Yesterday I was riding my motorcycle down a steep and rocky mule track, alongside a dry riverbed, dropping down to the Alpujarran town of Orgiva. The sun was intense, and a light wind was filling the air with clouds of dust. There were some bits of track which tempted me beyond endurance, but by and large I was quietly tootling.
As I looked down the valley of the Rio Chico, and across it to the old house in the trees I have recently come to covet, I was full of exquisite anticipation -- was this to be my new home? Could I put roots down here? Would I ever become blasé about this stunning landscape?
My attention was suddenly focussed on two young guys walking in front of me, one on each side of the track.
There was a gap between them, but I throttled down and followed at tickover, waiting for a chance to get by without invading their space. I thought it likely that one or the other would join his companion, and leave me some room.
It obviously was not going to happen.
Slowly and quietly I edged the bike into the four foot gap between them at a slightly higher speed than their own, assuming that they were used to this sort of traffic ... and my rear brake emitted its usual cheery squeak.
The guy on the right leapt into the air and his feet were going before he hit the ground.
His mate disappeared to my left.
I caught the sight of wires around the necks of the surprised pedestrians, and realised that these two had intentionally cut themselves off from the auditory environment, in favour of the music of their choice.
In England, I pass a lot of horse riders on the bike, and am never satisfied unless friendly waves are exchanged - I do whatever is necessary to accommodate the horses feelings and the riders safety.
Horses are thought of as 'dumb animals' in some quarters - yet their sensitivity is beyond the comprehension of many.
How much dumber is the animal that insists on having music in both ears?
And what can a motorcyclist, or leckybiker do, to exist peaceably in such a situation?
Volvo.
As I looked down the valley of the Rio Chico, and across it to the old house in the trees I have recently come to covet, I was full of exquisite anticipation -- was this to be my new home? Could I put roots down here? Would I ever become blasé about this stunning landscape?
My attention was suddenly focussed on two young guys walking in front of me, one on each side of the track.
There was a gap between them, but I throttled down and followed at tickover, waiting for a chance to get by without invading their space. I thought it likely that one or the other would join his companion, and leave me some room.
It obviously was not going to happen.
Slowly and quietly I edged the bike into the four foot gap between them at a slightly higher speed than their own, assuming that they were used to this sort of traffic ... and my rear brake emitted its usual cheery squeak.
The guy on the right leapt into the air and his feet were going before he hit the ground.
His mate disappeared to my left.
I caught the sight of wires around the necks of the surprised pedestrians, and realised that these two had intentionally cut themselves off from the auditory environment, in favour of the music of their choice.
In England, I pass a lot of horse riders on the bike, and am never satisfied unless friendly waves are exchanged - I do whatever is necessary to accommodate the horses feelings and the riders safety.
Horses are thought of as 'dumb animals' in some quarters - yet their sensitivity is beyond the comprehension of many.
How much dumber is the animal that insists on having music in both ears?
And what can a motorcyclist, or leckybiker do, to exist peaceably in such a situation?
Volvo.
