SV-Wolf's Bike Blog

[sv-wolf]

Monday 27 February 2006

I’ve been thinking about what you said about fears and regrets, Paul, and what you suspect is true. One of the reasons I came back to biking was because I had something to finish, something that started when I bought my BSA in the early seventies. I realised early on in my life that I had a bit of a personality issue to deal with: I’m nervous by nature but a risk-taker by inclination. It’s a difficult combination to manage, and even now in my early fifties it’s not easy. I’m always in conflict about the things I do.

I was sooooo hung up as a kid, and very, very pissed about it. I remember deciding in my middle teens that I had a choice to make - either I could give in to my fears, go along with my natural reticence and lead a fairly safe and unadventurous life, or I could make a big effort, challenge my hang ups and have some fun. There wasn’t much of a contest: I didn’t want to lead a frustrated life. So, I started a campaign. If something scared the dodo out of me, I'd go out and do it. It was then that I discovered there was a whole different side to my personality that I never knew existed – and a whole load of new possibilities.

I like to take risks. I discovered that, once I've identified my fears, I get a huge buzz out of challenging them, both emotionally and physically. I like to put myself in difficult or dangerous situations to see how I deal with whatever comes along. I don't have the classic ‘thrill seeker’ personality of many bikers because I don’t commit myself to dangerous activities spontaneously or unselfconsicously. My fears are always there and I constantly have to negotiate with them. At any moment, I'm all to ready to slam the brakes on in my mind. But I get a hell of a lot of fun out of pushing myself just that little bit further all the time on the bike. Bikes are dangerous - there's the challenge for me. It's also the thrill and the drug.

That is one of the important roles bikes have come to play in my life. Another is the sheer physical enjoyment they've given me. I used to think of myself as nerdy and bookish, but that's only partly true and only skin deep . I'm stll a country boy at heart. Whenever I can, I like to get outdoors. I've always liked to hike and climb and cycle. But none of these activities provides the same kind of gutsy thrill I get from riding a big bike. You have to ride a motorbike with your whole body and your whole mind. But it's more than that. The sheer mass and power of the bke, its huge physicality, invades me completely when I ride it. It makes me feel almost like a different person.

I agree with Buzz. My relationship with my bikes is very personal. When I'm relaxed and riding well, the distinction between metal and flesh vanishes. The engne's power and torque travel up through the bike’s frame and straight into my nerves and brain and muscles and sinews. It’s gutsy, its sexy, it’s just so meaty, it blows my mind away. I’ve ridden the SV Thousand through 21,000 miles now and the experience is as strong as it was when I took it for a test ride back in the summer of 2004. In fact, the more confident I get, the more amazing the experience becomes. Now that I’ve had that experience, I wouldn’t give it up for anything. No-f*****g-thing (Pardon my French).

[sapaul]

Right there with you, this weekend we rode over 300kms in the pouring rain. The Goose had a winge when we got home and said that we were still doing 160kmh in the rain. I wouln't know, I hardly ever look at the clock, I ride as to how the bike feels. It felt fine all the way home to me.

[sv-wolf]

Wednesday 1st March 2006

Change of menu tonight: out go the parsnip soup and the haddock, green beans and rice. In come the pork sausages and gravy. Yummy! If you want induce that full, round feeling inside, you can't do much better than to make a meal of pork sausages with lashings of gravy and loads of root veg. Big, fat, spicy pork sausages are excellent comfort food and quick to cook in an emergency - like tonight. Of course, I personally would not dream of making a special meal of pork sausages without adding hot saurkraut.

Saurkraut is not, I admit, to everyone's taste, but I like it. And I don't mean the supermarket rubbish, with added vinegar or white wine or a dozen other unecessary and perverse ingredients. I'll only eat it if it's proper German saurkraut made with shredded white cabbage and salt and nothing else (well, juniper berries maybe). Saurkraut is the food of the gods - Northern gods of course. You'd have to be a fairly rough and ready sort of god to appreciate it; not one of those languid Mediterranean types who would be more likely to dine on swans wings dipped in honey and that kind of thing. Hot saurkraut and pork sausages are warming northern foods, homely and satisfying. The fact is, in combination, they offer a quality of experience that most other foods can only aspire to.

