The incoming salt air sneaks past my open collar, cooling my chest before bleeding outward, down my arms and out.
The roar from the engine rises in pitch as I change down and pass a dawdling Sunday driver. He's running late: it's Tuesday already.
Shifting up, I lean into the approaching left-hander; up and over the rise to meet the coast. As I roll into the sweeping right, I watch the breakers fall on the shore, and the toi toi's flash by in a blur. The sun shines on, and the air smells of kelp, as the throttle rolls on to 100.
OK - It used to be a bigger number; a much bigger number, truth be told, but these days I'm feeling a lot less bullet proof, and a hell of a lot more respectful of the law.
And right now I'm feeling very very old.