The Clock Ticked –> Thirty three hundred (3300)

The rubber dug the tarmac; the rims took all the weight. The wheel turned with aplomb, the cable whirred furiously, the gears clocked, choosing to lessen the violence within and slowly nudged the numbers on the Odo (How Odometer works!)to a 3300.

It’s been a while since I got it from Iqbal. Flint rides well, it rides fine. A machine of bygone era reminding people that vintage can still kick “arse”; I like the thump, I like the smell of gasoline on my hands when I pull the choke upwards for a kick start. I like the stance it has when parked. A proud machine, to be ridden responsibly as it spreads its thump to the world.

Deega, deega, dugga, dugga, dug, dug, dug, dug, dug, dug, dug, dug. Its starts with a roar only to slowly idle to a whimper of a tamed big cat, promising me joy and the willingness to eat endless roads uncomplaining and without ill will. I treat ‘Flint’ well. Wash it sometimes (once every 2 weeks), just because a machine washed well, looks well and treats its owner better. Believe me, with a Bullet it’s never the other way round, if treated bad; it’ll take its revenge on a cold rainy night when you want to drop your date home.

That’s all the more reason I love the machine. It complains, it whines. It needs a lot of work and apart from not being a light machine; it makes sure it’s not taken lightly – on the road or off it. Eye grabber par excellence, it has its own fallacies, but that’s the joy of having a Bullet.

It’s the end of a long day. Peace lies in the mind and the sound of the machine echoes in my wild heart.

Truly, Madly, Deeply

Cerebral Z

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