So, what was the cause of this menu change tonight?

I got f*****g sideswiped on the bike this afternoon. That's what! Not only did the SV get smacked unceremoniously up the rear, swiped along the offside and nearly turned rubber side up, but I had to listen to this oldster in a red Vauxhaul doing his level best to blame me for the scratch my peg had made as he slid the side of his car up beside me. Eldery drivers in red cars: bad news!

(Memo to me: Calm down, boy!!!! Think pleasant thoughts. Think pork sausages and gravy.)

I was riding up the hill towards Gosmore and Codicote on my way out of town, when I came upon the back of a traffic queue waiting to get onto the big roundabout. I slowed and eventually came to a stop. The queue moved on, I was just about to open the clutch when the bike suddenly jolted forward and started to turn over to the left. God knows how I managed it, but I fought it back up to about twenty degrees of vertical and then had to hold it there. I couldn't get it any further. I turned to my right and there was this red Vauxhaul right next to me and a little to the rear. Through the windscreen I could see an old chap sitting behind the wheel peerng at me in alarm and gesticulating weakly. I shouted at him to reverse.

Trying to hold up the bike and make some fairly unambiguous hand signals in his direction at the same time wasn't easy. At first, he was too startled to react. He just sat there staring at me through the windscreen, his mouth working slightly. A full twenty seconds or so later, he seemed to get the message. Well, not 'the' message, exactly - not the message I was trying to give: "back off, arsehole, I'm dropping the "procreating" bike", but a different kind of message. So instead of backing off, the donut suddenly sprang into action, put the car into gear and drove forward. There was a shuddering and rending sound all along my right hand side which continued almost until he came to a halt fully beside me. But at least I could get the bike upright again.

There then followed an exchange, the details of which I will spare you. But basically, he was trying to blame me for being too far over in my lane (Good Grief!) I, on the other hand, was conveying my feelings very plainly to him, and making it abundantly clear that I didn't appreciate almost being turned over.

But the fact was, he knew he was in the wrong and if we pursued this it would be his insurance company paying out, not mine. Eventually he subsided with a penitential shrug and we set about assessing the damage. When I looked at the bike there was, remarkably, no appreciable damage at all: just the tiniest, very superficial scratch on the can which will easily polish out. The Vauxhaul, on the other hand had a neat two-foot-long, peg-induced indentation all along its body work. I was mollified, amused even at the old guy's attempts to justify himself. Eventually, I felt sorry for the distress evident in his rheumy eyes. He was not going to forget this one in a hurry. We called it quits.

It was half a mile later, down a country lane, that I realised I was still bloody angry with him, and angry with myself now, too, for not taking his details. The anger bubbled up inside me as I rode through the village of Gosmore, it had reached a crecendo by the time I got to Preston and had settled into a steely resentment as I took the blind 90 degree turn at Walden End. I've rarely ridden in anger like this before, and a sensible little voice inside me was telling me that I should stop the bike, get off and calm down. But the fact is, I was having a whale of a time. I was taking the corners on these country roads more sharply and confidently than I had ever done before, and loving it. In the eight miles to my distination I succeeded in rubbing off the last evidence of sissy lines on my new tyres. I think my riding has taken a quantum leap forward.

But the evening is time is now upon us. It's time for relaxation and reconcilliation. Try it - pork sausages and hot saurkraut; good for the soul; they induce compassion for the human condition and a general mood of benevolence and fellow feeling; can't be bad!

[blues2cruise]

I am so relieved that you are ok. I'd miss reading your stories.
It would have been prudent though to get his information just in case anything is wrong that shows up later. And.....even if you don't use the info, he doesn't know that. He could stand to sweat a little thinking about what he did.

[jstark47]

Absolutely flippin' amazing: no significant damage to you or the bike??! You were quite lucky. The footpeg was the only point of contact between the vehicles?

