In the event, Friday 13th hadn't been that terrible - my get-you-home plan had more or less worked out. There were no obstacles that significant amounts of patience, hard work, money, energy and optimism couldn't overcome. But of course the gods had one last little joke to play: the weather.
"Welcome home stranger, they said, we're going to piss all over you for five hours. You won't be able to see where you're going, you'll get thoroughly cold and miserable. And it'll hurt."
It didn't start like that of course. I was just raining when I got back to Dover and set off up the M2. And it didn't stop. It got heavier as it got dark. And, it being Friday evening, there were roadworks around much of the M25 to occupy and divert the homeward-bound commuter and Radio 2 Traffic Team alike.
By the time I got half way round the M25 my gloves and feet - neither properly attired for biking I have to admit - were both completely soaking. As I hit the M4, I was already beginning to cheer myself up by singing little scraps of Loudon Wainwright III:
And so on. You have to fill the time some how and keep the mind focussed. Riding in clouds of spray, being thrown around by winds and passing lorries, and dazzled by lights on all sides takes a lot of concentration and, to be honest, not a little courage. I was pretty anxious much of the time and sing partly to keep my spirits up and partly to keep myself calm.
So look out mum, look out dad
Your bundle of fun will not be had
If the blanket is blue or if the blanket is pink
You'd best watch what you do, watch what you think!
I hollered as I wobbled past Heathrow.
At about Reading, I started to feel twinges of pain in my right shoulder. It was probably from holding on to the throttle for over 12 hours, possibly from gripping on too tightly. Despite some sodden attempts to loosen the muscles by juggling about at 60mph, the pain increased steadily and I found myself singing Dylan's "Masters of War"-
Come you masters of war
You that build the big guns
You that build the death planes
You that build all the bombs etc
Never a good sign!
The last 50 miles were, shall we say, not easy. At about 11.00pm I turned off the motorway and progressed slowly and painfully along the A46 towards Nailsworth, uncertain whether I'd be able actually to get off. Stopping at traffic lights produced a spasm that had me yelping with pain. Keep calm and carry on, eh? Thank heavens there was no-one at home to witness my arrival: sodden clothes were awkwardly peeled off in a haphazard line of ouches that led towards the bathroom and the much-looked-for hot shower that - glory of glories - brought the relief that I had hoped. Long, hot showers are, I believe, the first thing that the Terry Waites of this world usually have and I'm 100% with them.
So that's where the trip ends: in the shower with bits of kit in puddles on the kitchen floor. It's not perhaps the most elevated conclusion and I'm sure that a more balanced perspective will prevail soon.
A word about kit
In the meantime I hope I'm allowed another short digression. This time on the subject of 'kit'. It may not interest you non-bikers out there but it is essential and it's probably kept me alive, so hang on in there.
The most important thing is the bike. Imagine driving along the M4 in the howling rain with the bonnet of your car open. Apart from being about the level of visibility I had at times, it's pretty much what the bike is exposed to all the time. A car would soon stop, wouldn't it? Water would get into the generator/plugs/alternator or whatever and it would seize up. I've had loads of cars that didn't like rain and I saw several by the side of the road, last night, flashers on, miserable owners poking around under the bonnet.
Patrick's bike wasn't mad about the Munich rainstorm ("...it's a recognised problem witjh the HT leads" he was told when it wouldn't start next day).
But mine did not miss a single beat - it purred with damnable germanic efficiency for hour after hour of soul-drenching madness. And started first time next day.
And, although I couldn't actually see the tarmac, I was extremely grateful that I was making contact with it via some fancy new bits of rubber. Never were €270 better spent than on the tyres that ploughed sure-footed through the flooded lakes of the British motorway system.
And finally let's hear it for the lid. The next time you pass a biker in the rain, remember s/he's probably got about 10% vision due to the spray you're throwing up, to droplets on the outside of their visor and misting up inside. For years this has been the bane of bikers: cold rain outside, warm breath inside = water vapour. The skiers among you will recognise the problem.
This trip was the first real outing for my new BMW helmet: an absurdly overpriced bit of plastic that features a variety of daft gimmicks, including something called a pin visor. This is essentially, a second inner leaf to the visor that the marketing people claim stops it all from misting up. Smoke and mirrors I say.
