THE ROCK I WAS sitting on was hot. Rocks get hot in summer. It is the nature of both the season and the rock. I was hot too, and a little dry-mouthed. But not from thirst. When your entire being has been fire-hosed with adrenalin-powered endorphins, it tends to dry you out some. I wished I still smoked. It seemed appropriate.
Two metres away, on the side of the road, sat BMW’s M1000R, its rear tyre frosted with gravel. It looked like a black donut studded with grey hundreds-and-thousands.
We were having what might be termed a brief operational pause. I was no longer 25. It takes a little longer for my thrill-jelly to reconstitute itself. In the past, I would