If the old boy can't tell the difference between a stationary and moving vehicle, and can't see something the size of you and your bike right alongside him, maybe it's time for him to hang up his spurs. I agree with Blues, I would have gotten his info. Don't know how it works in the UK, but in the States I would be making a discreet suggestion to the local police department they keep an eye on possibly terminating his driving career. My father is 87 and still drives, and it is a subject of almost daily debate in the family how long this should go on (of course, Dad hasn't hit any motorcyclists or anything else.)

Comfort food: a nice glass of red. The Mrs. and I discovered this week that Yellowtail 2004 merlot-cabernet blend is cheap and delicious.

[sv-wolf]

Monday 6th March 2006

Sunday Rideout. 26th Feb. The ride down the A1(M) and M25 unfolded as predictably as the February weather. And like the February weather, it was cold and unexciting. Motorway riding is never going to be my favourite biking activity, but this morning’s journey was better than most. Traffic was light and there was little to interrupt a fast, steady ride all the way south. Beneath me, the SV was running sweetly as a nut. She cruised over the tarmac effortlessly, dreamily, hinting at delicious reserves of power. Her TL engine hummed a reassuring note in my ear: the deep velvety roar of the Beowulf cans wove a cocoon around my thoughts. Every now and then, I just listened, allowing her tune to soothe me, feeling it draw my agitated mind back to the here and now. I wanted to hug her.

In contrast to the quiet, orderly ride, the weather this morning seemed all upside down. As I rode south, the skies darkened from shining, almost Mediterranean blue to dull, northern grey. By the time I reached Harrow I was regretting my decision to wear shades. The sun that shone so brilliantly as I left home, became shyer as the morning wore on, and finally withdrew behind and unbroken mass of heavy, grey cloud. As I crossed the county border into Surrey, a few tiny flakes of snow began skittering about in front of my visor.

I felt too out of touch with my body to be fully aware of the increasing cold. I was tired (as usual, these days) and a little numb. But I wasn’t sleepy, just wrapped in a cosy morning mood. My lack of proper rest over many days and nights worried me at first: how would I cope with the longish journey? Would my reactions be up to the mark? Could I keep my attention on the road? In he event, I rode well and attentivelyl – or, at least, I thought so. But how would I know? I was alert with that hyper-real morning alertness that follows a night of poor sleep. I would probably remain alert till around five-thirty pm (my usual low time) and then slump. Good reason to get home early.

To make sure I got to my destination on the other side of London by eleven o’clock, I’d dragged myself out of bed while most of me was still clinging tightly to unconsciousness. You never know how the M25 is going to perform and I didn’t want to be late. As it turned out, I made good time. The new eight lane section near Heathrow Airport was open at last and the interminable roadworks, together with their miserable forty mile an hour restriction and string of speed cameras had been removed. And before I knew it, the A24 was showing up on the exit signs.

I was on my way down to Ryker’s café on the outskirts of Box Hill. Sam, the young guy I had met at the MCN bike show at Alexandra Palace (he who had lusted after the cool Shoei helmet) had texted me to say that he was organising a rideout on Sunday and would I like to come. Well, why not? It would be something different: different riders and riding styles; different bikes; different roads; different landscapes - I needed a change. I didn’t know anything at all about the blokes I’d be riding with except that they all had Hondas, were young or youngish and had been biking together for a year or two. Picking up one or two of the things Sam had said, I suspected they might also be a bunch of nutters. That made me slightly nervous but very curious. I agreed to join them and left the rest to fate.

For those who might not know, Rykers has a legendary status here in the South of England. The café is located in a cramped concrete and glass building that stands in the centre of a large carpark just off the A24 in Surrey. It is the central attraction of one of the largest and, I think, oldest bike meets in the country. On any Sunday in the summer months, the surrounding tarmac and grassy areas heave with bikes. Today, amid the occasional flurry of snow, there were maybe fifty machines spread out around the central car parking area. Half-a-dozen of the hardier/more foolish all-weather bikers stood steadfastly by their machines downing huge polystyrene mugs of coffee. Weaker/more sensible souls were squashed up among their gear at the narrow tables inside the café.