It wasn't until I was somewhere near Woking that I realised it was working (ha ha): yes, the visor wasn't misting up! What price visibility eh? Wish I'd paid similar attention to my hand and footwear....
"Welcome home stranger, they said, we're going to piss all over you for five hours. You won't be able to see where you're going, you'll get thoroughly cold and miserable. And it'll hurt."
It didn't start like that of course. I was just raining when I got back to Dover and set off up the M2. And it didn't stop. It got heavier as it got dark. And, it being Friday evening, there were roadworks around much of the M25 to occupy and divert the homeward-bound commuter and Radio 2 Traffic Team alike.
By the time I got half way round the M25 my gloves and feet - neither properly attired for biking I have to admit - were both completely soaking. As I hit the M4, I was already beginning to cheer myself up by singing little scraps of Loudon Wainwright III:
Be careful there's a baby in the house
And a baby is better than smart
It can waddle through, all the stuff you do
Never mind your big head start.
And so on. You have to fill the time some how and keep the mind focussed. Riding in clouds of spray, being thrown around by winds and passing lorries, and dazzled by lights on all sides takes a lot of concentration and, to be honest, not a little courage. I was pretty anxious much of the time and sing partly to keep my spirits up and partly to keep myself calm.
So look out mum, look out dad
Your bundle of fun will not be had
If the blanket is blue or if the blanket is pink
You'd best watch what you do, watch what you think!
I hollered as I wobbled past Heathrow.
At about Reading, I started to feel twinges of pain in my right shoulder. It was probably from holding on to the throttle for over 12 hours, possibly from gripping on too tightly. Despite some sodden attempts to loosen the muscles by juggling about at 60mph, the pain increased steadily and I found myself singing Dylan's "Masters of War"-
Come you masters of war
You that build the big guns
You that build the death planes
You that build all the bombs etc
Never a good sign!
The last 50 miles were, shall we say, not easy. At about 11.00pm I turned off the motorway and progressed slowly and painfully along the A46 towards Nailsworth, uncertain whether I'd be able actually to get off. Stopping at traffic lights produced a spasm that had me yelping with pain. Keep calm and carry on, eh? Thank heavens there was no-one at home to witness my arrival: sodden clothes were awkwardly peeled off in a haphazard line of ouches that led towards the bathroom and the much-looked-for hot shower that - glory of glories - brought the relief that I had hoped. Long, hot showers are, I believe, the first thing that the Terry Waites of this world usually have and I'm 100% with them.
A word about kit
In the meantime I hope I'm allowed another short digression. This time on the subject of 'kit'. It may not interest you non-bikers out there but it is essential and it's probably kept me alive, so hang on in there.
The most important thing is the bike. Imagine driving along the M4 in the howling rain with the bonnet of your car open. Apart from being about the level of visibility I had at times, it's pretty much what the bike is exposed to all the time. A car would soon stop, wouldn't it? Water would get into the generator/plugs/alternator or whatever and it would seize up. I've had loads of cars that didn't like rain and I saw several by the side of the road, last night, flashers on, miserable owners poking around under the bonnet.
Patrick's bike wasn't mad about the Munich rainstorm ("...it's a recognised problem witjh the HT leads" he was told when it wouldn't start next day).
But mine did not miss a single beat - it purred with damnable germanic efficiency for hour after hour of soul-drenching madness. And started first time next day.
And, although I couldn't actually see the tarmac, I was extremely grateful that I was making contact with it via some fancy new bits of rubber. Never were €270 better spent than on the tyres that ploughed sure-footed through the flooded lakes of the British motorway system.
And finally let's hear it for the lid. The next time you pass a biker in the rain, remember s/he's probably got about 10% vision due to the spray you're throwing up, to droplets on the outside of their visor and misting up inside. For years this has been the bane of bikers: cold rain outside, warm breath inside = water vapour. The skiers among you will recognise the problem.
This trip was the first real outing for my new BMW helmet: an absurdly overpriced bit of plastic that features a variety of daft gimmicks, including something called a pin visor. This is essentially, a second inner leaf to the visor that the marketing people claim stops it all from misting up. Smoke and mirrors I say.
 |
| One of these keeps out the rain (note inner 'pin' visor); the other doesn't |
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