.... the blacktop twisted like a broken backed snake... the camber all wrong ... gum tree debris on the center of the road from the overhanging cliffs... the thunder of the Ducati rebounding from the walls.. leaned over.. the boot toes scuffing against the bitumen..
shift down.. touch the brakes.. line up on the guide posts and leeeeeeeean it a little further...
sulphur crested cockatoos burst from the trees like an explosion of giant dandruff... screaming their terror at the thunder invading their domain ..
the line of bikes twisting and turning like they're linked by an invisible umbilical cord...
fierce grins inside the visors as each vies for lead...
overtaking ..
slipping around the outside
rev counter straining to the stop as the engine slips over the redline....
red mist... strange shapes... white vague outlines... soft beep.. beep ... beep ... impinge on the ride... the thunder fades.... and pain begins to invade, rising through as the ride recedes ... trying desperately to hang on to that reality ....
and a strangely compassionate voice says... "doctor, He's coming round... what do we do?".....
a deeper voice.. "He's not going to survive... give him 150mg nurse... no need for him to wake...."
And the thunder roars in My ears as I twist the throttle trying once again to catch the leader on the Walhalla road...
Heaven...