Rykers, I’m told, began life serving burghers and hot drinks from a caravan in a corner of the car park. Their customers were the walkers, bikers and cagers who congregated here at the foot of Box Hill, which is a noted beauty spot. The burgher bar became an institution and put down roots. Posters at the front of the cafe now loudly claim that here you can buy “the best burghers in Surrey”, a ‘fact’ that every biker will repeat to you religiously - even if, on further questioning, you discover they have never been anywhere near the place. Having now seen these famous burghers, I’d be prepared to bet that they are probably the biggest in Surrey, if not the country. But since I don’t eat burghers and usually stay well clear of burgher bars, what would I know?

It was not until after I had put the side stand down and dismounted that I realised just how cold I was. I reckon there are different ways you can get cold on a bike. The most usual kind of cold is caused straightforwardly by low ambient temperatures and by wind chill and it gets you shivering and trembling all over. I have little fat on my flesh and only an adequate amount of flesh on my bones, so it doesn’t take a big drop in temperature during the winter months to start my teeth chattering and my limbs trembling dramatically. But there’s another kind of cold, the slowly penetrating type, that you get on a long journey in low, but not necessarily freezing conditions. I wasn’t shivering at all that morning, but as I dismounted stiffly from the bike and began to take in my surroundings I felt a cold, dull ache worming its way right down in my core, making my body awkward and my thinking disorganised

But the weather was only part of it. There were other reasons why I was feeling chilled and rough around he edges this morning. I was recoverfing from a crisis that took place in the early hours on Sunday morning and the waves of guilt that followed it. The crisis had been coming for some days. On Friday, my wife’s condition worsened markedly. At breakfast time, she could still walk a few paces with support and propel her wheelchair across the floor with her feet, by lunch time it was all she could do to bend her knees.

It happens like that: her disease progresses suddenly in a series of little lurches. Her condition remains steady for weeks or even months at a time; there’s no predicting how long. But then, inevitably, there will be a lurch - the sudden onset of another degree of paralysis - and without warning she will be just a little bit less like the woman I knew. I know these changes will happen; I know what they will do to her but I’m always shocked and upset when they occur.

Many other noticeable changes took place on Friday. Her ability to speak deteriorated appreciably. It’s now very difficult to understand anything she says. And it has become harder for her to swallow. She chokes frequently now, sometimes several times at each meal. That's affecting her lungs which are showing signs of infection. She's eating less and less and losing muscle mass as a result, so she is in constant discomfort from pressure sores. The discomfort leads to sleepless nights, exhausted days and more distress. Looking at her on Friday I realised just how much frailer, weaker and waxier-looking she had become. Because she has so little control over the muscles of her lips and mouth she dribbles all the time. It’s a cruel disease.

On Saturday evening, Danny, her son, came down from London. He comes most weekends and looks after Di for 24 hours. He’s a very funny guy, very kind, very good for her. She enjoys his company immensely. He comes to spend time with his mum and to give me a break to go riding on Sunday in the morning and afternoon.

At eleven o’clock on Saturday night, I said good night to them both in the flat, went over to the house, and settled myself down to enjoy what was to be only the third unbroken night’s sleep in three weeks. Or, so I thought. At two o’clock in the morning I was awoken by my mobile phone. It was Dan. Di wanted me to come back over.

When I arrived I found her in a state of great agitation and distress. She wanted me to stay in the flat and to go through the night with her. In practical terms there was nothing I could do for her that Danny couldn’t and normally she’d trust him completely. But Dan was recovering from a virulent and debilitating bug and was coughing in the night, keeping her awake. At bottom, though, I think she was emotionally very low and needed some extra emotional support from me.

What followed was harrowing. She was insistent: she wanted me to stay. And though I wanted to say, yes, I knew that if I had one more night of broken sleep I wouldn’t be able to ride out on the following day, and if I didn’t get some kind of a break, I wouldn’t be able to get through the following week. I was very close to emotional as well as physical collapse. Telling her, no, I felt like a total bastrd, but I had to do it. In the end I compromised and slept on a camp bed in the flat’s tiny galley kitchen. I’d be on hand if she needed me but otherwise I'd leave it to Dan to look after her. Di seemed to accept that, and relaxed a little.

