I’m Getting A Motorbike And Fuck You

I’m getting a motorcycle.

Cars don’t interest me. They’re expensive and boring and cumbersome and breakages cost thousands and they pollute and they’re, mostly, ugly. After reading a million blogs on motorcycles while writing an article on them at work, the seed began to germinate in my mind. A motorbike represents freedom. They’re cheap to buy, run, tax, and insure.  They’re fast and agile. They require diligence, upkeep, and skill to use. You’re not in a metal bubble when you drive, you’re outside. If you fuck up, you’re in trouble.

I feel like a moody, rum-deprived sailor on permanent shore leave at the moment; I’ve been going insane living the sleep, work, repeat cycle. I’ve tried to fill my evenings and weekends with interesting things, but it’s not enough. The only thing that gets my pulse racing is the thought of strange cultures, distant cities, and exotic people. Due to the joys of paying off a student overdraft, I can’t run off into the sunset just yet. So I need something else.

On a whim I booked my CBT, the basic training you need in order to ride a limited size motorbike, for the 23rd of this month. I told my family after, and was treated to a slew of lectures ranging from ‘oh dear, are you sure?’ to ‘you fucking moron you will die’. People delighted in reeling off facts on crash statistics, and of horror stories of friends-of-friends.

Well, I’m getting one anyway. I know it’s dangerous, and I’ve every intention of riding safely and responsibly. One thing I’ll never do is shy away from something that captures my passions because of a ‘what if’.

And this is the bike. Isn’t she a beauty?

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