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Velocity:
My concept of velocity is different from that of most others. The typical human being never really gets to experience it like I do. For example, a roller coaster is a thrill, a high g' load relative to the normal in a minute period of time. Sixty seconds is the average duration of those thrilling forces placed upon the human body. Most of the time this is achieved after an extended wait of hours just for one go. That just will not do for a guy like me. I guess I am an adrenaline junkie, I demand more, an overload of my senses. I want that sensation to last much longer. Subconciously, I want to be scared nearly to death but there is something morbid about admitting it.
When people talk about high speed, it is usually based on their personal experience. That achieved by the occasional stab at the gas pedal to hit 90 maybe 100 miles per hour. Many people would say that speed is ludicrous, that you should never need to drive that fast. So most will keep it under 80 for the sake of safety, but we all know it is more for the sake of their finances. Speeding tickets and the corresponding rise in insurance costs get expensive.
I see things differently as a motorcycle rider/pilot. Our concept of what is manageable and what is fast differs from that of the automotive driver. It is not unusual to find a lonely open highway, an empty stretch of interstate, autobahn, motorway or autostrada that begs to be tested. The conditions, place, and time align to provide you with a catapult for your hyperbike, your rocket.
So you crack the throttle, tuck in and give it all she's got. Shifting gears as the rpms rise beyond the threshold at which your car's end, 8k, 9k, 10k, 11k a little bit more then hit the next gear. You've just exited first gear and the speedo reads nearly 90mph. Speed rises just as quickly in second gear and you find yourself at 100mph in no time flat. 120mph comes in the blink of an eye. 140mph in a few more fractions of a second.
150 miles per hour: The lamposts start to blur as you view them from behind your windscreen in as much of an aerodynamic tuck as possible with your chin resting on the gas tank. The nose of your bike consumes the white lane markers in a frenzy as they blur into a nearly solid white line.
160 miles per hour: You start to experience tunnel vision as the symphony exiting your tailpipes sings into your ears bouncing off the concrete highway median wall.
165 miles per hour: You strafe past the family station wagon you spotted twenty three seconds ago nearly a mile back and hoped the driver wouldn't be talking on the cell phone drifting over to your lane. You imagine the driver's rude awakening, thinking he was just overtaken by a low flying jet breaking the sound barrier. His kids, watching the whole time out the back window in the rear-facing seat, mimed a wheelie as you rapidly approached.
170 miles per hour: You tighten your grip to level DEATH. You know that if you pop your head up over the windscreen you better hold on for dear life since the windblast will take you off the bike like you pulled a parachute.
175 miles per hour: With a clear, railway straight, road ahead, you think that this is the approximate speed John Force reaches about two seconds into his top fuel run on the way to 300 miles per hour. You feel inferior for a millisecond then remember his motor makes over 5000 horsepower and yours makes less than 190hp.
180 miles per hour: You marvel at how tremendously stable your Hayabusa behaves at this velocity as the asphalt blurs while passing mile markers at exactly every twenty seconds. You count one-one thousand through twenty-one thousand and the next one shoots behind you. All of the combined elements have you reaching nirvana.
185 miles per hour: Your breathing calms as the tingling sensation of adrenaline has flooded your bloodstream. You take a deep breath and exhale.
186 miles per hour: You've hit the rev limiter. Your speed drops for a second then you continue sailing at hyperspeed.
You decide that the driver you strafed may have called the authorities about a crazy motorcycling hooligan doing what looked like 200 miles per hour on the highway so you shut her down. Reaching the next exit you find a gas station. As you are refueling, the sight of one thousand dead flies on your bike's front end captivates you. Then your realize that the only thing you hurt on this jaunt is all of those poor little flies. You console yourself, realizing that they must have had a death wish. You merely facilitated their need to die.
Walking inside the station, you go to pay the bill and get a bottle of water to rehydrate. The attendant, looking you over, starts to talk about a cousin of his that is paralyzed from a motorcycle accident some years back as you drink your icy bottle of water. You pay him in cash because you are old fashioned and leave the change.
As you walk outside and inspect your tires for damage, the old country squire station wagon pulls into the parking lot. The old guy driving it steps out, looks around and lets out his grandkids. The kids look at you as he hands them a few dollars for a popsicle and some fruitjuice. As he walks over in your direction, you notice his forearms with the faded paratrooper tattoo and the silhoutte of an old pinup girl. He says "howdy"? You say "good- you?" He says "good, nice bike". He talks about the army surplus patrol bike he bought after his service in WWII. You nod in admiration as he paints a picture for you.
The kids come out with their popsicles and juice. You shake hands, nod and head your seperate ways.