I slept, but fretfully and had bad dreams. I woke several times in the night, imagining that she was calling out to me. Twice that night, she did cry out. Her throat sometimes closes and she wakes in a panic, unable to breathe. From my camp bed, I listened while Danny dealt with the situation: gave her water; calmed her quietly and expertly and got her back to sleep. When she wakes like that, her cries are so piteous that they cut me to the quick. It’s a cliché, but I suspect they’ll haunt me for the rest of my life. I’ll say it again, it is a cruel disease.

In the morning she looked dreadful. There was no customary smile, no expression of interest in the world around her, just a baleful look shot in my direction. Her eyes appeared like those of a very needy and desperate child. Extreme exhaustion sometimes causes her to regress like this. It is not her normal way. When it happens there was nothing to be done except make her comfortable and wait. .

I got dressed as quietly and quickly as I could, said my goodbyes and prepared to get off on the bike. For one last time I tried to explain to Di why I needed to go. She gave me the faintest smile and indicated she understood. Somehow, that just made me feel worse. For the first half hour of the journey, I was in a kind of anguish, rehearsing my reasons for leaving her over and over in my mind.

The bottom line is that, if my health broke down, she would have to go into hospital or into a residential care home. My father died in hospital of a brain tumour and I wouldn’t wish a comparable experience on anyone, least of all an independent spirit like Di.

The National Health Service hospital where my father had been admitted, was going through a financial crisis and its whole infrastructure appeared to be crumbling. The wards were understaffed, the nurses were overworked and under pressure. The food was abysmal. Dad was left to sit alone on a chair for hours soaked in his own urine. There weren’t enough nurses to change him or enough pairs of pyjamas to change him into. One afternoon I walked in on a senior nurse who, in her anger and frustration, was ramming a catheter back into him. She did it viciously and he screamed in pain. We had words! Not all hospital experiences are as bad as this but I can’t shake the memory off: it is burnt into my mind for ever. I couldn’t bear to think of Di having to endure any kind of medicalised and institutionalised death under any circumstances.

Guilt is a strange thing. It is wholly irrational and destructive. It serves no useful purpose as far as I can see: much better to acknowledge your error and make a resoution to do better next time than to spend time beating yourself up. At bottom it is a self-centred emotion. Guilt foceses on itself alone, not on the person who has been hurt. What interests me is that it isn't inevitable: it seems to be a cultural phenomenon: some cultures experience it, some don’t. In one psychological theory, guilt is nothing more than an inturned form of resentment: if you experience guilt, ask yourself what you resent and you will be closer to your core feeing.

I felt guilty on the way down to Box Hill. I felt it despite my belief that, on balance, I had done the right thing. But I began to realise that what I'd been calling guilt was something more complicated. The old feeling of being a bad person was only a small part of it: that was my Catholic upbringing asserting itself. The remainder was something else. When Di is distressed and vulnerable, my strongest impulse is to reach out to her, to comfort her and protect her. By coming out today I was unable to offer her those things. The larger part of my feeling was a kind of thwarted tenderness, set against a background of sadness and yearning. Somewhere in there, there was also a bit of nostalgia for a future we will now never have together. Quite a brew.

But even the most loving relationship has a mistress lurking in the background – if only in the imagination. My mistress has a 1000cc engine and beautiful blue, titanium cans. It is testimony to the seductive power of the SV that, within an hour of setting out, the surface layers of my mind had been captivated by the sound of her engine.

I’d done very well in getting down to Box Hill. I arrived a good half-an-hour early. That gave me time for breakfast before the others arrived. Rykers café do a very good English Breakfast. A stomach full of bangers, bacon and egg did a lot to settle my thoughts and soothe my churned up spirits.

Half an hour later I was back in the cafe getting to know Sam, Phil, Pete, Neil, and Anders. They’d met on the web, on the CB500 site and started riding out together. Most of them had moved on since those days and were now riding bigger machines – all Hondas (some men, apparently, remain faithful for years). Only Pete was still riding a 500.

After munching their way through a mountain of sandwiches and burghers the Hondas got down to discussing their current insurance claims. Some months ago, another of their group, who had already acquired a reputation as something of a Jonah, had lined up his bike beside theirs without putting the side stand down properly. The bike had keeled over, hit the one next to it and half a dozen of their Hondas had all gone over like dominoes. Between them they had a fine collecton of broken levers and indicators and scratched tanks. Until then, I thought that sort of thing only happened in films. The various insurance claims were not doing particularly well.

