DANCE OF THE LEVERS
8 June'05
by Phil
Floria
Turning the key and thumbing the starter button the
engine immediately spun over and sprang to life, settling into a smooth idle,
the wonder of modern fuel injection. The digital temperature gauge read blank,
it would take a few minutes for it to warm up, more than enough time to don
helmet and gloves. Now both rider and machine were ready to go.
Mounting the machine and without a thought the rider's left foot swept
back the kickstand, as his left hand pulled in the clutch at the same time. In
one movement his left foot found the shift lever and stepped down putting the
machine into gear with a clunk. With the right hand opening the throttle and
the left easing out the clutch lever the machine began to move forward slowly
at first and then increasing speed at a measured pace, the riders feet raised
up and found their foot pegs.
Turning out of the driveway, the rider
and machine gained speed quickly, the left foot and hand commenced to shift the
machine's transmission into second and then third
before coming up to the traffic light at the corner. With a
practiced smoothness the bikes transmission was down shifted to first, the
brakes applied and the throttle turned down for the stop. With a look to the
left and one to the right the sequence for forward motion was begun again as
the rider and machine turned right, this time gaining speed much quicker but
just as smoothly as before.
The rider and machine traveled through the
morning traffic quietly belying it's capabilities to those who noticed it pass
by. Making the trip through the city, the engine and tires began to warm up.
Once on the approach to the bridge, speed picked up to the legal limit; the
rider deftly dodged traffic and crossed over the grating and began the decent
on the other side. Speed now slowly increased from 55 to 70. Without much
notice or effort the rider and machine were rolling along at 90 in its top
gear, the tach's needle barely reaching the 5000 rpm mark half way to red line.
The sky was clear and no hint of rain in the forecast. The air
temperature was in the high 60s and supposed to climb to over 70 as the day
went on. The rider was dressed in a full set of armored leathers. The balls of
the rider's feet were set firmly on the pegs, knees tucked into the tank and
his head full erect; eyes scanning the road ahead as far as he could see. The
concerns of life, where quickly pushed from his conscious mind, by thoughts of
places to ride and the tasks at hand controlling the machine under him.
Three miles later, reaching the end of the bridge's
causeway he slowed the machine back to legal speeds and continued up the road
to the next traffic light; once again his feet and hands began the dance of
levers without notice or thought to slow the machine and turn right; all of it
seemed natural.
After the turn the machine lazily gathered speed only
to slow once more for another turn. This time the machine turned left but
gathered its speed much faster as it rushed toward the next bend in the road a
right hand banked turn. The machine's quiet demeanor now changed as the speed
increased, the howl from the exhaust became louder. Without changing a gear,
the throttle rolled off slightly dropping only a few rpms, the rider shifted in
the seat and pushed the right bar to set the machine into a lean.
It looked as though it was done too late, but the man and machine dove into a lean defying gravity. They moved from the near center of the lane to the extreme right side, raising dust from the inside of the corner. As they passed this closest point of the pavements edge, they began to straighten out and gain speed at a dizzying pace. The road now straightened out but climbed up and then fell away, the bikes acceleration was so swift the front wheel left the road at the top of the rise. As the machine and rider continued on the front wheel settled back down and began its task of directing the machine on its way.
Knowing the road, his mind is thinking now on the next turn. These thoughts are interrupted by a familiar aroma which sneaks into his conscious. The smell of fresh cut grass, he slows the machine. They pass by an old man on a lawn tractor cutting grass on their right; the old man stops and watches the motorcycle go by and waves, the rider waves back.
Now well past the homes the machine regains speed quickly. The next corner is a left going up hill and then it quickly turns right and levels off into a straight section. The sound of the machine changes abruptly as the rider down shifts; blipping the throttle to synchronize clutch speed with the rear wheel. The engine is now turning rpms in the 8000 range, the rider shifts to the left of his seat as the machine moves to the right of the lane. Once again the turn is made looking like it was done to late but the bike leans over and straightens up on the left side of the lane. The rider slides over to the right side of the seat and the bike makes the right hand turn with ease and grace, topping the hill at a speed three times that was posted on the last sign. The rider eases off the throttle and slows the machine back to legal speed.
The rhythm of corners continues in
different patterns throughout the day, the rider's dance of the levers is
repeated over and over again. On some sections the machine displays its true
capabilities and takes it rider to speeds well over the limits of the law. The
rider and machine are enjoying the day. On an occasion to stop and take a break, the rider walks around the machine looking and touching it with a strange reverence and friendship only another rider can understand. Together they have gone fast and defied the forces of gravity. A team effort between the rider, machine and the tires it rolls on; each one doing its part to make it a safe ride. Only another rider can understand the affection a rider has with the machine under him. It transcends brand and type; the more it's ridden the more it becomes alive to the rider.
After the break they roll back onto the road and head out to explore more corners. Rolling down the road the dance of levers begins again and is repeated time and time again. The machine moves smoothly, the rider controlling it with subtle movements that even other riders don't notice. Motorcycles are deceptive machines, watching a rider on the road belies the amount of physical control and skill required to keep it moving and defying gravity in the corners. Many folks are drawn to the mystic of the machine, and have found out that it requires more than knowing how the levers work. It's the new riders who learn the hard way, the skills required take time and practice to master, and few do. Learning to stop the machine is the hardest skill to learn, next is the ability to corner the machine at speed.
Riding is fun, but it's serious business
too, not for the immature or those who like to show off. A moment of
inattention can be deadly on a motorcycle. Overriding your skill level will
always end in the rider's education. The rider is now coming to a straight section of road, which runs for a mile or more, with farm fields on both sides, where the road surface is clean and dry. There's no traffic in sight, a quick check of the mirrors and the rider slides into a full tuck on the bike's tank, his right hand opens the throttle. The sound of air rushing into the machine's air box and the exhaust sound levels rise to a roar, the tach needle now approaches red section on its face and the motorcycle accelerates at a mind numbing pace .
The snick of gear changes, with an almost imperceptible drop in engine rpms sends the machine and rider to speeds measured in three digits. The road passes underneath the rider and machine as a complete blur as if in a time warp. But, the rider doesn't notice, his eyes are focused way down the road as far as he can see. The view in his peripheral vision is a blur of incomprehensible images. All of his concentration is focused on the task of controlling the machine.
The next corner comes up fast. The rider begins the dance of the
levers once more, sitting up braking, downshifting and maneuvering the
motorcycle to the outside of the turn to set up for the corner. Down shifting
quickly the machine never bucks or wobbles. The front shocks compress under the
brakes and then rebound as the brakes are released and the bike enters the turn
point. The rider has shifted his body to the inside of the machine, as the lean
takes an extreme angle. The tires are now being pushed to the limits of
traction. It looks like a ballet of rider and machine as they disappear around the bend in the asphalt road. As the bike passes the apex of the corner it comes back to an upright position gaining back the speed it shed entering the corner. Watching from a distance, the rider and machine disappear from view, the wailing sound of the machine slowly leaves, and a deafening silence is left in its place. That is the music which accompanies the "Dance of the Levers".
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