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.
