It's funny how you can't exactly recall a smell and yet the smell when you do smell it seems to have a powerful affect on memory. So that probably explains why I always seem to forget that wonderful thing about the North West Highlands - the smells, which then seem familiar and forever linked with open spaces, freedom and maybe having an accident.
The forced draught which occurs on a motorbike gives an amplification to the sweet smell of Bog Myrtle in the midge infested boggy bits; the scent of pine trees in the shady woods with damp patches on the corners; the smell of sheep and their droppings where at any time a lamb could suddenly decide to charge under the front wheel; the aroma of the yellow flowers of gorse bushes with heavyweight bumble bees ready to splatter; the characteristic seaweed stink mixed with cold damp air, Haar reducing visibilty to 10 yards and misting up ones visor; cow pats together with tar, cattle and new gravel in the middle of the road (max speed 20mph), the umistakeable smell of petrol vapour from Charlie's bike ahead of me...errr?
George comes to a halt due to an inexplicable coldness of his left leg after having been given permission to experience the power of the Z1000. I stop next to it but hurriedly move forward, looking after Number One. Petrol is gushing out like the botttom of the tank is missing, is George about to be engulfed in a fireball of igniting vapour? was my first thought. It would be like those protesters that make their point by self-immolation but in George's case an involuntary act and largely pointless.
Luckily Charlie had recently fitted a four into one pipe so the bulk of the very hot exhaust was on the right hand side...
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4 comments:
Passed around 800 motorcycles at the Tyndrum cafe, were they with you?
no no we avoided that route, always too much police presence.
Could have been right nasty that one.
And further compromised George's sex appeal.
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