Sam was leading. He had arranged for two other guys, student friends of his, to join us. They were coming up from Canterbury on 125s. One of them still carried ‘L’ (learner) plates, which meant that they were barred from motorways. They’d set out (apparently) at 8.00 that morning and by 12.00 had still not arrived. After a flurry of texts it was established that they were on the road somewhere between Gravesend and Tonbride Wells, still some distance away. The group decided that they would ride out in that direction with a view to finding them. This sounded to me like an forlorn hope, but as nobody wanted to hang around (myself included - I wanted to make the best of my free time) it was probably the best option.

We never did find them, of course, which was maybe just as well. How these guys would have coped with two 125s in tow, I have no idea. If I ever had any idea that the Stevenage mob was a bunch of speed freaks, then I had to revise my opinion there and then. These guys liked to ride FAST. When the road conditions permitted the pace was frantic and unremitting.

I just don’t get it. I can understand the desire to ride balls out on a track. I can also understand wanting to crack open the throttle on the road - when the conditions are right. But I don't understand the need to do it all the time. In general, I like to vary my ride. Riding fast like this at every oportunity feels less like a choice than a macho requirement. I feel the same way as Keith. Concentrating on riding well and, above all, smoothly, is much more satisfying. And you need to exercise judgement: distinguishing between what is safe and what is just plain stupid.

But perhaps the frantic feeling is purely mine. Maybe I’m just not focused enough to enjoy that kind of riding. Maybe I’m just too concerned about keeping my licence. And maybe it’s my age. I tried to think back to my twenties. If I’d had 1000ccs and 106bhp under me back in the 1970s, would I have ridden like that? I don’t think I would - not on the road, anyway.

I realised that I could keep up with these guys if I really wanted to, but it would be an effort. I wouldn't really enjoy it. There are others I know, in the Stevenage club for instance, who are far out of my league. Issues of legality and safety aside I wouldn't have the confidence to ride balls out like some of them. Not that I wouldn't like to.

I lolled around at the back of the group and waited to get left behind. At one point I almost did. I was so far behind the others turning onto a motorway roundabout that I didn’t see which turnoff they took. I had no knowledge of the roads in this part of the world, so couldn't guess. As I crossed the motorway bridge I saw them disappearing down the slip road onto the M23. By the time I’d ridden round the roundabout (it was a big beast), stopped at the lights and got onto the motorway, they had long since disappeared. Well that was it, I thought, and I started to wonder what I going to do with the rest of the day. But five miles down the road, I spotted them waiting for me at the top of the next exit. I rejoined them, not without a few mixed feelings, I noticed. After that we rode among fairly heavy traffic mostly on A roads and I was happy enough car hopping along with them at a reasonable pace.

Surrey and Kent passed by in a blur. I don't know this territory at all. The roads were fun: narrow and twisty; or they would have been had the government announced a universal ban on all four wheeled traffic (and horses) for the afternoon. There landscapes here are much broader and hillier than in my part of the world. Surrey is a county of wooded hillsides, chalk downland and sandy heaths. Kent is more open. In my view, its rolling hills, broad valleys and sweeping panoramas, make it by far the most beautiful of all the English lowland counties

And though, for all sorts of reason, I didn't relax much during the ride, it was a good day. I was enjoying the freedom of the bike - and it was a challenge. The challenge was to find an effective compromise between the Hondas' riding style and my own. Riding with new people there is always a lot to observe and sometimes something to learn. Drumwrecker (who posts on TMW) whom I often ride with would not have bothered with these guys and I can understand why. It’s not his style of riding any more than it is mine and he doesn’t have anything to prove. Perhaps I still do. That’s why I will probably ride out with them again if I'm asked – but, I think, not regularly.

Eventually, we arrived in Tonbridge Wells. Our 125ers were nowhere to be seen. I’d only been to Tonbridge once before and that was some years ago. Di and I had passed through it on the way home from Canterbury. It was on a Sunday tea time and we were getting pretty hungry. We headed into the town to try and find some fish and chips. All I remember of it is that Tonbridge Wels serves pretty awful fish and chips.

