This story is something a very small group can understand BUT it motivated me every time I hit the track...
A Motorcycle Racer defines FUN....
You pull off a really wild aggressive pass on your racing competitors. At the exit of a fast corner, perhaps getting hard on the gas a nanosecond too early, which puts your bike (Racebike) into a beautiful lurid high speed drift exiting onto the straight-away in a god awful hairy (dangerous) place and your trajectory is flat locked man. I mean there are volumes of physics manuals written on this that would seize most small personal computers. Your talking mass, and energy and vectors and stuff.
There is a cement wall on the exit with scary marks that were put there by something, and that something was not killer whales gnawing on that cement. You know what put those marks there, motorcycles, bodies, and hurtling out of control shit. You see this wall clearly and can feel its hard unforgiving presence encroach on your space. You are heading for that wall turning right. There is no pulling that energy you unleashed out of this equation baby and as your slide ends your left handlebar button scrapes into the wall making a soft muted plastic whrrrrrrr noise, then popping out. It is a really scary noise, but that's it. You make it, you do not hit that wall and crash.
Your race buddies stop by your pits soon after the end of that race.
Comments are uttered, short descriptive bits, between the long deep gulps of water everyone takes from their water bottles.
Words, descriptive, well chosen and vivid do for a moment place all of you back in time on the Racetrack. Time now seems to slow and all in attendance smile broadly, sweat streaming down the intensely reflective faces. Quietly someone is speaking, mentioning that pass you made and extolling its wild beauty. But none of your buddies, the audience to that pass, ever saw you scrape that wall. So they go on recalling in well chosen words what they observed oblivious to the fact that you've drifted off.
Your lost in your own thought. Standing there staring intently at your
Racebike, smiling, wondering how you can get another one of those small
plastic buttons that hang out of the bar end? Looking to you now like some wonderful cosmic curb feeler that ejected on you, sacrificed itself, so that you might live in this place. A place that holds you irretrievably, with a contradictory power. This place that while inherently so risky you could die, also holds your soul, your whatever you are. Holds it and energizes it to an extent you will never know anywhere else and the fear of letting that go has you climb back on and go out and do it again.
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