SV-Wolf's Bike Blog
Mike 
-
sv-wolf
- Site Supporter - Platinum
- Posts: 2278
- Joined: Sat Dec 13, 2003 2:06 am
- Real Name: Richard
- Sex: Male
- Years Riding: 12
- My Motorcycle: Honda Fireblade, 2004: Suzuki DR650, 201
- Location: Hertfordshire, UK
Wednesday 17 May
In the days following Di's death I've been struggling to make sense of all the confusing thoughts and feelings that have been going through my mind: they are all contradictory, all lacking a final sense of reality, all incomplete. I've also been struggling to organise the funeral and jump through all the bureaucratic hoops required by the state when someone dies. And I've been struggling to retain my own clear memory of Di in the face of all the myths that people are beginning to weave around her.
Mythmaking always happens when someone dies. I’ve seen it before after the deaths of both my mother and father. People tell themselves stories to make them feel better. The stories become fixed and gradually get fitted into the family 'history'. Already, the stories people want to remember (and forget) about Di are being selected. Certain phrases are beginning to recur in the telling. Events in her life and the nature of her death are being interpreted. She’s being turned into some sort of hero. Well, she was heroic in some ways. She was an exceptional person, especially her commitment to other people and the way she dealt with her illness, but she was also an ordinary human being. What the myths leave out are her fears and failures, conflicts and struggles. Her vulnerability was something I saw on a daily basis. Others often only saw the public face, the strong outer personality.
It’s natural to mythologise. People are hurting inside right now; boundaries are weak. But I don’t like it. I want to stay with my own unvarnished memories of her for as long as I can. I guess I’m jealous: I don’t feel happy to share her death with anyone else – not yet.
Despite all the confusion in my head, I woke up last Thursday morning (11 May) with one very clear thought. I had to go down to the Chalice Well at Glastonbury and bring back some water for her. I didn’t know exactly why or what I was supposed to do with it when I got it. I just knew I had to do it.
The Chalice Well Garden is a place that Di retreated to from time to time when her life was going badly or when she needed time to think. It was a very special place for her. In some strange way, I also felt I might meet her there. She's not here, that's for sure - the house feels empty since her death. I can feel nothing of her presence: I can't call her to mind. I can't even recollect clearly what her voice sounded like.
Because of morning commitments, I wasn't able to leave Hitchin until nearly two o'clock. Glastonbury is two hundred miles from here, so I was going to have to ride fast to get to the Garden before it closed at 5.30. I hoped for good roads and set off. Taking a whole day out also meant that some of the things I needed to do for the funeral might not get done on time. It was a risk. But one I had to take. In any case, I never like to plan things down to the last detail that eliminates spontaneity. (For something like this, you have to leave room for other people to make unexpected contributions.)
Glastonbury and the Chalice Well were one of the huge points at issue between Di and I. We had very different ways of looking at the world. On the surface, at any rate, I was the logical empiricist: she was all heart. From these very different perspectives we argued about everything: politics, religion, philosophy, the best way to cook rice.
There’s a line from D H Lawrence’s poem, 'The Snake,' which refers angrily to the 'voices of our accursed education'. In the last few years I’ve begun to doubt the univeral value of analytical thinking. I have to concede that people make their own meanings, and in very human situations like the one I find myself in now Di’s heart-centred world-view is potent and inescapable. Logic and rationality are all very well in practical situations but they are helpless in the face of death.
It's funny - despite what I have just said about the different ways we saw the world, Di was actually the practical one (God! Was she practical…! and active… and exhausting). In contrast, I’m often emotional and sentimental and sloppy.
Glastonbury is a strange little town. It butts up against the side of a Tor (steep sided hill), which rises suddenly and dramatically out of the low-lying Somerset Levels. The Levels are a wide, flat area of flood plain that until 100 years ago used to be regularly inundated. People in the area kept boats in their backyards and listened out for the church bells which rang out to warn them of the coming of the waters. Rising up suddenly out of the plain, here and there, are the Somerset tors, apparently natural in origin but strangely shaped and looking like the giant earthwork 'castles' of neolithic times. Gastonbury Tor is the oddest and most dramatic of all of them.
Glastonbury is a place of pilgrimage for Christians, Pagans, Pantheists, nature lovers, New Age Travellers, therapists, counsellors, seekers after spiritual wisdom, admirers of mystical tat, drop outs, musicians, artists, craftsfolk, entertainers - the confused, the innocent and the mad. Anyone searching for a meaning to life that lies beyond the immediate and transient will probably find their way to Glastonbury at some time or another. Love it or hate it, there's nowhere else like it.
Down the centuries, the many myths and folk tales that have grown up around the town and the tor would fill several large libraries. But basically, there are three main beliefs. The first relates to the legend of Arthur. Glastonbury is believed by many to be the site of Camelot, the court of king Arthur. It is also supposed to be his last resting place. The second is Bibical. The town is held to be the place where Joseph of Arimethia (the guy who gave Christ the use of his tomb) is supposed to have settled in England. Joseph, by legend, brought with him the Holy Grail, the cup/bowl Christ drank from at the last supper (or was offered to him on the cross). The Joseph legends are centred on Wearyall Hill, a low hillock to the south of the town (now half covered by a scruffy housing estate named ‘Paradise’).
For many people though, it is the third element that makes Glastonbury special. The focus here is on the Tor itself. New Age types agree that the Tor is a kind of epicentre, where the energies of the earth converge. Some say, all the ley lines in England (possibly the world) meet here. The Tor is said to be a place of great spiritual power and energy. To many people into earth mysteries, it is 'the holiest place in England'. It is also the place where the Christian and Pagan traditions meet. Twice, down the ages the local abbey has built a church on top of the Tor and twice the body of the church has collapsed leaving nothing but a single tower (a pagan symbol). The last tower to survive still dominates the crown of the hill.
There a funny thing about the English that I didn't really appreciate until recently and very few people outside these islands know. Among all the other aspects of English culture and character (if there is such a thing) there is a very powerful element of nature mysticism. This is strong today, but goes back centuries. The whole island is full of ‘holy wells’, ancient standing stones, ‘fairy rings’ and places that are surrounded by stories of ancient magic. Ireland, which is where my mother came from, is usually thought of as being the land of Leprachauns and tall tales. English mysticism is a bit more hard headed, less fay, but just as prevalent. No less than Ireland, England has its own country tales of the 'little folk' (it has dozens of different kinds). Pagan roots go deep.
Flowing from the Tor on the Eastern side are two streams. They emerge from the hillside in close proximity, but they are very different. One is red and the other is white. The red stream is presumed to flow through iron-bearing strata giving its waters a faintly rusty colour. Its channel, much more dramatic, is a stunningly bright salmon pink. The white stream is chalky and pale. Today, the white stream flows through a culvert under the road. The red stream, more fortunate, emerges from the earth on the grassy hillside and flows down into the town. At its head of the stream is the oldest known Celtic Christian well in the country. Celtic Christianity was deeply imbued with a pre-Christian awareness of the power and presence of the land. Wells were revered as holy places and became 'shrines’ visited by pilgrims and those who wanted to be healed. The Chalice Well has been visited as a ‘sacred shrine' for centuries.
Sometime, in the last hundred years, I’m not sure exactly when, the land surrounding the well and the stream that flows from it was bought up by an English mystic (Wellsley Tudor-Pole) who began sculpting the sloping ridge of hillside. He turned it into a beautiful garden dedicated to meditation and quiet thoughts. There is also a magical story (of course) attached to it. When Tudor-Pole excavated the well, he found a bowl in the bottom. Grail seekers began to wonder…! And there is something else. The bowl, which is now housed in the upper room of a stone built house that stands at the entrance to the garden, is said to ‘travel’. Visitors arrive asking to see it. The keeper tells them them to wait. He then checks whether it is there or whether it has… ‘gone away’. Mystery or fraud, or unexplained natural occurrence? You take your pick.
As a hoary old empiricist I’m very sceptical, of course, if not downright cynical. But it is such a wonderful story that the romantic in me has it pigeon-holed away in that part of my mind that I reserve for myths and metaphors and dreams and other stuff that lies in the vague area between belief and unbelief. Such stories are good for the imagination. When Di and I discussed the issue of the well, though, it was always the well-constructed materialist in me that came to the fore. I regret that now, because in later years she never fully discussed her spiritual beliefs with me in the way I would have liked. It was a side of her that I never fully understood. On Thursday, however, shattered by her death, the sceptic in me was temporarily blown away. I knew this was a journey I had to make.
The physical journey to Glastonbury is an interesting one on a bike. First you have to endure the usual south-westerly trek down the A1(M), round the M25 and out onto the M3. Beyond Basingstoke however, you turn off onto the lovely A303. The A303 runs right past Popham Airfield where I go to meet the SV1000 crew from time to time, and through Andover where I went to school. After that it flows across the Hampshire countryside - between wide, grassy fields, by lofty hedgerows and over gorse-clustered heath.
Beyond the Hampshire/Wilstshire border it skims past Stonehenge and ventures out across the huge expanse of Salisbury Plain. These days Stonehenge looks diminished – a cosy, well-ordered ‘World Heritage Site.' And to my mind it is not nearly as magnificent and impressive as the wild, windswept country that surrounds it. Salisbury Plain works powerfully on the imagination. Its bare, chalky landscape rolls majestically from horizon to horizon like a kind of frozen thunder. You cannot cross it without it changing your mood.