My concept of velocity is different from that of most others. The typical human being never really gets to experience it like I do. For example, a roller coaster is a thrill, a high g' load relative to the normal in a minute period of time. Sixty seconds is the average duration of those thrilling forces placed upon the human body. Most of the time this is achieved after an extended wait of hours just for one go. That just will not do for a guy like me. I guess I am an adrenaline junkie, I demand more, an overload of my senses. I want that sensation to last much longer. Subconciously, I want to be scared nearly to death but there is something morbid about admitting it.
When people talk about high speed, it is usually based on their personal experience. That achieved by the occasional stab at the gas pedal to hit 90 maybe 100 miles per hour. Many people would say that speed is ludicrous, that you should never need to drive that fast. So most will keep it under 80 for the sake of safety, but we all know it is more for the sake of their finances. Speeding tickets and the corresponding rise in insurance costs get expensive.
I see things differently as a motorcycle rider/pilot. Our concept of what is manageable and what is fast differs from that of the automotive driver. It is not unusual to find a lonely open highway, an empty stretch of interstate, autobahn, motorway or autostrada that begs to be tested. The conditions, place, and time align to provide you with a catapult for your hyperbike, your rocket.
So you crack the throttle, tuck in and give it all she's got. Shifting gears as the rpms rise beyond the threshold at which your car's end, 8k, 9k, 10k, 11k a little bit more then hit the next gear. You've just exited first gear and the speedo reads nearly 90mph. Speed rises just as quickly in second gear and you find yourself at 100mph in no time flat. 120mph comes in the blink of an eye. 140mph in a few more fractions of a second.
150 miles per hour: The lamposts start to blur as you view them from behind your windscreen in as much of an aerodynamic tuck as possible with your chin resting on the gas tank. The nose of your bike consumes the white lane markers in a frenzy as they blur into a nearly solid white line.
160 miles per hour: You start to experience tunnel vision as the symphony exiting your tailpipes sings into your ears bouncing off the concrete highway median wall.
165 miles per hour: You strafe past the family station wagon you spotted twenty three seconds ago nearly a mile back and hoped the driver wouldn't be talking on the cell phone drifting over to your lane. You imagine the driver's rude awakening, thinking he was just overtaken by a low flying jet breaking the sound barrier. His kids, watching the whole time out the back window in the rear-facing seat, mimed a wheelie as you rapidly approached.
170 miles per hour: You tighten your grip to level DEATH. You know that if you pop your head up over the windscreen you better hold on for dear life since the windblast will take you off the bike like you pulled a parachute.
175 miles per hour: With a clear, railway straight, road ahead, you think that this is the approximate speed John Force reaches about two seconds into his top fuel run on the way to 300 miles per hour. You feel inferior for a millisecond then remember his motor makes over 5000 horsepower and yours makes less than 190hp.
180 miles per hour: You marvel at how tremendously stable your Hayabusa behaves at this velocity as the asphalt blurs while passing mile markers at exactly every twenty seconds. You count one-one thousand through twenty-one thousand and the next one shoots behind you. All of the combined elements have you reaching nirvana.
185 miles per hour: Your breathing calms as the tingling sensation of adrenaline has flooded your bloodstream. You take a deep breath and exhale.
186 miles per hour: You've hit the rev limiter. Your speed drops for a second then you continue sailing at hyperspeed.
You decide that the driver you strafed may have called the authorities about a crazy motorcycling hooligan doing what looked like 200 miles per hour on the highway so you shut her down. Reaching the next exit you find a gas station. As you are refueling, the sight of one thousand dead flies on your bike's front end captivates you. Then your realize that the only thing you hurt on this jaunt is all of those poor little flies. You console yourself, realizing that they must have had a death wish. You merely facilitated their need to die.
Walking inside the station, you go to pay the bill and get a bottle of water to rehydrate. The attendant, looking you over, starts to talk about a cousin of his that is paralyzed from a motorcycle accident some years back as you drink your icy bottle of water. You pay him in cash because you are old fashioned and leave the change.
As you walk outside and inspect your tires for damage, the old country squire station wagon pulls into the parking lot. The old guy driving it steps out, looks around and lets out his grandkids. The kids look at you as he hands them a few dollars for a popsicle and some fruitjuice. As he walks over in your direction, you notice his forearms with the faded paratrooper tattoo and the silhoutte of an old pinup girl. He says "howdy"? You say "good- you?" He says "good, nice bike". He talks about the army surplus patrol bike he bought after his service in WWII. You nod in admiration as he paints a picture for you.
The kids come out with their popsicles and juice. You shake hands, nod and head your seperate ways.
