Replacement Ride

I lined up a replacement bike. How else would I get to work? I had to drop the bike at the shop, ride to work, ride home, off to work the next morning, then the next day I would still have to pick my bike up at the shop.

The replacement bike was a monster, all black and red and wracked with consumptive juddering. A coughing metallic beast. It was too tall for me. I had to lean it half way to the ground to mount it and then there would be that pivotal place where the bulk of it would prefer to lie down than stand up. I wrestled myself onto it and I almost dropped the thing. Bloody thing! I felt like a parasite on it's back. It was trying to scratch me off with it's touchy break pads and it's quick draw on acceleration. I thought of rodeo's, men in hats dragged through the dirt, red dust caked over grazed flesh. I held on and rode it.

My heart stopped then raced, then stopped again and there was a moment at a round-about when I was sure I was going to drop her because of the camber of the road and the tiny stumps of my legs struggling to keep her upright.

Familiar territory, Spring Hill, The City, Southbank. I relaxed into the shape of the seat. Odd riding position. My Virago is so upright, so laid back. It was a racer, and I had to lean forward with my arms stretched out. I felt exposed, like someone stretched on a rack. Overstretched. There was an uncomfortable breeze sneaking a slow path up through my leather jacket.

It was only at the lights on Boundary Street that I became aware of the small joys of riding a racer. Almost at work. I barely needed to concentrate on the mid-morning traffic. I could navigate this stretch of road with my eyes closed. I closed my eyes, just for a second, but enough to notice that this particular riding position tilted my pelvis forward onto the saddle. There was that juddering rub, that must have been there the whole time, but when I relaxed into it the friction overwhelmed me.

Almost at work. The welcome distraction of a pedestrian crossing. I let the vibrations settle in to my bones. I felt my clitorus swelling, spreading out to engulf every centimeter of my stomach and my thighs. A few more minutes and I would orgasm. I would orgasm from the sheer pleasure of riding a motorcycle that was not my own.

Almost there.

I approached the turn into the carpark slowly, but not slowly enough. I would not be able to climax before I had to turn the engine off. I paused at the turn off. Some car behind me beeped. I continued on. Just a quick ride down the back streets, just a little meander. Montague Road is a long stretch of easy rode. I settled in to ride it. Rode it. Somewhere around Bicycle Revolution, the moment arrived. I maintained my speed. I didn't close my eyes. I felt the race of my heart and the throbbing, some me, some the bike, and at the end of it I was still upright, a little steamy in the helmet, unscathed.

I really have to get me a racer one day.