There is a theory that everything in life is about politics; there is no escape, no matter how hard or fast or far you run. You can get deep into some lost wilderness on your Africa Twin but you still need petrol, the price and availability of which is dictated by the actions of some tyrant in the Middle East and then by the almost infinite reactions of traders and brokers and businesses all around the world. Politics is everywhere. It never sleeps; it seeps into the nooks and crannies of our existence like a good lube penetrates the O-rings on your chain.
The thing about politics is that it is rarely, if ever, fair. It is like playing Russian roulette with an Uzi; it’s like betting on red in a casino for the colour blind. It’s a mean, ubiquitous affair, and we have no choice but to play the game.
Politics hits the motorcyclist hard; it screws everyone but when you get screwed on a motorcycle the tendency is for the pain to last longer and burn hotter than had the screwing occurred in the air-conditioned cocoon of a Range Rover.
It is very easy for the average motorcyclist to infringe at least a dozen road laws every journey just by trying to stay alive. I frequently use the acceleration and speed of my Kawasaki to position myself in a safe and sensible position on the road, and by maintaining a speed at least double that of anything else in my immediate vicinity, I am able to stay well clear of any dangerous rear-end action while zipping past obstacles with such ferocious momentum that most drivers barely realise they have been blitzed into road cinder.
Safety first; that is my motto, and in many ways it echoes the concerns and politics of this conservative age.