Thumping Down

Bulleters

The name pretty much sums it up. Bulleters – a riding club for people with a passion for bullets. A group, where words are replaced with thumping engine noises, the keeekeee, keeeeekkeeee of the accelerator being pulled, dhakdhakdhakdhak dhaaaaaak dhaaaaak dhaaaaak sounds, a flash and someone speeds by you, another moment and a turn looms up.

Sitting behind, holding on tight, one pushes the defiant strand of hair from ones eyes and concentrates. Nature, trees, monkeys are all zoned into one common truth.

Man, machine and the road.

A flick of the wrist, a roar in response

Slit eyes, scanning everything

Split decisions taken, the world zooms by

Over and over again, vroom the men

Faster, crazier, madder, the rush making the eyes water

One man pauses. Pulls over. Waits

Rider and bike, cockily lazily gaze

Waiting to see who made it next

The speed the thrill the competition that somehow never ends

A bike pulls up. Helmet is removed

Riders gaze into each others eyes

Competition, then and there dies.

A big grin, a slap on the back.

That was fun maccha, zatak the bikes went

Revving down the crowded roads of the city, Bikes lined up one behind the other thumping and hooting their brotherhood. A bike snake, coiled its way as bystanders looked with on with a smile, children waived and local boys tooted their horns in glee

Sitting there -  yet again reprimanding the defiant hair strands it came to me. There is a spontaneous joy in belonging to something large. Larger than you or your immediate circle of people, even though this was a bike ride and not a cause, there is an intuitive intoxicating rush in belonging. Creating a wave

Egypt made more sense now. Anna made more sense now. The cause becomes secondary, the thrill primary.