Scream if you wanna go faster...

Frantic. If I were to pick a word for the last two days, it would be frantic.

Or awesome.

Either way, it's been an eye opener. Making the much needed leap from the diesel-powered sardine cans of the nations railways, to the beauty and freedom of two wheeled luxury, has been both a reawakening of epic proportions and more nerve jangling than smacking a crocodile in the face with your love spuds.

I've missed motorcycling more than I care to admit. The sadistic glee of swearing at myopic drivers inside the safety of your lid, dodging effortlessly through gaps smaller than a Rizla and screaming "Tally-ho! Make way for me!" - nothing compares to this sweet rapture.

There are some downsides though. When you sit down for a days work after something like that, nothing moves at the pace you want it to. An epoch will pass as you impatiently wait for electricity to plod its weary way from the start button of your computer to it's internals. Emails open with glacial swiftness and the simple act of filling a cup with hot water takes on biblically epic proportions. The world wants to get a fecking move on, because I don't have time for it to be taking the piss.

Downside number two is that I don't get so much reading done. Say what you will about the inefficiencies of the railways, they sure do make for handy travelling park benches, upon which to batter through a good book.
"But Simon," I hear you say, "you can read when you get home!"
I look at you as if you just suggested my earlier referenced crocodile/wedding tackle interface would be a ripping thing to do, then reply;
"Negative, evening time is when I shoot pixelated things in the face as they attempt to take over my television."
I'd like to thank the lovely Gayle for perpetuating this electronic crack habit with the recent purchase of Mass Effect 3.

There's always going to be a period of adjustment when you change your routine, but this change is so far and so fast, that I think I may have left my sense of proportion on the back seat of the number 35 bus. The heady thrill of navigating the psychopathic delights of Leicester's ring road will no doubt wear thin, but for now I'm higher than a Lego Space Shuttle.

So, life is once more back to roller-coaster time, the highs of independent travel offset by the inevitable cold turkey comedown one could only experience after battling through evening traffic.

The only difference is that I'm now the one controlling the roller-coaster - all it takes is a flick of the wrist.