As I rode out onto the Plain, the sky became grey and heavy with cloud, throwing a pall of thin mist over the wide-open land. A few, large raindrops began to fall and I started to shiver - because of the wet and the cold, but also because the dense, whispy cover above, the wide, chalky plain ahead, and the windy chill of the air whipping past me had taken over my thoughts. In the stormy, electrical light, Salisbury Plain looked vast and elemental like something from the dawn of human history. Even the bike’s rumble beneath me seemed deeper, grittier than usual, as though it was having to battle its way ahead, head down, against the wind and the sheer wildness of the place.
The road was busy, and I had to concentrate on traffic and on overtakes. I was in a hurry, but I was also thoroughly enjoying myself. Despite my narrow biker’s focus - eyes riveted on the road ahead - the sea of watery green grassland on either side penetrated my senses. Everything I saw seemed more vivid than usual. Thoughts that, on a normal day, jostle through my head like crowds in a city street, evaporated. In their place came convoys of primitive feeling - huge, uncomplex emotions for which explanations are impossible and unnecessary. I wanted to laugh and shout. Hidden under the mass of modern cerebral tissue, the old reptilian brain was reasserting itself.
Twenty minutes later, as the landscape began to fold in on itself once again the sky brightened as though to say, ‘show’s over, man.’ The rain retreated and there was a renewed warmth and light radiating across the fields and over the stones of the passing villages. The A303 is a great road: mostly dual carriageway but interspersed with a few, shortish stretches of two-lane blacktop. It’s a great, lazy road: it lets you relax. When, at last, I had to turn off it and head towards the towns of Street and Glastonbury I felt sad. I'd been having a hell of a good time.
The B roads I was now riding were twisty little lanes running between small fields, mostly pasture. They would offer lot of fun to a biker in a good mood except that they are usually suffocated with traffic. Today they were even busier than usual. Over and again, I got caught behind lines of cars which in turn were stuck behind heavy lorries that moved at funereal speeds. The opposite carriageways were busy with the same slowly moving traffic. There were few opportunities for safe overtakes. I tried to settle down behind them while I had to, and took my chances when I could.
Car hopping up queues of cars can be a lot of fun and it can save a lot of time. Thank God for two wheels! But I was getting very fretful because the minutes were ticking by and in my head I could feel the approach of five-thirty, when the garden closed. (I never wear a watch and I’d forgotten to reset the clock on my dash after the bike’s battery had run dry again last week - my fault this time, I left the lights on). Not being sure of the time stoked up the anxieties even more.
When I did roll into Glastonbury it had begun to rain once more. I parked the bike in the town centre and set off on foot to find the Chalice Well Gardens. I’d forgotten that they lie off the top end of the town and not the bottom. By the time I realised my mistake it was as quick to go on as to go back to get the bike. It was a long and frustrating walk. Hurrying up the last rise (not easy in boots and leathers), I saw the time: a quarter to six. Well, I’d just have to find someone at the Garden and plead with them.
When I got to the entrance, a warden was in the process of locking the gate. I told my story. He just smiled and pushed back the gate. He gestured me in. I could take what time I liked. Very sweet. The gate closed behind me and suddenly, I was alone in the garden, anxious, wet, and getting wetter in the drizzling rain. The little red stream rolled down over some rocks to fill a shallow pool before meandering out across the lawn towards me. The pool was laid out in an emblematic design, a pair of intersecting circles, the symbol of the chalice well. At that moment I was wearing the same design on a pendant round my neck. I’d given it to Di many years ago on a previous visit. The two circles seemed to represent us, separate but linked. I stood there and didn’t know what to do. I was in a great state of agitation.
As I walked up the winding path, over trim lawns and through enclosed arbours towards the well head I began to talk to Di in my thoughts, explaining why I had come and sharing some of my grief with her. And she was there. I almost didn’t notice it at first but as I spoke I felt her warmth and presence as I had never done at home since the time of her death. I can rationalise these feelings to myself, but what is the point? At that moment they were meaningful and satisfied my longing for her.
I reached the well and sat down for several minutes, fidgeting on its rim, too agitated at first either to act or to be still. Eventually, I scooped up a small handful of earth and placed it in a small box I had brought with me. I planned to put it in her coffin. This was he earth she was rooted in, somewhere she felt at peace.
Peace was something she had had little of in the last very uncomfortable month of her life. Without food to give her energy, her body had consumed itself until there was almost no muscle left. Lying in bed or sitting in a chair, wherever she came into contact with the physical world she felt sore, and her whole body ached. Painkillers made her feel woozy and confused. This interfered with her ability to communicate (by means of a letter frame which allowed her to spell out words using eye movements) so she refused them. It had also been her prayer for many years that she should die a conscious death. Only in her last hour when she had suddenly relaxed and her eyes had drifted away from the room around her, far away from common seeing, did the lines of pain on her face disappear. Only then, did she seem at peace.
Overhanging the well and rooted around its sides was an evergreen shrub. On an impulse I broke off a few leaves and placed them in my pack. I regretted this almost immediately. It felt like an act of vandalism, wholly inappropriate to the moment. But it was done and there was nothing I could do about it. Still feeling agitated, I sat by the well for several minutes more before setting off back down the hill. Half way down, I stopped at a small fountain and filled two bottles with water from the stream. Back near the gate I hung around for a while, neither wanting to stay or to go. Eventually I let myself out. That time in the garden was intense and sad and strange and I'll never forget it.
My plan now was to walk up on top of the Tor - if you can call it a plan. Again, it was something I knew I just had to do. The Tor is very odd, whatever you might think about it. The local council have, of course, done their best to demystify it. They have built a horrible little concrete path which follows the shallowest slope of the hill up to the top. Inscriptions on metal plates inside the tower advise you that the structure is maintained by the local council and by a Heritage Trust. The shape of the tor is carefully explained in geological terms and there is a brass compass to one side detailing all the mundane features of the surrounding levels. I was in no mood for all that. I avoided the footpath as much as I could and made my own way over a field and up the grassy slope.
As I climbed the rain became harder. Large drops began to hammer down on my cap and batter my waterproofs. I’d not had much exercise in the last year and I couldn’t remember a time when I’d been so unfit - except, perhaps, when I was in my lazy twenties. Despite my sense of urgency, I had to sit down, half way up, to catch my breath. I leaned against the steep, grassy slope, panting, waiting for my chest to subside. As I gazed out over the Levels towards the horizon, a first bolt of lightening split the sky and discharged into the plain directly in front of me. A few seconds later a mass of lightening bolts lit the clouds, followed by a frenzy of crashes.
By the time I climbed up to the tower, I was in the middle of the mother and father of all thunderstorms. The main electrical activity was almost directly overhead. Sometimes it wheeled to the south, sometimes to the east, but it didn't move far. Jagged forks of lightening struck the plain every few seconds. The sheet lightning was almost continuous. The dense mass of cloud boiled. The light was electric. A lightening bolt hit the side of the tor. I felt its shock go right up through my feet and felt my cap bob on the top of my head. Lightning can do very bizarre and unexpected things like that. I took a wary look to see if there were lightning conductors on the top of the tower. I also kept my feet firmly together (It's what you are supposed to do - work it out!)
Having spent my life walking regularly in the mountains and elsewhere I’ve been in a lot of thunderstorms, but I can only think of one or two to compare with this. Until that day, the biggest storm I ever encountered occurred while Di and I were walking the Ridgeway down to Avebury. That trip was, perhaps, the high point of our life together, a time we remember with geat affection, when we felt so much in tune and so much in love. One night, as we lay in the tent, a tremendous storm had brewed up. We huddled together in the centre of the tent, still in our sleeping bags, trying to get as far as possible away from the metal poles. Storms do not normally frighten me, but this one did. It scared me witless.
In an electrical storm metal objects sometimes begin to glow blue and sing. I've seen it several times. On that occasion, the buckles on my rucksack began to perform the halleluiah chorus and I remember hurriedly kicking it out of the tent, and into the storm. I remember also becoming paranoid about the metal fillings in my teeth! But the tor was Di’s place, and I wasn’t scared, just filled with a sense of connection. She was putting on one hell of a show for me.
When the storm finally subsided and I’d said my goodbyes, I felt that something had been completed. I felt calmer than I had in months. I made my way back down the path into the town.
That evening I ate in Glastonbury then spent a couple of hours hanging around at a free-form gig with local musicians and performance poets. I didn’t leave till nearly half past eleven. The night was clear. Riding the 200 miles home in the dark was a great experience. I like night riding, when the roads are quiet and there is time for my thoughts. I rolled up outside my house at three o’clock full of adrenalin and happy memories.
In the days following Di's death I've been struggling to make sense of all the confusing thoughts and feelings that have been going through my mind: they are all contradictory, all lacking a final sense of reality, all incomplete. I've also been struggling to organise the funeral and jump through all the bureaucratic hoops required by the state when someone dies. And I've been struggling to retain my own clear memory of Di in the face of all the myths that people are beginning to weave around her.
