I used to ride like the road owed me something.

I recall when I first started riding, the road opened up before me. The possibilities of going someplace different and see new things. I explored every road  " where does that go, what's down the end of that dusty road?" Every ride was different. I did the East Cape from Wellington my AC50, and I did several trips around the North island on a TS250. Sleeping bag bunged to the rear and $20.00 in my pocket. Slept in barns and bus shelters, it was magic 

Then the bikes started to get bigger and by that time I had met like minded soles also on the same trip as myself. I started to learn the craft of riding hard and fast, Had a few mishaps along the way it has to be said, but it never stopped me, ever.

Back then, the throttle was less a control and more a declaration. I rode hard and fast, chasing corners as if they might disappear if I hesitated. The bikes became copies of what I imagined in my head and I would lean in without much thought for anything beyond the next bend. There was a kind of arrogance in it, though I didn’t see it that way at the time. I told myself it was confidence. I told myself I was in control.

Weekend mornings meant empty highways and cold air biting through my jacket. I would set off before most people had finished their first coffee, carving through familiar stretches of road, measuring my progress in lean angles and tyre wear. Back then rain didn’t deter me; it was just another challenge. Wind was something to push against. Fatigue was ignored. Riding was about proving something — to myself, to the others I was riding with, maybe to the world.

I used to ride with a restless energy. Stops were brief and practical. Fuel, quick stretch, then back on. I rarely paused to take in the view, even when the landscape deserved it. The machine and the momentum were what mattered. The destination was secondary; it was the pace that defined the journey.

Looking back, I realise I rode as if time were unlimited and consequences were distant. There was thrill in that, no doubt. A sharp, addictive thrill. I ride at a pace now that I think will get me there with as little hassle from the Poo Poo as possible. Sometimes the 'old' me comes out and I go for it, but I've been thinking more and more about the ride. I guess it's age, I'm not too sure, but I look forward to just the ride. Stopping and smelling the roses I guess.

It was a different kind of riding then — louder, faster, more urgent. And though I ride differently now, I sometimes miss that younger version of myself, chasing the horizon with nothing but speed in his mind.

It was not a pretty motorcycle, wonder why Honda copied it with their horrible PC800.

In a quiet garage, they sit and they wait

 

I kind of jumped this model and went directly to hell with the RM370

There wasn't a whole lot to them really

This guy is a kedgend in the first order. racing hard since I dont know when. Never gives up, ever.

I so want one of these again. Just to restore and look at.

I'm nearly there with the Paso. Cant wait to get it out. It will more than likely be bloody horrible to ride but I'm not going to let that cloud my memories.