On Death and Riding

Motorcycle riders have a special relationship with death. We are reminded of it nearly every day - everyone who doesn't ride seems to take ghoulish pleasure in relating the hazards of riding.

But it's more than that. It's an awareness of the brevity of life but an irrepressible urge to take the next corner faster and lower; it's singing "Born to be Wild" inside your helmet while cruising at 110klm/hr and being overtaken by d**k-heads in hotted up V8s doing 160 on a 2-lane Queensland highway...and you're watching for the kangaroo; it's the force of the air on your body and the sun in your eyes; it's the front-tyre sliding; it's the oncoming four-wheel drive.

It's overtaking the d**k-heads in hotted up V8s at 240 on a 2-lane Queensland highway.

Hell, living is fatal. Someone once looked at me and asked "But why do you still ride, then?" after I'd told them that I'd had 3 near-death experiences on my bike and saved my life each time by millimetres.

Of course, they'd missed the point.