At thiry-five, you're doing fine. Forty-five is almost fast; sixty is fast. I've hit eighty: that's flying. But 100 on a motorcycle is the speed of fear.
I can feel a bead of sweat running down my cheek as I wait for the light to change. Wearing protective gear in 90-degree heat is no fun, even when you're in motion; standing still at a stoplight is almost torture. Just the same, I'd like to have more than a chance at surviving a crash...
Driving through rush hour traffic can be dangerous in a car. Other drivers are normally in the same state of mind as you are: tired, hungry, hot, and probably angry. "Rush hour" is a misnomer; the word "rush" only describes the underlying feeling of the driver. He rarely "rushes" anywhere during rush hour; traffic backs up, the "hour" stretches into two or three, and tempers get short...
The light finally changes to green and I surge forward, twisting the throttle to its stop. Watching the traffic, listening to the scream of the engine, I pop the bike into second and then third gear and surge forward again, flying up the onramp. In less than eight seconds, I've accelerated from a stop to over 60 miles per hour for merging into the interstate. The engine's tone alerts me for the third shift, then another. Even in fifth gear, I can easily speed up or slow down, based on the traffic conditions.
Suprisingly, traffic on the interstate is flowing steadily today; however, it's very fast. I'm running at 65 and cars are going around me like I was parked beside the road. I goose my speed up; I'm finally keeping up with the pace of traffic, at a leisurely 70+ mph.
If you've ever noticed the passing of a semi tractor-trailer by the buffeting it causes, imagine what it's like to feel that mini-tornado without the safety and security of your car wrapped around you. Its scary.
You're taught to stay in the left-hand part of the lane when riding a motorcycle. This serves two purposes--you're directly in the line of sight of the drivers ahead and behind, and it makes it easier to get out of the way if someone comes too close on the left. Unfortunately, it leaves two-thirds of a lane open to a tired, angry, "rushing" automobile driver to try to squeeze by; this most dangerous when there's no more lanes to the left. I prefer the center lane.
The interstate widens into four lanes and stretches ahead, straight and long. In direct opposition to Bernoulli's Law, traffic speeds up instead of slowing, and I find myself trying to keep up with cars zooming by faster than my "pokey" 80mph. So I accelerate again, and when I check my speed, I'm pushing close to 95mph. I also notice the hard, black asphalt rushing beneath my feet.
Mistake.
In my minds eye: a young man, dressed ear to ankle in black leather, slides on his back down the interstate. The young man is praying the traffic around him will slow when passing the wreck of his bike, hoping they see him lying dazed on the ground before its too late. The same gear that protects a cyclist in a fall can do little to protect him against a rushing automobile...
Back comes the throttle, down comes the speed. Cars again passing me like I'm standing still because I hit something with my mind as powerful as a truck.
One day I'll push through it—I'll break the speed of fear.
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