What once was 'How Fast?', is fast becoming 'How Long?'. The fact that it is harder makes it all the more desireable, and every nanometer of improvement a huge victory, sun shiney new ass on an old dog's sleeping tricks and all that shite. Some days every shift, every corner, every wheelie feels like an obscene gesture directed squarely at maturity, at the "norms". If you can't join 'em, to hell with 'em I guess.
For some, any type of life is enough. For others it is the quality of life that really matters, and for the oddball few that quality is tied umbilically to two-wheels while for the truly insane it is racing on two-wheels.
Due to the inevitable vagaries of life, every racer reaches a breaking point, a come to god moment, a quiet realization, the day arrives, that they will not race any longer. Some bow out gracefully, others drift slowly away in pursuit of other passions, some meet their fate harshly and violently while others hang on as long as they can. And for a very select few, like the man in the picture below, they continue to thrive and win, seemingly laughing as the years pass by, apparently guardians of Ponce de Leon's secrets.
|Roper. Probably older than you..... and a whole lot faster|
On a personal level, I'm not sure where my breaking point is. If you asked me today, "How much longer?", I would probably say, "As long as I goddamn well please." As long as I can.