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.