I started serious motorbiking when I was 69, four years ago. Before then, I'd sometimes rented a bike but rentals do not let you set off into the unknown.
Finally, I took the plunge and bought a Kawasaki 250cc trail bike. An important detail is its lightness: 120kg allows me to feel in control. It was not for roaring noisily down a highway but for exploration.
Where to ride and the bike to use must be carefully chosen: a place not strangled by traffic, a motorbike-friendly climate, varied landscapes, a welcoming people.
Later, you may choose how hazardous you wish your riding to be - gentle or with an edge of danger. I chose Madagascar.
ABSOLUTE SILENCE
There is a certain spiritual quality about an open road and a motorbike.
On a high plateau, I stop and listen to a silence, which is absolute, but for an occasional breath of wind through the scrawny grass, scree and scrub.There are rolling hills stretching out to blue-tinted peaks hundreds of kilometres away. I try to come to terms with my own insignificance and ignorance of almost all that surrounds me.
These mountains thrust up millions of years ago but I do not know when or how. I know the kestrel circling in the sky above is searching for rodents and lizards, but I know nothing of its life.
I cannot put names to most of the birds or plants I see. I know so little but want to know so much.
MY MAD MISSION
I was extremely nervous before starting my first long ride. Two years later, I took on the challenge of one of the most difficult roads in Madagascar, impassable in the rainy season, needing a 4x4 in the dry. (It's the N5A from Ambilobe to Vohemar on the east coast).
People said I was mad to attempt it: its difficulty and my age made it a crazy venture. Across the flank of a mountain, it was a test for the bike and me: sand, gravel, rutted mud, pure rock. I arrived proudly exhausted after 180km and with a sense of having overcome a certain fear.
When I remember it now, I smell the coffee the old lady is stirring in a cast-iron pot on the roadside at 6am.I see children, often barefoot, going noisily to school. I pass women, basins piled with clothes, going to a river or pond. I get the pungent whiff of zebu as I thread through one of the morning herds monopolising a road. I admire a mother breastfeeding a child. I salute men and women going to the fields carrying hoes. I stop to take to a photo of a thronged village market or women knee-deep in a muddy rice field. I smell the vanilla drying on the roadside.
My bag is attached with two elastic bands to the rear carrier. I travel light. In my bag, I have two spare tubes and tools for changing a wheel. I could manage to change a front wheel but a back one would be too much. I would wait for help.Though constant concentration is needed, there are moments for wonder and meditation. Occasionally, if the road holds no apparent danger, I flex my arms to help the blood circulate. I find myself sometimes stroking my chin as if I were an ancient philosopher.
Many things puzzle me as I travel. I do not understand how people going about menial tasks in the poor, sorry-looking village I have just passed through can look so happy. I see open faces and smiles and I compare them, in my mind, to morning faces in a Paris or London street. I try to guard against romanticising places and peoples but I wish them to be as happy as they look. I feel it would be a type of justice. Is a circumscribed life with fewer possessions and choices a happier one?
LOVE ON WHEELS
There is a feeling of intimacy with a motorbike that creates a bond. I like my bike, as I could not do a car. A twist of the throttle, a touch on a brake and the machine responds as few cars could. I hug the tank with my knees to help steer.
Many roads are in an atrocious condition. Generally, I scrutinise the 30m in front to try to anticipate trouble. A serious danger is deep potholes. They can wrench the handles from hands and leave the bike careering out of control.
A second hole hidden by the first is impossible to avoid. I grit my teeth and ride through as it shakes my whole body. I ride with suspicion through the lusciously tempting shade of trees: the darkness can conceal.
EARLY TO RIDE
I often ride six to eight hours in a day. I start with the rising sun, the time of day I enjoy most, and ride until it is uncomfortably hot. I do not book a place to sleep in advance, being unsure of when or where I may stop. Side roads beckon when there is no fixed timetable. I always stop when tiredness takes away the pleasure.
I stop occasionally at a roadside wooden shack, of which there are many, to have a coffee or a small snack.
I have learnt a few words of Malagasy to use in these places; the smiling appreciation shown outweighs the effort of difficult pronunciation. My stopping arouses some curiosity; tourists on motorbikes are rare. At times a small child might run, crying, to hide in its mother's skirt; another might run to take my hand and smile.I feel lucky as I pass through plantations of cacao, ylang-ylang, vanilla, peppers or other exotic produce and promise myself I'll learn all about them if I ever get the chance.
The rushing breeze excites new curiosities, and reawakens a sense of wonder. It is like a drug that keeps you wide awake and very much alive; I simply have to beware of its addictive qualities.
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