Blind crests and sweeping left-handers… the day I became an F1 speed demon

Not in Portugal for the scenic route, but the Portimao racetrack tarmac

Beneath January skies of uncertain mood, with faster friends among the tuned-up

Stickered-up, multi-coloured, quick-shifting motorbikes, suspension adjusted

For expectant rear ends. I unpacked my machine from the stillage

With paddock stands and tyre warmers to feel my way around the blind crests

And sweeping left handers into hairpins. Not seen for too long since last time

Evaporated any familiarity. I was a stranger again to these bends, but

Lap by lap they edited themselves into coherence and I understood,

Although each hilltop offered a stomach-churning change of direction

Until the rain stopped play on the third day – English, Dutch and Italians

On Ducatis, Yamahas, BMWs, KTMs, Suzukis and me, on a Honda Fireblade.

Only the ones on wets went out; five slid off before lunchtime

Which was when we stopped weather-watching and went to the café for coffee,

Our final hours rinsed out and drained away. We repacked stillages,

Some in bandages, some limping, some with bruises and broken fairings

And grazed pride from a lowside into gravel and stone. The hotel bar filled

With very old couples escaping snow in England, and track-focused men

Stopped short by water, energy all coiled up with nowhere to go, drinking beer;

Expectations cut short left vacant hours where bodies sank into a torpor

And the future reformed on the other side of a flight home.