Why I want a….envy

So, having just said no more posts until I get back I immediately contradict myself. Well – it isn’t the first time and it sure won’t be the last!

This is the first of what I hope will be a new and sustained project for me, some creative writing. At the moment, they will be based on prompts given by one of two places – Sleep is for the weak, or Judith’s Room. The reason I say ‘sustained project’ is I was told this week that I have a three-minute attention span and while I don’t think I am THAT bad, I realise that I do get bored easily and want t to start a new project! So, anyway, first attempt for years at some creative writing – with the prompt of “why I want…” and, rather coincidentally – Envy.

Driving down the road from spring through to early winter my heart is continually attacked by pangs of envy and wanting. The doppler effect effecting me deeply, as my head whips around, and back, and round again as they fly past me, all leather and elegance.

Since I gave up my motorbike, a beautiful Suzuki 600 Bandit, two years ago to get a sensible and boring car, my heart aches for one. The freedom they bring, the sheer exhilaration of going down the road at 70 miles per hour *cough 100 cough* as the air pushes against you, making me feel like if I threw my hands up I would gracefully somersault off of the back and fly down the road, free as a bird.

The danger and adrenaline bring a thrill to me which I just can’t match without my two wheels and big engine. The way I and the bike become one and I wove through traffic, getting to the destination quicker, even if frequent stops were needed because it is just so tiring. Or when it is raining so hard that my knickers are soaking wet, even through supposing water-proof, Gore-Tex clothing. Even when I have stupidly gone out in the winter and ended up getting snowed on to the extend that I feel like I have been frozen in position and will never move again.

I know that it is much more practical to have a car, that motorbikes are dangerous, but it doesn’t stop me. Even seeing silly boys (always boys) in shorts with no gloves, which makes me physically feel sick in sympathy for what is going to happen to their body if they come off, doesn’t stop me. My heart aches for the adrenaline and exhilaration which comes from riding a bike.

One day I will have my shiny red bike, with matching red leathers and I am going to fly around a race track, get my knee down and then drive home down the motorway making another girl envious as she stares out of her boring, sensible car, with pure lust in her eyes as she catches mine and smiles.

my black susuki motorbike

There she is - or was, more to the point


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