I just bought a croissant from the bakery across the border and walk back to my bike.
In the meantime, there are two recent two-wheelers and a few motorcyclists to prove that it is not too bad with the aging of our passion.
That extremely high average age of motorcyclists is of course partly due to my great-uncle Garty. He once got his motorcycle license in colonial times. He is now 87 and still smokes without glasses. But he has not been riding an 50 for years. However, he counts bravely in the statistics.
The one motorcyclist looks at me with a surprised eyebrow. "Is that a classic or is he just old?" He is just old. But he is still doing it well and I am a little fused with it. "He is leaking," the other motard forgets. "No, it is not. He marks his place. Tis a dog. Not a bitch. ”“ Is something like that still driving a bit now? ”“ Mwah, I'm on my way to Hannut and we are apparently heading in the same direction. Just try."
The idea to get on a motorcycle that looks less thoughtful than the Honda CB500R and is not much younger than it is itself has to go down. But it does appeal to him.
We take a look at each other's engines and think we understand. We exchange partners. We're on our way. My new young friend is leading the way because he wants to set the pace with concern about the rudeness of his bicycle.
It is very nice to ride behind your own motorcycle. A great opportunity. I notice how much noise the exhausts make when you drive behind your own pride. All of a sudden I understand the crying children who sometimes pass my hands against my ears and pull away from their moms to flee. The noise is somewhat loud. But not unkind. I think. A kind of storm behind the mountains. Or an artillery bombardment in Syria.
"Whatever, "Europeans say. In the meantime, Thierry is going to drive faster and I am ashamed of the noise of his engine. I hear nothing on my Honda. Not even the ticking of the valves. Just wind noise around my ROOF helmet. With the visor and the jib down, I get the aquarium feeling. Fish have a boring life.
But the Honda sends wonderfully, comes nicely up to speed and feels like something that you put in your inside pocket when you're done playing.
In the meantime, Thierry has discovered intermission when switching down. The boy has a feeling for it. The buildings next to the road reflect the roaring barking from the Italian competition dampers of indefinite origin full of terror. At Hannut we say goodbye. Switch engine again. Thierry reports radically bewildered: "That you used to ride on things like that!" I fell for the charms of his Honda. But comfortably my faithful twin knocks on his tank. He can still stay. Satisfied, he drops a drop of oil on the road.