The commute.

The other day I was commuting on my V-Strom, from here to there. I was stopped at a intersection by one of those green thingie okes from Outsurance who was energetically directing the guys and guyettes who could go and who had to stop and such. I did a slow lane split to the front of the line as we biker dudes and dudettes have the habit of doing.

So, there I was standing right at the front between the cars who wanted to go left and those who wanted to go straight, staring at the green dude doing his "come hither" dance. I am sitting there bothering no one. Not like the piepiejollers of today with two feet hanging a meter behind the rear foot pegs somewhere, right hand viciously blipping the throttle and left hand twitching on the clutch, ready to do a Rossi start. No! Me, I am old school. I sit up straight, one foot on a peg and one barely touching the ground. Arms folded across my chest scowling from under my open visor (old school rider open their visors under 90km/h) down at a world and its inhabitants whom I deem way beneath me. Poor sods, using cars!

The little green oke knows me well so I know he will give me the secret signal before he indicates to the cages around me to go. This will give me a nifty head start on the aunty in the expensive german saloon who is clearly super irritated by my mere presence. She is ready to outdrag me across Old Jamboree Road and up Jimmy Road, but I know in my heart, that she has no chance. Not because my bike is faster. That too, but more because of the secret signal from green boet. Also, Mercs are slow anyway. Wonder if she will ever figure that out?

To my left, at a 90 degree angle is a metallic green Toyota Hi-Ace filled to the gills with the driver's paying customers, extended family, friends, relatives and union members. For those a tad slow in mental pictures, he is in Old Jamboree Road waiting to turn left into Jimmy. Just as the green boykie gives me the secret signal, the gentleman in the metalic green, Japanese built community hall on wheels decides to grab a smallish chance and go for it, while the green guy isn't looking. I can't really blame him. Most of us would have done the same.

Thing is, I also take off and although I am not in a drag race for a million bucks, I am on a 1000cc bike and they tend to get of the mark with a dash of speed. This sort of causes the gentleman in the metallic green Hi-Ace and me, to arrive on the same bit of road at the same time. Fortunately, he turns rather wide and goes into the right hand lane. Me, seeing this, ducks for the left. No problem. He right. Me left. He + Me = Share. No reason for heart stopping, brain popping or brake marks in the rather new and nifty X-Kulchas. All good.

That is till I am exactly next to the man. Sort of right next to his front left door. He suddenly decided he would rather drive in the left lane. Hey! It's a free country, with democracy and all, so he is certainly entitled to drive in the left lane. Only one small problem. At that exact moment in time, at that exact spot in space, my Strom and I are occupying said left lane.

The gent swaps lanes in such a serious manner that my right knee actually touches his door! I kid you not. My knee, the one that is slightly messed up due to rough rugby games from years gone by and a spectacular bike accident on 17 October 1981. That knee, is pressing actually, truly, no lies, starting to press a dent in his metallic green Toyota. This presents all sorts of problem as the Strom and myself is no match for the Hi-Ace with a zillion occupants, weight wise.

Place to move left and out of his way is sort of non-existent due to a rather high and mean looking pavement. So, I blow my hooter long, hard, loud and extremely mean to indicate to the gentleman in question that he is causing me to foul my brand new pants. He realizes what he is doing and that it is not such a good idea so he dives to the right. That caused a longer, harder, louder, meaner hooter blowing as the aunty in the Mercedes have subsequently arrived next to him in the right lane.

The poor driver of the much described metallic green taxi now leaves a brake mark in his seat and swerves left again. Fortunately, by now I have managed to yank on the correct cable in earnest and disappeared into the distance ahead of him, leaving him room to go left and me in relative safety with a car between me and the greying aunty from hell, in the Merc.

Well. So I arrive at work shaking in my reasonably cheapish biker boots, adrenalin way over my ears and my nifty X-Kulcha milimeters from showing brown GT striping all down the middle.

I love my bike.