Not long after he hit the morning traffic, and other’s of his clan, the Clan of Office Riders, dressed in flowing formal wear, shirts pressed and trousers with a crease, shoes polished and hair neatly combed. Some were dressed better than the others and some were pathetic enough to make him choke. But he didn’t care, for with his machine by his side, he was the one everyone wanted to be. He was that Stud, the diamond amongst the rotting pieces of graphite.
Eyes shifting right and then left and watching his back as much as he watched what lay ahead, he navigated through the dense morning traffic with the ease and speed of a leopard, slowing down only for a traffic light. He felt the jarring on his arms as the bike bounced of a tiny speed breaker and then when he avoided a gaping hole in the middle of the road.
Ain’t no more waiting for the bus, Ain’t no more rushing in the morning to make it to the bus, ain’t no more waiting for lazy ass panzies who come late to the bus, ain’t no crawling through the traffic, ain’t no more moving at the mercy of the vehicle in front. He was free, liberated, released from the bondage of the painful ride to office in a lousy 25 seater bus that was not much faster than a snail.
As the fluid oil lined the stem of the engine of his mean machine, he felt the power slide through his clenched hand and flow through the exhaust of his bike. Zipping through the laid back traffic he felt the music in the roar of his Pulsar 180 DTSi. Slamming on his brakes, he stopped inches short of a sparkling white Honda Civic as he hit a traffic road block.
As the traffic started crawling again, he locked into second gear, glanced to his right and through the hair’s breadth between the Honda Civic in the front and the Jeep alongside him, he squeezed his machine and himself through the gap and raced off through the little space left between the cars, now on his left, and the divided to his right.
His hair was ruffled and his eyes were watering, even through his Aviator Sun glasses. But he kept on it, only letting the throttle off every now and then to let the machine breathe. 25 Km/Hr and second gear, 40 Km/Hr through third, shifting up through the revs, he hit 60, then 70, then 85, then 95 before he opened the last bit of throttle he was holding back. Shifting his clenched hand a little around the throttle, he pulled the throttle back around to its full extent.
He watched the bike groan at 99 Km/Hr and then as the additional rpm kicked in, he crossed the 100 Km/hr barrier and stopped at a 109 Km/hr through the long and wide road through KBR park. At a 109, there was little else he could feel but the wind on his face, tearing through his cheek and leaving his mouth dry. At a 109, he felt no contact with the tarmac under him. He felt disengaged, he felt like he was in flight.
25 min and 30 Km later, he over revved his engine in 2nd gear and let his machine announce its arrival at its destination. Getting off it, His Pulsar 180 DTSi, he felt his pores open on every inch of his body, gave a pat on the bikes shoulder and let it rest after a grueling 30 minute ride.
With the wink of an eye he acknowledged his partner in crime for a fantastic, thrilling and exciting commute to work. He was back, they were back, and they were both here now to stay. Nothing could come between them now.
They were one! They were man and machine!
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