. Regardless of its inorganic manufacture and substance, after finding myself facing the huge wheels of trucks,the front ends of spastic taxis, the bonnets of dwarf women driving4x4s and knowing only the bike can save me, indeed, it had become more than a mere vehicle. It had become part of me.

I feel as if I have lost a long-standing friend…

yet rather than dwell on my loss, and the insurance company’s decision to cancel my insurance 3 months back, for failure on my part to address them of my change of lair 2 years ago, despite them taking close to 2 years of money monthly without issue, I would rather focus on the unerring delight that lunatic machine gave me, every single ride. And now, I can find a semblance of joy, in focusing on what must be soon purchased. For the only pleasure to come from losing a bike, is the excitement of finding the next one…

Perhaps its time for the firestorm?

And I sincerely hope that the pigfucking vermin who took my partner in crime before its time, die horribly, eyes gouged and all…

Time to step up a gear?