Mythmaking always happens when someone dies. I’ve seen it before after the deaths of both my mother and father. People tell themselves stories to make them feel better. The stories become fixed and gradually get fitted into the family 'history'. Already, the stories people want to remember (and forget) about Di are being selected. Certain phrases are beginning to recur in the telling. Events in her life and the nature of her death are being interpreted. She’s being turned into some sort of hero. Well, she was heroic in some ways. She was an exceptional person, especially her commitment to other people and the way she dealt with her illness, but she was also an ordinary human being. What the myths leave out are her fears and failures, conflicts and struggles. Her vulnerability was something I saw on a daily basis. Others often only saw the public face, the strong outer personality.
It’s natural to mythologise. People are hurting inside right now; boundaries are weak. But I don’t like it. I want to stay with my own unvarnished memories of her for as long as I can. I guess I’m jealous: I don’t feel happy to share her death with anyone else – not yet.
Despite all the confusion in my head, I woke up last Thursday morning (11 May) with one very clear thought. I had to go down to the Chalice Well at Glastonbury and bring back some water for her. I didn’t know exactly why or what I was supposed to do with it when I got it. I just knew I had to do it.
The Chalice Well Garden is a place that Di retreated to from time to time when her life was going badly or when she needed time to think. It was a very special place for her. In some strange way, I also felt I might meet her there. She's not here, that's for sure - the house feels empty since her death. I can feel nothing of her presence: I can't call her to mind. I can't even recollect clearly what her voice sounded like.
Because of morning commitments, I wasn't able to leave Hitchin until nearly two o'clock. Glastonbury is two hundred miles from here, so I was going to have to ride fast to get to the Garden before it closed at 5.30. I hoped for good roads and set off. Taking a whole day out also meant that some of the things I needed to do for the funeral might not get done on time. It was a risk. But one I had to take. In any case, I never like to plan things down to the last detail that eliminates spontaneity. (For something like this, you have to leave room for other people to make unexpected contributions.)
Glastonbury and the Chalice Well were one of the huge points at issue between Di and I. We had very different ways of looking at the world. On the surface, at any rate, I was the logical empiricist: she was all heart. From these very different perspectives we argued about everything: politics, religion, philosophy, the best way to cook rice.
There’s a line from D H Lawrence’s poem, 'The Snake,' which refers angrily to the 'voices of our accursed education'. In the last few years I’ve begun to doubt the univeral value of analytical thinking. I have to concede that people make their own meanings, and in very human situations like the one I find myself in now Di’s heart-centred world-view is potent and inescapable. Logic and rationality are all very well in practical situations but they are helpless in the face of death.
It's funny - despite what I have just said about the different ways we saw the world, Di was actually the practical one (God! Was she practical…! and active… and exhausting). In contrast, I’m often emotional and sentimental and sloppy.
Glastonbury is a strange little town. It butts up against the side of a Tor (steep sided hill), which rises suddenly and dramatically out of the low-lying Somerset Levels. The Levels are a wide, flat area of flood plain that until 100 years ago used to be regularly inundated. People in the area kept boats in their backyards and listened out for the church bells which rang out to warn them of the coming of the waters. Rising up suddenly out of the plain, here and there, are the Somerset tors, apparently natural in origin but strangely shaped and looking like the giant earthwork 'castles' of neolithic times. Gastonbury Tor is the oddest and most dramatic of all of them.
Glastonbury is a place of pilgrimage for Christians, Pagans, Pantheists, nature lovers, New Age Travellers, therapists, counsellors, seekers after spiritual wisdom, admirers of mystical tat, drop outs, musicians, artists, craftsfolk, entertainers - the confused, the innocent and the mad. Anyone searching for a meaning to life that lies beyond the immediate and transient will probably find their way to Glastonbury at some time or another. Love it or hate it, there's nowhere else like it.
Down the centuries, the many myths and folk tales that have grown up around the town and the tor would fill several large libraries. But basically, there are three main beliefs. The first relates to the legend of Arthur. Glastonbury is believed by many to be the site of Camelot, the court of king Arthur. It is also supposed to be his last resting place. The second is Bibical. The town is held to be the place where Joseph of Arimethia (the guy who gave Christ the use of his tomb) is supposed to have settled in England. Joseph, by legend, brought with him the Holy Grail, the cup/bowl Christ drank from at the last supper (or was offered to him on the cross). The Joseph legends are centred on Wearyall Hill, a low hillock to the south of the town (now half covered by a scruffy housing estate named ‘Paradise’).
For many people though, it is the third element that makes Glastonbury special. The focus here is on the Tor itself. New Age types agree that the Tor is a kind of epicentre, where the energies of the earth converge. Some say, all the ley lines in England (possibly the world) meet here. The Tor is said to be a place of great spiritual power and energy. To many people into earth mysteries, it is 'the holiest place in England'. It is also the place where the Christian and Pagan traditions meet. Twice, down the ages the local abbey has built a church on top of the Tor and twice the body of the church has collapsed leaving nothing but a single tower (a pagan symbol). The last tower to survive still dominates the crown of the hill.
There a funny thing about the English that I didn't really appreciate until recently and very few people outside these islands know. Among all the other aspects of English culture and character (if there is such a thing) there is a very powerful element of nature mysticism. This is strong today, but goes back centuries. The whole island is full of ‘holy wells’, ancient standing stones, ‘fairy rings’ and places that are surrounded by stories of ancient magic. Ireland, which is where my mother came from, is usually thought of as being the land of Leprachauns and tall tales. English mysticism is a bit more hard headed, less fay, but just as prevalent. No less than Ireland, England has its own country tales of the 'little folk' (it has dozens of different kinds). Pagan roots go deep.
Flowing from the Tor on the Eastern side are two streams. They emerge from the hillside in close proximity, but they are very different. One is red and the other is white. The red stream is presumed to flow through iron-bearing strata giving its waters a faintly rusty colour. Its channel, much more dramatic, is a stunningly bright salmon pink. The white stream is chalky and pale. Today, the white stream flows through a culvert under the road. The red stream, more fortunate, emerges from the earth on the grassy hillside and flows down into the town. At its head of the stream is the oldest known Celtic Christian well in the country. Celtic Christianity was deeply imbued with a pre-Christian awareness of the power and presence of the land. Wells were revered as holy places and became 'shrines’ visited by pilgrims and those who wanted to be healed. The Chalice Well has been visited as a ‘sacred shrine' for centuries.
Sometime, in the last hundred years, I’m not sure exactly when, the land surrounding the well and the stream that flows from it was bought up by an English mystic (Wellsley Tudor-Pole) who began sculpting the sloping ridge of hillside. He turned it into a beautiful garden dedicated to meditation and quiet thoughts. There is also a magical story (of course) attached to it. When Tudor-Pole excavated the well, he found a bowl in the bottom. Grail seekers began to wonder…! And there is something else. The bowl, which is now housed in the upper room of a stone built house that stands at the entrance to the garden, is said to ‘travel’. Visitors arrive asking to see it. The keeper tells them them to wait. He then checks whether it is there or whether it has… ‘gone away’. Mystery or fraud, or unexplained natural occurrence? You take your pick.
As a hoary old empiricist I’m very sceptical, of course, if not downright cynical. But it is such a wonderful story that the romantic in me has it pigeon-holed away in that part of my mind that I reserve for myths and metaphors and dreams and other stuff that lies in the vague area between belief and unbelief. Such stories are good for the imagination. When Di and I discussed the issue of the well, though, it was always the well-constructed materialist in me that came to the fore. I regret that now, because in later years she never fully discussed her spiritual beliefs with me in the way I would have liked. It was a side of her that I never fully understood. On Thursday, however, shattered by her death, the sceptic in me was temporarily blown away. I knew this was a journey I had to make.
The physical journey to Glastonbury is an interesting one on a bike. First you have to endure the usual south-westerly trek down the A1(M), round the M25 and out onto the M3. Beyond Basingstoke however, you turn off onto the lovely A303. The A303 runs right past Popham Airfield where I go to meet the SV1000 crew from time to time, and through Andover where I went to school. After that it flows across the Hampshire countryside - between wide, grassy fields, by lofty hedgerows and over gorse-clustered heath.
Beyond the Hampshire/Wilstshire border it skims past Stonehenge and ventures out across the huge expanse of Salisbury Plain. These days Stonehenge looks diminished – a cosy, well-ordered ‘World Heritage Site.' And to my mind it is not nearly as magnificent and impressive as the wild, windswept country that surrounds it. Salisbury Plain works powerfully on the imagination. Its bare, chalky landscape rolls majestically from horizon to horizon like a kind of frozen thunder. You cannot cross it without it changing your mood.
As I rode out onto the Plain, the sky became grey and heavy with cloud, throwing a pall of thin mist over the wide-open land. A few, large raindrops began to fall and I started to shiver - because of the wet and the cold, but also because the dense, whispy cover above, the wide, chalky plain ahead, and the windy chill of the air whipping past me had taken over my thoughts. In the stormy, electrical light, Salisbury Plain looked vast and elemental like something from the dawn of human history. Even the bike’s rumble beneath me seemed deeper, grittier than usual, as though it was having to battle its way ahead, head down, against the wind and the sheer wildness of the place.
