Saturday, 15 August 2020
I can’t articulate the sensation of riding a motorcycle, many more talented people have tried before, it is, without wanting to sound like a walking [riding] cliche something that if you have never experienced it you really wouldn’t understand, [told you]
We are basically a big soft bag of muscle, tissue and blood, it’s not speed that kills it’s stopping abruptly, usually through hitting an inanimate object. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve played out this scenario in my head, both consciously and in my dreams, is this my ultimate destiny? Some stranger turning across my path? [‘I didn’t see him’] our lives intertwined by fate, perhaps a misjudgment as I enter a bend, a trail of diesel from a careless trucker over filling his tank? The track day where circumstances go against us? The ‘racing incident?’ I don’t know, no one ever really knows, we have two important dates in life, the one when we are born and the one when we finally shuffle off this mortal coil.
What I will say though is that I’d rather continue to experience the feelings that I get riding my motorcycles, whatever the risk, than succumb to the humdrum, boring, tartan blanket wearing existence that non-riders have. Richard ‘Nobby’ Newbold. Love you mate.