HollyWTF?

Between rides, I seem to spend a lot of time patiently refuting some of less flattering stereotypes about bikers. In my experience, as I’ve said here before, bikers aren’t sexist, or pigs. HOGs, yes, maybe, but that’s different.

So when I stopped by the Hollyville café on the A21 in West Kingsdown on a chilly and damp winter morning, I was disappointed. Firstly, it has to be said, because I was served instant coffee in a place that has a full-on espresso machine, but more so by the clientele.

Now this part of the world is the birthplace of the café racer, when bikes used to race from Johnson’s café (a little further down the road) along a nice straight (unusually so) piece of tarmac, and a few of the Hollyville’s customers have been there, done that, and in some cases still have the T-shirt somewhere. I am generally all for hearing about motorcycling history and mythology. But please. I ride a 1200CC Harley. I have stickers on my windscreen that prove I have ridden some of the twistier Alpine passes.  While your concern for my safety on damp Kentish A-roads is sweet, it’s also completely unwarranted and somewhat condescending.

I have been riding for many years, in myriad conditions. The Alpine motorways of Italy in the pouring rain, all the way from Riva Del Garda to the Monte Bianco tunnel spring to mind. I may be young enough to be your daughter, but that gives you no right to metaphorically pat me on the head. So I ride corrected. Some bikers are sexist.

I wish them joy of their instant coffee. I shall continue to visit places where ‘espresso doppio, por favor’ is a valid and usual, and the comments are about my biking, not my relative youth or beauty.  

Last Good Day

On Sunday, London had what is probably the last really good day of 2015. It's nearly officially autumn on Wednesday (even if the weather's been a month or so ahead of the calendar), so the number of halfway decent riding days is about to be halved. 

(Really Good Day = jeans and no inner in the jacket, with summer boots & gloves)

Sunday was too good to pass up, and the bike agreed vocally. That is, she coughed and spluttered and generally cleared her pipes at me before consenting to start properly. 

Clearly, she needed a run, especially if I want to do a weekend run in a couple of weeks (assuming the weather gods agree. Please? Pretty please?)

I headed off, threading through all the roadworks that, for some reason, the powers that be have decided must go ahead on nearly every London road simultaneously. Autumn is not the best time to get around to fixing last winter's damage if you ask me. I guess the PTB aren't motorists. 

I wound my way towards Dorking, the bike purring enjoyment of actual movement and curvy bits, and saw that one of my favourite pubs has reopened after refurbishment, so I stopped. This is always a risky proposition, as they tend to remodel anything I actually like right off the menu. 

The Star, although they have gone and put a table and a pot plant in my usual parking, still do a decent nut roast, and more importantly, still serve little baby dark mint chocolates with their coffee. This is the very hallmark of a civilised pub. 

Riding By Numbers

Sometimes, even on an island, you get lucky with the weather. The weekend was sunny and warm, which equals riding. There’s a café in Kent I’ve been wanting to try, so I googled directions and planned a leisurely ride out for Sunday brunch.

In the UK, roads change their names every village, so it’s easier to note the road numbers and navigate by those. The numbers don’t change nearly as often.

We wandered down the A202, A2, A20 until the M25/M20 junction, after which the plan was to go down the A25 until it met the A21 (you can take the A21 all the way down, but it involves a lot more town riding, which isn’t the point).  

From the A21, the plan was to pick up the B245 at the Morley roundabout. However, after the motorway junction, the first circle is signposted the A228, and I was distracted by a nice trike passing by. 

We went through West Kingsdown and I started to doubt – the A25 is like a junior version of the M25, so while the London Orbital isn’t nearly as smooth an ellipse as its name would suggest, you kind of expect the A-road version to be nearby. I figured I’d overshot it, so Lynn powered up her satnav and we headed cross country on some tiny twisty country B & C roads I wish I’d seen numbers for, because they were fun.

We wound up coming into Hildenborough from the far side, but joined up with the B245 as we’d planned. Just a lot lower down. As in 1 block from Café 1809, which was our destination. (It's pronounced 1-8-Oh-9).

The café is comfortable, with 2 sets of outside tables, friendly staff, good coffee and a tasty menu. My only complaint is the lack of motorcycle parking right outside, but I guess I’m just picky.

I strongly recommend Café 1809 for anyone in need of something lighter than a full on pub lunch.

We came back the way I’d planned, and the inevitable London roadworks and traffic jams were alleviated by the young boy who ran across the road, pausing only to shout to me, “Nice bike!”

It’s amazing what that does to my patience with traffic lights and last minute pedestrians...

Meteorology on an Island

Traditionally, islands have more than their fair share of weather. Add to this climate change, and forecasting becomes a very arcane art, with an erratic level of accuracy. Often, this means planning a ride, then looking out the window and repressing the urge to throw breakables. 