The road was busy, and I had to concentrate on traffic and on overtakes. I was in a hurry, but I was also thoroughly enjoying myself. Despite my narrow biker’s focus - eyes riveted on the road ahead - the sea of watery green grassland on either side penetrated my senses. Everything I saw seemed more vivid than usual. Thoughts that, on a normal day, jostle through my head like crowds in a city street, evaporated. In their place came convoys of primitive feeling - huge, uncomplex emotions for which explanations are impossible and unnecessary. I wanted to laugh and shout. Hidden under the mass of modern cerebral tissue, the old reptilian brain was reasserting itself.
Twenty minutes later, as the landscape began to fold in on itself once again the sky brightened as though to say, ‘show’s over, man.’ The rain retreated and there was a renewed warmth and light radiating across the fields and over the stones of the passing villages. The A303 is a great road: mostly dual carriageway but interspersed with a few, shortish stretches of two-lane blacktop. It’s a great, lazy road: it lets you relax. When, at last, I had to turn off it and head towards the towns of Street and Glastonbury I felt sad. I'd been having a hell of a good time.
The B roads I was now riding were twisty little lanes running between small fields, mostly pasture. They would offer lot of fun to a biker in a good mood except that they are usually suffocated with traffic. Today they were even busier than usual. Over and again, I got caught behind lines of cars which in turn were stuck behind heavy lorries that moved at funereal speeds. The opposite carriageways were busy with the same slowly moving traffic. There were few opportunities for safe overtakes. I tried to settle down behind them while I had to, and took my chances when I could.
Car hopping up queues of cars can be a lot of fun and it can save a lot of time. Thank God for two wheels! But I was getting very fretful because the minutes were ticking by and in my head I could feel the approach of five-thirty, when the garden closed. (I never wear a watch and I’d forgotten to reset the clock on my dash after the bike’s battery had run dry again last week - my fault this time, I left the lights on). Not being sure of the time stoked up the anxieties even more.
When I did roll into Glastonbury it had begun to rain once more. I parked the bike in the town centre and set off on foot to find the Chalice Well Gardens. I’d forgotten that they lie off the top end of the town and not the bottom. By the time I realised my mistake it was as quick to go on as to go back to get the bike. It was a long and frustrating walk. Hurrying up the last rise (not easy in boots and leathers), I saw the time: a quarter to six. Well, I’d just have to find someone at the Garden and plead with them.
When I got to the entrance, a warden was in the process of locking the gate. I told my story. He just smiled and pushed back the gate. He gestured me in. I could take what time I liked. Very sweet. The gate closed behind me and suddenly, I was alone in the garden, anxious, wet, and getting wetter in the drizzling rain. The little red stream rolled down over some rocks to fill a shallow pool before meandering out across the lawn towards me. The pool was laid out in an emblematic design, a pair of intersecting circles, the symbol of the chalice well. At that moment I was wearing the same design on a pendant round my neck. I’d given it to Di many years ago on a previous visit. The two circles seemed to represent us, separate but linked. I stood there and didn’t know what to do. I was in a great state of agitation.
As I walked up the winding path, over trim lawns and through enclosed arbours towards the well head I began to talk to Di in my thoughts, explaining why I had come and sharing some of my grief with her. And she was there. I almost didn’t notice it at first but as I spoke I felt her warmth and presence as I had never done at home since the time of her death. I can rationalise these feelings to myself, but what is the point? At that moment they were meaningful and satisfied my longing for her.
I reached the well and sat down for several minutes, fidgeting on its rim, too agitated at first either to act or to be still. Eventually, I scooped up a small handful of earth and placed it in a small box I had brought with me. I planned to put it in her coffin. This was he earth she was rooted in, somewhere she felt at peace.
Peace was something she had had little of in the last very uncomfortable month of her life. Without food to give her energy, her body had consumed itself until there was almost no muscle left. Lying in bed or sitting in a chair, wherever she came into contact with the physical world she felt sore, and her whole body ached. Painkillers made her feel woozy and confused. This interfered with her ability to communicate (by means of a letter frame which allowed her to spell out words using eye movements) so she refused them. It had also been her prayer for many years that she should die a conscious death. Only in her last hour when she had suddenly relaxed and her eyes had drifted away from the room around her, far away from common seeing, did the lines of pain on her face disappear. Only then, did she seem at peace.
Overhanging the well and rooted around its sides was an evergreen shrub. On an impulse I broke off a few leaves and placed them in my pack. I regretted this almost immediately. It felt like an act of vandalism, wholly inappropriate to the moment. But it was done and there was nothing I could do about it. Still feeling agitated, I sat by the well for several minutes more before setting off back down the hill. Half way down, I stopped at a small fountain and filled two bottles with water from the stream. Back near the gate I hung around for a while, neither wanting to stay or to go. Eventually I let myself out. That time in the garden was intense and sad and strange and I'll never forget it.
My plan now was to walk up on top of the Tor - if you can call it a plan. Again, it was something I knew I just had to do. The Tor is very odd, whatever you might think about it. The local council have, of course, done their best to demystify it. They have built a horrible little concrete path which follows the shallowest slope of the hill up to the top. Inscriptions on metal plates inside the tower advise you that the structure is maintained by the local council and by a Heritage Trust. The shape of the tor is carefully explained in geological terms and there is a brass compass to one side detailing all the mundane features of the surrounding levels. I was in no mood for all that. I avoided the footpath as much as I could and made my own way over a field and up the grassy slope.
As I climbed the rain became harder. Large drops began to hammer down on my cap and batter my waterproofs. I’d not had much exercise in the last year and I couldn’t remember a time when I’d been so unfit - except, perhaps, when I was in my lazy twenties. Despite my sense of urgency, I had to sit down, half way up, to catch my breath. I leaned against the steep, grassy slope, panting, waiting for my chest to subside. As I gazed out over the Levels towards the horizon, a first bolt of lightening split the sky and discharged into the plain directly in front of me. A few seconds later a mass of lightening bolts lit the clouds, followed by a frenzy of crashes.
By the time I climbed up to the tower, I was in the middle of the mother and father of all thunderstorms. The main electrical activity was almost directly overhead. Sometimes it wheeled to the south, sometimes to the east, but it didn't move far. Jagged forks of lightening struck the plain every few seconds. The sheet lightning was almost continuous. The dense mass of cloud boiled. The light was electric. A lightening bolt hit the side of the tor. I felt its shock go right up through my feet and felt my cap bob on the top of my head. Lightning can do very bizarre and unexpected things like that. I took a wary look to see if there were lightning conductors on the top of the tower. I also kept my feet firmly together (It's what you are supposed to do - work it out!)
Having spent my life walking regularly in the mountains and elsewhere I’ve been in a lot of thunderstorms, but I can only think of one or two to compare with this. Until that day, the biggest storm I ever encountered occurred while Di and I were walking the Ridgeway down to Avebury. That trip was, perhaps, the high point of our life together, a time we remember with geat affection, when we felt so much in tune and so much in love. One night, as we lay in the tent, a tremendous storm had brewed up. We huddled together in the centre of the tent, still in our sleeping bags, trying to get as far as possible away from the metal poles. Storms do not normally frighten me, but this one did. It scared me witless.
In an electrical storm metal objects sometimes begin to glow blue and sing. I've seen it several times. On that occasion, the buckles on my rucksack began to perform the halleluiah chorus and I remember hurriedly kicking it out of the tent, and into the storm. I remember also becoming paranoid about the metal fillings in my teeth! But the tor was Di’s place, and I wasn’t scared, just filled with a sense of connection. She was putting on one hell of a show for me.
When the storm finally subsided and I’d said my goodbyes, I felt that something had been completed. I felt calmer than I had in months. I made my way back down the path into the town.
That evening I ate in Glastonbury then spent a couple of hours hanging around at a free-form gig with local musicians and performance poets. I didn’t leave till nearly half past eleven. The night was clear. Riding the 200 miles home in the dark was a great experience. I like night riding, when the roads are quiet and there is time for my thoughts. I rolled up outside my house at three o’clock full of adrenalin and happy memories.
Last edited by sv-wolf on Sun May 28, 2006 4:17 am, edited 3 times in total.
Hud
“Man has no right to kill his brother. It is no excuse that he does so in uniform: he only adds the infamy of servitude to the crime of murder.”
Percy Bysshe Shelley
SV-Wolf's Bike Blog
“Man has no right to kill his brother. It is no excuse that he does so in uniform: he only adds the infamy of servitude to the crime of murder.”
Percy Bysshe Shelley
SV-Wolf's Bike Blog
-
sv-wolf
- Site Supporter - Platinum
- Posts: 2278
- Joined: Sat Dec 13, 2003 2:06 am
- Real Name: Richard
- Sex: Male
- Years Riding: 12
- My Motorcycle: Honda Fireblade, 2004: Suzuki DR650, 201
- Location: Hertfordshire, UK
Wednesday 24 May 2006
Should I? Shouldn’t I? Would I get anything out of it? Would I just be in too heavy a mood to make anything of it? What sort of a guy am I anyway for going to a bike show when my wife has just died?
I’m in denial at the moment, confused, stupefied, feeling up one minute, down the next. I’m getting on as though nothing has happened, then out of the blue I’m angry, or very sad. Occasionally I’m deliriously happy (that’s not supposed to happen!). I’ve no idea what to do or not to do about anything. Mostly I sleep or just wander round the house talking to myself.