Old Tonbridge is the spiritual home of potted salmon and cucumber sandwiches. The town has entered the national consciousness as an image of upper-middle-class, insular Englishness, which, looked at from another point of view, might also be described as ignorance on a stick. There is a kind of well-ordered languor about the town centre that reeks of wealth and comfort, status and security. It’s an image that is quite attractive in its own way – if only it were real.

We rode into town past rows of grand three-story mansions, hoisting their architectural noses into the air and staring down at us as though suspicious of our parentage. We parked the bikes in the rather more modern commercial and retail centre, found a coffee bar and sat down to talk. The coffee bar was one of a chain, a Starbucks or a Café Nero, something like that, bland, familiar, characterless – they all look the same to me. But it did well enough for our needs and the break gave me an opportunity to get to know these guys a bit better.

The shopping area was relatively busy for a Sunday. There were quite a lot of punk rockers hanging around in doorways and in open spaces - not what I expected to see in Tonbridge. Which goes to show what a stereotyped image I have of the place. Most of these kids were wearing full punk gear and accessories– mohicans, brilliantly coloured hair, leathers, Doc Martens (of course!) and bondage trousers. But this is Tonbridge, so their bondage gear was neatly pressed and the badges on their leathers were all arranged in neat rows. And, the real giveaway - their faces were all bright, youthful and expectant, not sullen and dead like their 1970s counterparts. There has been a resurgence of punk rockers everywhere recently. But like most retro styles, a lot of the original energy has gone out of it.

AFter extensive discussions, most of the Hondas decided they were going to ride back to Box Hill – in a last ditch attempt to find the 125s (There’s something magnificent about persevering in a lost cause!). I reckoned that if I rode back with them and then home clockwise round the M25 (the way I’d come), I’d probably be hard pressed to get back before my energy gave out and Danny probably wouldn’t get away on time. As I was in no mood to push myself, I decided to part company with them and make my own way home taking the M25 (anti-clockwise) around London via the Dartford Tunnel.

One other Honda was leaving the main group also. He lived in Luton, just ten miles from my own home. I thought briefly of riding with him, but he'd indicated he was in a hurry to get back, so I decided that, on balance, I’d prefer to keep my own company and go at my own pace. As I was jealous of my free time and had an hour to spare, I planned to take a look around the town. In the event, I spent the time sheltering from a bitter north-east wind in a Waterstones bookshop. The delights of Tonbridge will have to wait for another day.

Riding north out of the town, I saw a very different side of its personality. ON this side, there were no regal Georgian terraces or elaborate Victorian town houses. Here the buildings were mostly 20th century, run-down and shabby looking. There were large, depressed industrial areas; acres of system built housing and badly run estates. People who know Tonbridge say it is a very Chavvy town and can be rough after dark.

Beyond the town borders I hit mile after mile of the magnificent Kent countryside. The broad chalky valleys and lightly wooded hillsides are as neatly managed as you can imagine. They have almost the quality of eighteenth century parkland about them, only they are less obviously 'designed', and more open and sweeping. Further north I hit the river crossing at Dartford, whch forms the boundary between Kent and Essex. I always get a buzz out of the crossing. That's partly because of the bridge over the Thames estuary which carries the M25’s southbound traffic. It's not that beautiful, but it is dramatic, especialy at night. It's partly because of a memory. A couple of years ago I came through here on a Stevenage club run. One of the members who was riding directly in front of me had misunderstood the hand signals given by the guy in the toll booth and had ridden straight through the barrier just as it came down - taking it with him. The guy in the toll booth rushed out, grabbed the barrier and hugged it to his chest like it was a child. I'll never forget the look of horror on his face.

It was an easy run round the M25. The SV settled in and sang itself to sleep. I rode completelhy absorbed in its big contented roar mile after mile after mile. Not for the first time when riding her, I had a sensation of flying. A happy-sad frame of mind slowly settled on me. I love my bike, even if it does give me so much grief, at times. There was more traffic now than when I rode down to Box Hill this morning, but it kept moving pretty well. Kent had given way to the more familiar scenery of Essex at the crossing and before long I’d crossed the Essex border again and was back in Hertfordshire.