- So, why don’t I go to the show? – I can always come back home if it gets too much.
- Hmmm!
- Well why not?
- Because I’m not into being sociable. I just want to sleep.
- OK, I can sleep in my tent if I want to, just as much as I can here. And at least I will be assured of some company if I need it. It would get me out of the house.
- What would happen if I just broke down on the site?
- Oh shut up and pack your kit.
It’s that time of the year again, the annual pilgrimage to the BMF bike show at Peterborough, the biggest (and usually the wettest) bike show in Europe. And with a lot of club members there it is usually a cracking good laugh.
(- But I don’t much feel like laughing at the moment
- Oh shut the puck up!)
About twenty of us ride up to Peterborough on Friday night, to put up the club tent and settle in for the two days of the show – Saturday and Sunday. On the way up, true to form, it rains. Not much, but enough to let us know that there is some traditional BMF weather on the way. Fortunately, I’ve got my ‘exhibitor’ and ‘bike’ passes sorted in advance this year so there is no trouble getting in. The club tent goes up quickly, but in the wrong place. There’s not a lot of room left for the rest of our tents, which get crammed together at the back. I realise I am jammed in between a frisky couple on one side (at that moment, lovingly blowing up a large air bed) and Phil on the other. Phil is a noisy bugger and an early riser (very). Oh well!
It seems I’m not the only one in a more subdued mood this year. Very few of the club are interested in going to see the bands on Friday night. Half disappear off to the beer tent and the other half (me included) sit around in the club tent talking. I’m suddenly in high energy mode and laughing my nuts off. (Now where did that come from?)
I get to bed around 1.00 am. The couple next door are in (ahem!) high spirits for about half an hour. I try to ignore them. In the night it deluges down. I’m suddenly reminded of why I rarely use this particular tent. I hurriedly move my sleeping bag to one side and rig up a foam carry mat to deflect the water. The rain continues all night long.
At six in the morning, Phil wakes, loudly complaining that he needs a pee and has to go out in the wet (Phil’s quiet voice is comparable to someone talking through a megaphone). There are answering complaints from the other tents.
You have to know Phil to understand.
I fall back into a fretful doze, and stagger out of the tent at about half past ten.
Of course, I know what is going to happen today. I’m going to spend a fortune. In my vague, unreal, emotional state, my resistances are even lower than usual. Without any sleep I’ve no rationality left at all.
Saturday is devoted to wandering round the huge site making purchases and consuming large quantities of crappy fast food. I’ve given up bringing my cooking gear to these events. Too much trouble.
On Saturday, I hunt around to find Simon, the guy who runs Enduro India to let him know that I am up for doing the 2007 run. Back in 2004 I put down a £500 deposit to do the Enduro in 2006 but, then Di got ill. After explaining the circumstances, Simon agreed to let me carry the deposit over to the following year.
When I tell him of Di's death, he is genuinely sympathetic. His sympathy extends to hauling out a huge crate of Stella from behind the stand and offering me a beer. We chat for about quarter of an hour, in which time several people who did the Enduro in previous years turn up saying what a great time they had.
The Enduro is a charity deal. You pay £500 down and raise £3,500 for a number of good causes through sponsorship etc. Simon's outfit then flies you out to Southern India, gives you a Royal Enfield Bullet to ride and sets you off on a 7 day, 2000 mile, dawn to dusk ride through the Ghat mountains. I’ve seen the promo video. It scared me shitless – which, of course, means I will now absolutely have to do it. Anyway, I have no choice. Before she died, Di made me promise I would not bottle out. What a woman!
On the way back to the tent I pass the Haywards stand. Haywards is a well regarded Cambridge dealer who specialises in Moto Guzzi and Royal Enfields (odd combination). I keep thinking about buying a Royal Enfield and using it to promote some of the stunts I am dreaming up to raise the money. It will also give me a chance to get used to the old fashioned right hand, upside down gear change. I spoke to the guys on the stand and arranged to get a test ride in Cambridge in a couple of weeks time. I can sell the bike back to them at the end of the year. I might even be able to do a promotional deal with them. I quite fancy riding a classic bike for a bit.
The Saturday night bands were poor this year. And the tent was waterlogged. And in any case, I wasn’t in the mood. I came away early, ate some more crap food and went to bed.
Sunday morning, I go up to the restaurant for breakfast. The talk is of the couple in the tent next to me. She got thoroughly rat arsed on Saturday night and threw up all over his boots.
On Sunday afternoon, I wander over to the BMW stand. They are booking test rides throughout the weekend. I’m a complete BMW virgin, but as I think one of their mid-range bikes is my best bet if I ever do my Baltic trip (bombproof construction, availability of spares etc). I sign up and take the opportunity to get to know one of the beasts. I quite fancy the look of the 800F but opt to go out on the 1200S. Maybe I can get a ride on the 800F from my local BMW dealer in Hertford, later in the month.
Well the 1200S was pretty impressive. It surprised me at first. At low revs, getting out of the showground, it sounded like I was riding a diesel tractor. It also felt as though, at any moment, the boxer engine was going to commit suicide by throwing itself out the frame. The indicator switchgear was also a bit whacky. But there were lots of things on the good side too. Despite all the heavy, wet weather, the bike felt securely planted. It was also very comfortable. And I liked the riding position. I guess it would be great for long hours in the saddle. I also liked the power band which kept the bike cruising comfortably up to about 5k revs then, with a little more twist of the throttle, took off like sportsbike with stonking great dollops of torque delivered solidly onto the ground.
So, what did I buy? I feel like a total pratt but I came back home with three bike jackets and a new lid. Yeah, well, why would anyone need three bike jackets? I can only wear one at a time - as my grandmother would have reminded me. In my defence I did go to the show wanting a (one) new jacket, something a bit flash and more sporty-looking than the black two-piece leathers I normally wear- just for a change. I need something for when I’m in a cocky mood. On Saturday afternoon, I found a Frank Thomas job. It was black with blue and white ‘tribal’ markings on the back. It fitted the bill perfectly.
It was a factory reject and cost me £50. I went over it carefully. The only thing wrong with is was some faulty Velcro on the neck strap. Easily sorted. On Sunday I saw this RST jacket in black and silver going for just £20. I tried it on (just out of curiosity, you understand). It was a perfect fit. Try as I might I could find nothing wrong with it at all. Well, for twenty quid who could go wrong? So I bought it, and sneaked it guiltily into my tent so that no-one from the club would notice I was daft enough to buy two jackets.
The third one was special. Having worked myself one step closer to buying the Bullet, I had to have some gear that would go with it. Well, didn’t I? C’mon! You can’t wear modern leathers on a Bullet. I’ve been looking for a classic Lewis style tailored bike jacket for years – the kind I used to wear in the seventies. I’ve rifled through dozens of second hand jacket racks and never found what I wanted. Then on Sunday, there it was: a simple English double buckle jacket with lapels and halter back. And it was in perfect condition – good quality cow hide, hardly worn at all. It wasn’t a Lewis Jacket, but near as dammit. Thirty-six quid. Well, what could I do? A fool and his money are soon parted.
And then I bought a lid. I love my Arai. It is bloody comfortable, but it is very noisy. It roars like all the cats in Central America. So, I went out and bought a blue and silver HJC AC-11. This particular model won last year’s Ride award for safety. It is comfortable. It is also supposed to be quiet. I wore it home. It isn’t quiet. It doesn’t roar - it whistles. Oh well, at least it gives me some variety.
Other purchases made:
a pair of light blue Levi 501s (£15). I’ve worn Levi’s all my life and now it is difficult to get them.
A massage. (£20) God my muscles needed it. They are like ropes.
A ‘riders for life’ (£2) wristband. I like ‘riders for life’ they are a brilliant outfit, and think I ought to support them more.
a blow up camp bed and a hand pump. (This is an admission of defeat. For thirty-five years whenever I’ve been camping I’ve slept on a foam carrymat. What else would you need? And a carrymat keeps the weight down. But for the first time the need for comfort got the better of me. It must be my age. I hope not. I like things to be a little bit uncomfortable and difficult when I travel. It keeps me alert and in touch. The more complex and comfortable things get, the less real everything feels).
Some cusomised ear plugs. I do need a new set of these. I flushed one of the last set down the toilet by mistake.
Purchases – narrowly avoided
A rear tidy. (£50) Very neat. Get’s rid of the massive great chunk of plastic that comes standard on the SV.
A customised registration plate to go on the tidy. (£?)
A pair of Alpine Star boots (£160)
A seat cowl (£120ish )
A pair of blue bar ends (£?)
Well, I didn’t do quite so badly, this year.
Coming back out of Peterborough the rain just bucketed down. My chain needed tightening, so it was quite a scary ride.
Should I? Shouldn’t I? Would I get anything out of it? Would I just be in too heavy a mood to make anything of it? What sort of a guy am I anyway for going to a bike show when my wife has just died?
I’m in denial at the moment, confused, stupefied, feeling up one minute, down the next. I’m getting on as though nothing has happened, then out of the blue I’m angry, or very sad. Occasionally I’m deliriously happy (that’s not supposed to happen!). I’ve no idea what to do or not to do about anything. Mostly I sleep or just wander round the house talking to myself.
- So, why don’t I go to the show? – I can always come back home if it gets too much.
- Hmmm!
- Well why not?
- Because I’m not into being sociable. I just want to sleep.
- OK, I can sleep in my tent if I want to, just as much as I can here. And at least I will be assured of some company if I need it. It would get me out of the house.
- What would happen if I just broke down on the site?
- Oh shut up and pack your kit.
It’s that time of the year again, the annual pilgrimage to the BMF bike show at Peterborough, the biggest (and usually the wettest) bike show in Europe. And with a lot of club members there it is usually a cracking good laugh.
(- But I don’t much feel like laughing at the moment
- Oh shut the puck up!)
About twenty of us ride up to Peterborough on Friday night, to put up the club tent and settle in for the two days of the show – Saturday and Sunday. On the way up, true to form, it rains. Not much, but enough to let us know that there is some traditional BMF weather on the way. Fortunately, I’ve got my ‘exhibitor’ and ‘bike’ passes sorted in advance this year so there is no trouble getting in. The club tent goes up quickly, but in the wrong place. There’s not a lot of room left for the rest of our tents, which get crammed together at the back. I realise I am jammed in between a frisky couple on one side (at that moment, lovingly blowing up a large air bed) and Phil on the other. Phil is a noisy bugger and an early riser (very). Oh well!
It seems I’m not the only one in a more subdued mood this year. Very few of the club are interested in going to see the bands on Friday night. Half disappear off to the beer tent and the other half (me included) sit around in the club tent talking. I’m suddenly in high energy mode and laughing my nuts off. (Now where did that come from?)
I get to bed around 1.00 am. The couple next door are in (ahem!) high spirits for about half an hour. I try to ignore them. In the night it deluges down. I’m suddenly reminded of why I rarely use this particular tent. I hurriedly move my sleeping bag to one side and rig up a foam carry mat to deflect the water. The rain continues all night long.
At six in the morning, Phil wakes, loudly complaining that he needs a pee and has to go out in the wet (Phil’s quiet voice is comparable to someone talking through a megaphone). There are answering complaints from the other tents.
You have to know Phil to understand.
I fall back into a fretful doze, and stagger out of the tent at about half past ten.
Of course, I know what is going to happen today. I’m going to spend a fortune. In my vague, unreal, emotional state, my resistances are even lower than usual. Without any sleep I’ve no rationality left at all.
Saturday is devoted to wandering round the huge site making purchases and consuming large quantities of crappy fast food. I’ve given up bringing my cooking gear to these events. Too much trouble.
On Saturday, I hunt around to find Simon, the guy who runs Enduro India to let him know that I am up for doing the 2007 run. Back in 2004 I put down a £500 deposit to do the Enduro in 2006 but, then Di got ill. After explaining the circumstances, Simon agreed to let me carry the deposit over to the following year.
When I tell him of Di's death, he is genuinely sympathetic. His sympathy extends to hauling out a huge crate of Stella from behind the stand and offering me a beer. We chat for about quarter of an hour, in which time several people who did the Enduro in previous years turn up saying what a great time they had.
The Enduro is a charity deal. You pay £500 down and raise £3,500 for a number of good causes through sponsorship etc. Simon's outfit then flies you out to Southern India, gives you a Royal Enfield Bullet to ride and sets you off on a 7 day, 2000 mile, dawn to dusk ride through the Ghat mountains. I’ve seen the promo video. It scared me shitless – which, of course, means I will now absolutely have to do it. Anyway, I have no choice. Before she died, Di made me promise I would not bottle out. What a woman!
On the way back to the tent I pass the Haywards stand. Haywards is a well regarded Cambridge dealer who specialises in Moto Guzzi and Royal Enfields (odd combination). I keep thinking about buying a Royal Enfield and using it to promote some of the stunts I am dreaming up to raise the money. It will also give me a chance to get used to the old fashioned right hand, upside down gear change. I spoke to the guys on the stand and arranged to get a test ride in Cambridge in a couple of weeks time. I can sell the bike back to them at the end of the year. I might even be able to do a promotional deal with them. I quite fancy riding a classic bike for a bit.
The Saturday night bands were poor this year. And the tent was waterlogged. And in any case, I wasn’t in the mood. I came away early, ate some more crap food and went to bed.
Sunday morning, I go up to the restaurant for breakfast. The talk is of the couple in the tent next to me. She got thoroughly rat arsed on Saturday night and threw up all over his boots.
On Sunday afternoon, I wander over to the BMW stand. They are booking test rides throughout the weekend. I’m a complete BMW virgin, but as I think one of their mid-range bikes is my best bet if I ever do my Baltic trip (bombproof construction, availability of spares etc). I sign up and take the opportunity to get to know one of the beasts. I quite fancy the look of the 800F but opt to go out on the 1200S. Maybe I can get a ride on the 800F from my local BMW dealer in Hertford, later in the month.
Well the 1200S was pretty impressive. It surprised me at first. At low revs, getting out of the showground, it sounded like I was riding a diesel tractor. It also felt as though, at any moment, the boxer engine was going to commit suicide by throwing itself out the frame. The indicator switchgear was also a bit whacky. But there were lots of things on the good side too. Despite all the heavy, wet weather, the bike felt securely planted. It was also very comfortable. And I liked the riding position. I guess it would be great for long hours in the saddle. I also liked the power band which kept the bike cruising comfortably up to about 5k revs then, with a little more twist of the throttle, took off like sportsbike with stonking great dollops of torque delivered solidly onto the ground.
So, what did I buy? I feel like a total pratt but I came back home with three bike jackets and a new lid. Yeah, well, why would anyone need three bike jackets? I can only wear one at a time - as my grandmother would have reminded me. In my defence I did go to the show wanting a (one) new jacket, something a bit flash and more sporty-looking than the black two-piece leathers I normally wear- just for a change. I need something for when I’m in a cocky mood. On Saturday afternoon, I found a Frank Thomas job. It was black with blue and white ‘tribal’ markings on the back. It fitted the bill perfectly.
It was a factory reject and cost me £50. I went over it carefully. The only thing wrong with is was some faulty Velcro on the neck strap. Easily sorted. On Sunday I saw this RST jacket in black and silver going for just £20. I tried it on (just out of curiosity, you understand). It was a perfect fit. Try as I might I could find nothing wrong with it at all. Well, for twenty quid who could go wrong? So I bought it, and sneaked it guiltily into my tent so that no-one from the club would notice I was daft enough to buy two jackets.
The third one was special. Having worked myself one step closer to buying the Bullet, I had to have some gear that would go with it. Well, didn’t I? C’mon! You can’t wear modern leathers on a Bullet. I’ve been looking for a classic Lewis style tailored bike jacket for years – the kind I used to wear in the seventies. I’ve rifled through dozens of second hand jacket racks and never found what I wanted. Then on Sunday, there it was: a simple English double buckle jacket with lapels and halter back. And it was in perfect condition – good quality cow hide, hardly worn at all. It wasn’t a Lewis Jacket, but near as dammit. Thirty-six quid. Well, what could I do? A fool and his money are soon parted.
And then I bought a lid. I love my Arai. It is bloody comfortable, but it is very noisy. It roars like all the cats in Central America. So, I went out and bought a blue and silver HJC AC-11. This particular model won last year’s Ride award for safety. It is comfortable. It is also supposed to be quiet. I wore it home. It isn’t quiet. It doesn’t roar - it whistles. Oh well, at least it gives me some variety.
Other purchases made:
a pair of light blue Levi 501s (£15). I’ve worn Levi’s all my life and now it is difficult to get them.
A massage. (£20) God my muscles needed it. They are like ropes.
A ‘riders for life’ (£2) wristband. I like ‘riders for life’ they are a brilliant outfit, and think I ought to support them more.
a blow up camp bed and a hand pump. (This is an admission of defeat. For thirty-five years whenever I’ve been camping I’ve slept on a foam carrymat. What else would you need? And a carrymat keeps the weight down. But for the first time the need for comfort got the better of me. It must be my age. I hope not. I like things to be a little bit uncomfortable and difficult when I travel. It keeps me alert and in touch. The more complex and comfortable things get, the less real everything feels).
Some cusomised ear plugs. I do need a new set of these. I flushed one of the last set down the toilet by mistake.
Purchases – narrowly avoided
A rear tidy. (£50) Very neat. Get’s rid of the massive great chunk of plastic that comes standard on the SV.
A customised registration plate to go on the tidy. (£?)
A pair of Alpine Star boots (£160)
A seat cowl (£120ish )
A pair of blue bar ends (£?)
Well, I didn’t do quite so badly, this year.
Coming back out of Peterborough the rain just bucketed down. My chain needed tightening, so it was quite a scary ride.
Last edited by sv-wolf on Fri May 26, 2006 4:18 am, edited 1 time in total.
Hud
“Man has no right to kill his brother. It is no excuse that he does so in uniform: he only adds the infamy of servitude to the crime of murder.”
Percy Bysshe Shelley
SV-Wolf's Bike Blog
“Man has no right to kill his brother. It is no excuse that he does so in uniform: he only adds the infamy of servitude to the crime of murder.”