The Hertfordshire deer with its erect head and raised foreleg is displayed prominently on all roads that corss the county border. As I pass it I always play this game with myself: I check out how I’m feeling. If I feel low or even slightly resentful to be returning home after a day’s riding, then that means I’ve had a good day out. If I feel happy, then it probably wasn’t such a brilliant day and I’m just wanting to get back onto my own turf. Today, my feelings were mixed and above all, I just felt tired. I glanced at the clock on the dash. It was round about five-fifteen and I was beginning to feel that familiar daily draining of energy. As we hit the last few motorway miles, the SV seemed to sense the presence of home. It woke a little and for a while drove forward with more focus and a greater sense of urgency. So I imagined, anyway.

When I got back, I found that Di, too, had recovered her energy and was once again her usual irrepressible self. She’d had a good day with Dan and was laughing uproariously at his jokes as I came in. That will keep me going, for a while at least.

[sv-wolf]

Absolutely flippin' amazing: no significant damage to you or the bike??! You were quite lucky. The footpeg was the only point of contact between the vehicles?:

As far as I can tell. Just the peg and some very slight contact between the car and the can. So slight I didn't even come away with any of his paintwork. I was amazed too. Given what happened physically and the noise from the bike as he drove past, I just can't think how I got away with it.

I agree with Blues, I would have gotten his info. :

Too damn right, I should. I think what happened was that I was in a huge hurry and alll worked up about it, so I wasn't thinking too straight. If it happened again (which I sincerely hope will not be the case) then I would get the details and probably do something about it. He could have turned nasty and tred to blame me for it. There were no witnesses except the guy behind us who kept bibbing his horn. He was only interested in getting past.

Don't know how it works in the UK, but in the States I would be making a discreet suggestion to the local police department they keep an eye on possibly terminating his driving career. :

I think you would report someone to the DVLA (the government's vehicle licencing department), but I'm not sure. Maybe you're right, but I;m always a little recluctant on that one. There are a lot of other drivers, a hell of a lot younger than this guy - some of them much younger! - who I think deserve to b e reported more than he does. Maybe I'm a bit soft like that.

Comfort food: a nice glass of red. The Mrs. and I discovered this week that Yellowtail 2004 merlot-cabernet blend is cheap and delicious.

I'm allergic to wine, but each to his own. Sounds good to me, jstark47. Enjoy

[sv-wolf]

I am so relieved that you are ok. I'd miss reading your stories.
It would have been prudent though to get his information just in case anything is wrong that shows up later. And.....even if you don't use the info, he doesn't know that. He could stand to sweat a little thinking about what he did.

Hiya Blues. Yes you are right. I should have done. Next time it happens (hopefully not) I might just be a little less sympathetic. Distrubingly, quite a few bikers I know have had minor scrapes recently courtesy of other drivers. Maybe there is something in the water. Or maybe there are just a lot of bad drivers around. One friend had to slam on his anchors last Sunday to avoid a car that drove out directly in front of him and cut him off from any available road. He was doing a fair speed and the tarmac was bumpy, so it resulted in a massive tank slapper. He was very lucky to have stayed on and not smashed into anything. Fortunately, he's a very skilled rider. I'm more and more aware of just how much careless and risky driving there is. I must have had to take some sort of minor avoiding action a dozen times in the last frew months. The line between minor and major is a fine one though.

Thanks for all your support (grateful hugs).

How are things going up there in Vancouver? Has the weather relented yet? Are you getting much riding in? I have this wonderful image of your part of the world. Is it as beautiful as everyone says?

Take care, now.


Richard

[dr_bar]

I have this wonderful image of your part of the world. Is it as beautiful as everyone says?

Blues probably has better and more up to date pictures than this but to give you an idea of Vancouver...

[sapaul]

You have to be 100% in and of yourself to be able to give 110% to others. Depriving yourself of the resources required to maintain yourself at 100% is to deprive the person you are trying to help.

Paul 2006