Percy Bysshe Shelley
SV-Wolf's Bike Blog
-
sv-wolf
- Site Supporter - Platinum
- Posts: 2278
- Joined: Sat Dec 13, 2003 2:06 am
- Real Name: Richard
- Sex: Male
- Years Riding: 12
- My Motorcycle: Honda Fireblade, 2004: Suzuki DR650, 201
- Location: Hertfordshire, UK
The SV got its first wash today in maybe four months. In some ways I wish I hadn't bothered because washing it down has revealed the depredations caused by all the winter salt. Still, it's nice to see it looking clean. Now that I have some free time on my hands again I might be able to keep it that way.
Since Di got ill I've been living in chaos. Having effectively moved home twice in the last six months, once to the flat while the house was being made wheelchair accessible and then back into the house, everything - just about everything - has gone missing. That includes a lot of my tools. Can I find my spanners? No I can't. That means I can't tighten my chain. It is making a hell of a rattle. Not very safe. Must do something soon. I've given up looking for the tools though. I'm off to see Drumwrecker this afternoon to borrow his.
After a week of feeling very detached I had a real gut-wrencher this morning. The guy from the NHS equipment service arrived to pick up all the stuff they had leant us while Di was ill - the hospital bed, the shower chairs, the commode, the hoist, the bath chair etc etc. When she died I just chucked it all in the flat. (I've still got the key, no-one, so far, has asked for it back.) Seeing all that stuff again for the first time today brought back memories of her last months. I went into shock. I've been shaky for the last hour or so. A little while later, the real horror of what she went through was borne in on me. She bore it all so patiently and I was so focused on meeting her minute by minute needs that until today I hadn't given myself any time to try and imagine what she must have gone through. I've never used the word 'horror' before to describe anything, but that's what it was. It's unbearable.
On top of that I had a phone call from one of Di's early carers who hasn't been in touch for months, asking how she was! Her voice sounded funny. Then she told me that she had been in a coma for most of that time. She had encephalitis (a virus that attacks the base of the brain). It nearly did for her. Encephalitis is what Di's only sister died of at the age of 38. Another of Di's carers, who was also an old friend, lost her father on the day of Di's funeral. What the hell is going on? There have been a load of other tragedies this year. It is the worst I can ever remember.
To keep myself together, I've spent the last week reading Karl Bushby's diaries. He's the guy who is walking round the world, starting at the southern tip of South America. He's already walked up through Central and North America, up to the western edge of Alaska and across the frozen Bering sea into Russia where he was detained for violating border crossing rules. That's now been sorted and next winter he plans to walk across Siberia and Mongolia into European Russia, then on to France. Finally he plans to walk back home into Britain through a service duct in the Channel Tunnel. It is the longest unbroken march in history - almost twice as far as anyone has ever attempted before. Amazing. By the end of the decade he will have walked, and occasionally swum, 36,000 miles. His account of getting through the Darien Gap, avoiding the Colombian militias and paramilitary groups is riveting. The guy is a nut case, with the kind of balls you wish you had to do something like that.
But a bike ride will do for me right now. I need to get out.
Since Di got ill I've been living in chaos. Having effectively moved home twice in the last six months, once to the flat while the house was being made wheelchair accessible and then back into the house, everything - just about everything - has gone missing. That includes a lot of my tools. Can I find my spanners? No I can't. That means I can't tighten my chain. It is making a hell of a rattle. Not very safe. Must do something soon. I've given up looking for the tools though. I'm off to see Drumwrecker this afternoon to borrow his.
After a week of feeling very detached I had a real gut-wrencher this morning. The guy from the NHS equipment service arrived to pick up all the stuff they had leant us while Di was ill - the hospital bed, the shower chairs, the commode, the hoist, the bath chair etc etc. When she died I just chucked it all in the flat. (I've still got the key, no-one, so far, has asked for it back.) Seeing all that stuff again for the first time today brought back memories of her last months. I went into shock. I've been shaky for the last hour or so. A little while later, the real horror of what she went through was borne in on me. She bore it all so patiently and I was so focused on meeting her minute by minute needs that until today I hadn't given myself any time to try and imagine what she must have gone through. I've never used the word 'horror' before to describe anything, but that's what it was. It's unbearable.
On top of that I had a phone call from one of Di's early carers who hasn't been in touch for months, asking how she was! Her voice sounded funny. Then she told me that she had been in a coma for most of that time. She had encephalitis (a virus that attacks the base of the brain). It nearly did for her. Encephalitis is what Di's only sister died of at the age of 38. Another of Di's carers, who was also an old friend, lost her father on the day of Di's funeral. What the hell is going on? There have been a load of other tragedies this year. It is the worst I can ever remember.
To keep myself together, I've spent the last week reading Karl Bushby's diaries. He's the guy who is walking round the world, starting at the southern tip of South America. He's already walked up through Central and North America, up to the western edge of Alaska and across the frozen Bering sea into Russia where he was detained for violating border crossing rules. That's now been sorted and next winter he plans to walk across Siberia and Mongolia into European Russia, then on to France. Finally he plans to walk back home into Britain through a service duct in the Channel Tunnel. It is the longest unbroken march in history - almost twice as far as anyone has ever attempted before. Amazing. By the end of the decade he will have walked, and occasionally swum, 36,000 miles. His account of getting through the Darien Gap, avoiding the Colombian militias and paramilitary groups is riveting. The guy is a nut case, with the kind of balls you wish you had to do something like that.
But a bike ride will do for me right now. I need to get out.
Last edited by sv-wolf on Sat May 27, 2006 5:11 am, edited 2 times in total.
Hud
“Man has no right to kill his brother. It is no excuse that he does so in uniform: he only adds the infamy of servitude to the crime of murder.”
Percy Bysshe Shelley
SV-Wolf's Bike Blog
“Man has no right to kill his brother. It is no excuse that he does so in uniform: he only adds the infamy of servitude to the crime of murder.”
Percy Bysshe Shelley
SV-Wolf's Bike Blog
-
zarakand
- Site Supporter - Silver
- Posts: 428
- Joined: Sun May 30, 2004 6:44 am
- Sex: Male
- Location: Chicago, Il
It's great to see you posting again. I'm sorry to hear about this morning, sounds like quite a rollercoaster ride. The book you're reading sounds interesting, I think I'll have to pick it up soon.
If you get the chance, I'd reccomend reading "The Namesake" by Jhumpa Lahiri. It's a little light hearted, and deals with the problems of raising a child in the States when the parents are first-generation immigrants.
If you get the chance, I'd reccomend reading "The Namesake" by Jhumpa Lahiri. It's a little light hearted, and deals with the problems of raising a child in the States when the parents are first-generation immigrants.
Honda Shadow Aero
[url=http://www.totalmotorcycle.com/BBS/viewtopic.php?t=10329/]Chicago Bike Blog[/url]
[url=http://www.totalmotorcycle.com/BBS/viewtopic.php?t=10329/]Chicago Bike Blog[/url]
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sv-wolf
- Site Supporter - Platinum
- Posts: 2278
- Joined: Sat Dec 13, 2003 2:06 am
- Real Name: Richard
- Sex: Male
- Years Riding: 12
- My Motorcycle: Honda Fireblade, 2004: Suzuki DR650, 201
- Location: Hertfordshire, UK
Hi Zarakand.
Try Karl Bushby's website, if you can't get the book:
goliath.mail2web.com
Thanks for the support.
Hi blues.
Thanks for the pm. No I didn't get my chain fixed. I just slobbed out when I got to drumwrecker's place and forgot about it till it was too late. It takes me ages to do anything these days. All my plans go awry. But that's OK. At the moment I'm just taking things as they come. Must do that today though, even if I have to go out and buy another set of spanners. (Hell! look at the time! gone five o'clock here!)
The big thing is all the paperwork. Mountains of it. Bank accounts, pensions, death benefits, credit cards, sorting out insurances and the mortgage, arranging P45s and P60s (end of employment forms for the carers). I hate this stuff. I like life simple, which is why I feel so inspired by people like K Bushby.
Take care too.
Richard
Try Karl Bushby's website, if you can't get the book:
goliath.mail2web.com
Thanks for the support.
Hi blues.
Thanks for the pm. No I didn't get my chain fixed. I just slobbed out when I got to drumwrecker's place and forgot about it till it was too late. It takes me ages to do anything these days. All my plans go awry. But that's OK. At the moment I'm just taking things as they come. Must do that today though, even if I have to go out and buy another set of spanners. (Hell! look at the time! gone five o'clock here!)
The big thing is all the paperwork. Mountains of it. Bank accounts, pensions, death benefits, credit cards, sorting out insurances and the mortgage, arranging P45s and P60s (end of employment forms for the carers). I hate this stuff. I like life simple, which is why I feel so inspired by people like K Bushby.
Take care too.
Richard
Hud
“Man has no right to kill his brother. It is no excuse that he does so in uniform: he only adds the infamy of servitude to the crime of murder.”
Percy Bysshe Shelley
SV-Wolf's Bike Blog
“Man has no right to kill his brother. It is no excuse that he does so in uniform: he only adds the infamy of servitude to the crime of murder.”
Percy Bysshe Shelley
SV-Wolf's Bike Blog
-
Loonette
- Site Supporter - Platinum
- Posts: 2069
- Joined: Sat Apr 17, 2004 8:39 am
- Real Name: Kristin
- Sex: Female
- Years Riding: 13
- My Motorcycle: 2006/Kawasaki/Mean Streak/best bike ever
- Location: Crunchy Granolaville, Ohio, US
I remember that you were going to do the Enduro India. It's good to hear that you're affording yourself another opportunity to participate in 2007.
It sounds as though you're handling things quite well. Don't worry about why you're feeling or behaving any certain way - there are no rules here. And things will be okay...
Cheers,
Loonette
It sounds as though you're handling things quite well. Don't worry about why you're feeling or behaving any certain way - there are no rules here. And things will be okay...
Cheers,
Loonette
FIRST RESPONDERS DO IT WITH LIGHTS AND SIRENS!! 
Find 'em hot, leave 'em wet...
********************
2006 Mean Streak 1600
Find 'em hot, leave 'em wet...
********************
2006 Mean Streak 1600
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sv-wolf
- Site Supporter - Platinum
- Posts: 2278
- Joined: Sat Dec 13, 2003 2:06 am
- Real Name: Richard
- Sex: Male
- Years Riding: 12
- My Motorcycle: Honda Fireblade, 2004: Suzuki DR650, 201
- Location: Hertfordshire, UK
Hey, it seems that Jo has been recently sighted up in North Manchester. I had always assumed he would be dead by now – his survival quotient was never very high in my estimation. Jo is one of those characters that, once met, are never forgotten. I posted about him two years ago but that was before the site was hacked, so it won’t do any harm if I repeat myself a little here . I’m so chuffed to know that he is still around.
Jo was a hippy biker I knew back in the early 1970s in Hull. He did more drugs than anyone else I ever knew, and would experiment with anything, no-matter how hazardous. He could also drink like a fish. None of this ever seemed to affect his faculties much. His take on life was a bit unusual, but he always seemed alert and focused. He was a skinny little guy but must have had the constitution of a horse.
Jo was so laid back that I never once saw him lose his temper or his cool! That didn’t mean he wouldn’t take someone on when he thought it necessary. I saw him once approach a guy who was screaming and hitting a girl in the street. The guy was at least twice as big as Jo. But Jo just walked up behind him and jumped onto his back’ Somehow he managed to wrestle him to the floor. The guy got free and really turned Jo over after that. It took three of us to pull him off. Jo was conscious but badly beaten up and covered in blood. All I remember was how matter of fact he was. He insisted that he didn’t want to go to hospital. We got him home and laid him down on his mattress (he didn’t have a bed) where he seemed perfectly happy. (We had to take him in later though as one of his arms was fractured) He just smiled. Nothing seemed to bother him at all.
Jo had a heart as big as the magic mountain. His mission in life when I first knew him was to bring relief and solace to tripped out hippies everywhere. He’d bought himself an old van – I think it was a Transit – and painted it up in psychedelic colours. On the side he had stencilled the words ‘Tranquility Tea Service’. A lot of the time he travelled around the country in his van administering liquid refreshment (herbal teas) to hippies and dopeheads wherever he found them.
As far as I know he never worked or drew dole money and I never enquired how he managed to live. The fact is, he lived on almost nothing. Twice a year he would buy an enormous sack of brown rice. Every morning he would boil up enough to last him the day. Apart from that he lived on nettles that he picked from the hedgerow and made into nettle soup. By the time I knew him, he had eaten so many nettles his skin had turned bright green – and I mean bright.
His skin colour was not the only odd thing about him. Jo had no nose. He’d ground it off in a bike accident some years before. He told the story of rounding a corner to find some large animal lying in the middle of the road. He realised – he said – that there was no way he was going to miss it, so opened the throttle and mashed straight into it. He was always looking for the ‘ultimate experience’. He survived with half a dozen broken bones and no nose. His mate, Alan, who was riding behind him says that Jo ended up in the middle of the road muttering ‘Wow, far out man!’ or something along those lines.
Jo had been into bikes since he was a kid, but being a total hippy type was never a typical biker. Somehow, though, he had become an honorary member of an outlaw biker club. He'd wandered into a meeting (or something like that – I forget the details) and allowed them to beat the "poo poo" out of him without uttering a word of complaint. That seemed to impress them. He was very proud of that membership. Apart from his family it was the only thing that he seemed to have any attachment to at all.
His family were very conventional and were totally freaked out by him, which didn't seem to bother him at all. I'm not sure he even noticed. He used to visit them often, and you could see that they just wanted this wierdo to get out of their lives as quickly as possible - all except his elder sister who seemed to really love him.
An exceptional person. So, I’m glad he’s still around.
Jo was a hippy biker I knew back in the early 1970s in Hull. He did more drugs than anyone else I ever knew, and would experiment with anything, no-matter how hazardous. He could also drink like a fish. None of this ever seemed to affect his faculties much. His take on life was a bit unusual, but he always seemed alert and focused. He was a skinny little guy but must have had the constitution of a horse.
Jo was so laid back that I never once saw him lose his temper or his cool! That didn’t mean he wouldn’t take someone on when he thought it necessary. I saw him once approach a guy who was screaming and hitting a girl in the street. The guy was at least twice as big as Jo. But Jo just walked up behind him and jumped onto his back’ Somehow he managed to wrestle him to the floor. The guy got free and really turned Jo over after that. It took three of us to pull him off. Jo was conscious but badly beaten up and covered in blood. All I remember was how matter of fact he was. He insisted that he didn’t want to go to hospital. We got him home and laid him down on his mattress (he didn’t have a bed) where he seemed perfectly happy. (We had to take him in later though as one of his arms was fractured) He just smiled. Nothing seemed to bother him at all.
Jo had a heart as big as the magic mountain. His mission in life when I first knew him was to bring relief and solace to tripped out hippies everywhere. He’d bought himself an old van – I think it was a Transit – and painted it up in psychedelic colours. On the side he had stencilled the words ‘Tranquility Tea Service’. A lot of the time he travelled around the country in his van administering liquid refreshment (herbal teas) to hippies and dopeheads wherever he found them.
As far as I know he never worked or drew dole money and I never enquired how he managed to live. The fact is, he lived on almost nothing. Twice a year he would buy an enormous sack of brown rice. Every morning he would boil up enough to last him the day. Apart from that he lived on nettles that he picked from the hedgerow and made into nettle soup. By the time I knew him, he had eaten so many nettles his skin had turned bright green – and I mean bright.
His skin colour was not the only odd thing about him. Jo had no nose. He’d ground it off in a bike accident some years before. He told the story of rounding a corner to find some large animal lying in the middle of the road. He realised – he said – that there was no way he was going to miss it, so opened the throttle and mashed straight into it. He was always looking for the ‘ultimate experience’. He survived with half a dozen broken bones and no nose. His mate, Alan, who was riding behind him says that Jo ended up in the middle of the road muttering ‘Wow, far out man!’ or something along those lines.
Jo had been into bikes since he was a kid, but being a total hippy type was never a typical biker. Somehow, though, he had become an honorary member of an outlaw biker club. He'd wandered into a meeting (or something like that – I forget the details) and allowed them to beat the "poo poo" out of him without uttering a word of complaint. That seemed to impress them. He was very proud of that membership. Apart from his family it was the only thing that he seemed to have any attachment to at all.
His family were very conventional and were totally freaked out by him, which didn't seem to bother him at all. I'm not sure he even noticed. He used to visit them often, and you could see that they just wanted this wierdo to get out of their lives as quickly as possible - all except his elder sister who seemed to really love him.
An exceptional person. So, I’m glad he’s still around.
Last edited by sv-wolf on Sun May 28, 2006 11:16 am, edited 2 times in total.
Hud
“Man has no right to kill his brother. It is no excuse that he does so in uniform: he only adds the infamy of servitude to the crime of murder.”
Percy Bysshe Shelley
SV-Wolf's Bike Blog
“Man has no right to kill his brother. It is no excuse that he does so in uniform: he only adds the infamy of servitude to the crime of murder.”
Percy Bysshe Shelley
SV-Wolf's Bike Blog
-
jstark47
- Site Supporter - Silver
- Posts: 3538
- Joined: Fri Feb 03, 2006 2:58 pm
- Sex: Male
- Years Riding: 16
- My Motorcycle: '12 Tiger 800, '03 Trophy 1200
- Location: Lumberton, NJ
Dude.sv-wolf wrote:The big thing is all the paperwork. Mountains of it. Bank accounts, pensions, death benefits, credit cards, sorting out insurances and the mortgage, arranging P45s and P60s (end of employment forms for the carers). I hate this stuff.
I may have mentioned, I've been before where you are now, 'tho it's been a while ago (1995).
Forget about the paperwork shyt. It's not going anywhere.
Buy some wrenches (what in bloody 'ell is a 'spanner'????
) and FIX THE F***ING CHAIN ON THE BIKE!!!!!!!!!!!!!.... before you become a flippin' statistic!!!!!!
Be well.
Jonathan
2003 Triumph Trophy 1200
2009 BMW F650GS (wife's)
2012 Triumph Tiger 800
2018 Yamaha XT250 (wife's)
2013 Kawasaki KLX250S
2009 BMW F650GS (wife's)
2012 Triumph Tiger 800
2018 Yamaha XT250 (wife's)
2013 Kawasaki KLX250S