Sometimes, and Sunday was one of them, this means sighing at the non-prospect of a ride, and looking out the window only to do a very happy dance and get yourself dressed and out the door in 5 minutes flat. (Anyone who knows about my coffee habit can appreciate the miracle in this). 

Off I went, my exhilaration at being on the bike again overpowering my tendency to traffic induced fury and foul language. I wandered down the A3, A24, A243 - all roads I know well and enjoy. It's fun knowing just how fast you can take the twisties, because you know the odds of hitting a traffic queue immediately afterwards. 

I stopped at Denbies Vineyard for a coffee, then looked at my watch and meandered on, along the A25, then the A246 - which I've never consciously been on before. 

I can't help wondering why not. It's one of those nice Surrey Hills roads - pretty good condition, a nice spread of inclines, declines and twisties, and not really on the way to anywhere, so lacking traffic. It even has a couple of conveniently placed petrol stations, complete with attendants who aren't jobsworth enough to enforce the no-helmet rule on those who wear open-face lids.

Too soon, the forecaster's prediction of rain threatened to come true (albeit 6 hours late), so I rumbled homewards. 

Now all I have to do is cross my fingers and hold my thumbs that the rain lets up by the weekend...  

Orientation

In southern Spain, they are big into renewable energy, and we saw fields of solar panels in between the wheat fields, and combination sunflower-and-wind farms, and I can’t help but picture Don Quixote tilting at these giants of windmills.

So while I was picturing a modern Man from La Mancha, the 3 satnavs were disagreeing about the route. As usual with satnavs in foreign climes, this resulted in a few unplanned diversions and the odd U-turn. At lunch, we discussed the vagaries of GPS systems and signals, and I remain staunchly a map book kind of girl.

Which is an interestingly revealing trait, personality-wise.  I’ve never liked being told where to go and when to turn. I’ve never liked not being able to chart my own course, and create my own diversions.

Double-decker roundabout in Jerez

Jerez de la Frontera - Flamenco country

Lunch at La Laja

Where I got to order things already on the menu and they understood the concept of vegetarianism. This is surprisingly rare in Spain, where fish appears to be classed as a plant. The waiter gave me tips for next time, to avoid another Ensalada Mista mix-up.

Mise en Scene

The rally itself was very quiet, and lacked much in the way of attendees or traders. I did manage to buy myself a helmet which pretty much took care of my shopping list. 

There is no way I will go to a bike rally and not ride, even if it's as a pillion. 

So after spending Friday afternoon at the rally, shopping and browsing (2 very different activities) and siestas and eating and listening to various bands performing their hearts out for tiny audiences (and trying not to feel extremely bad for them), we opted for a group ride on Saturday.

On Saturday afternoon (Friday night was pretty late), we went for a ride down the coast a bit. 5 bikes, 3 satnavs and me riding pillion and paying more attention to the scenery than the direction, which is a good thing, because I find the south western edge of Europe geographically confusing. There are so many plants that I know from childhood and associate with Africa (probably mistakenly).  There are birds whose calls and feathers I know: storks and hoopoes.

There are also the low hills, with sparse bushes dotted about that my mind persists in naming koppies, and barbed wire, razor wire and sun-peeled paint in evidence. The curvy stonework on arches and buildings makes me think of Cape Dutch houses. The run-down parts of south west Europe remind me of home.

If it wasn't for the general cleanliness, the road-signs and the fact that they drive on the right, I’d find it even more disorienting. 

Hotel bar in Puerto de Santa maria

I'm not sure the sunken brick fountain is a good idea in a bar, but whatever...

Planes, Trains & Automobiles

I'm a biker. I like to ride. But sometimes, you just can’t get the time off. This was the case for me this year, and riding down to Jerez de la Frontera for the HOG Europe Rally wasn’t an option. So I made a deal for a hotel room, and booked flights instead.

Jerez is a small airport that pretty much, from a UK perspective, operates in summer. This means I have limited options in terms of airports and flight times. Still, it’s doable.

Then I had to figure out how to get from London to Stansted by 5am on a Friday.

I looked into taxis, and freaked at the price. I looked at the Stansted Express, and it had potential.

Then, of course, I had to figure out how to get to Liverpool Street Station in time to catch the 4.10am train. From where I live, at that hour, that means Night Buses.Yes, plural.

I would have to wake up at 2.30am. That is never a pleasant thought. I looked into taxis, and freaked at the price. I looked again, and found a voucher that meant I could sleep until 3.30.

So, of course, the train was delayed (over-running engineering works) and I got to Stansted eventually at 5.20am, and attempted to race through Security, with its myriad restrictions and delays and idiots. (Everyone knows the 100ml rule, right? Wrong).

I say attempted because Stansted was packed and the queues wound around and around and around the terminal and came out by a section partially closed for refurbishment.

I found the one free sliver of bench and sat, thanking online check-in and cabin baggage. I waited.

The plane took off late, but landed early.  The man behind me had long legs that kept  bumping me. Possibly also because he had a double Jack and Coke around 7am, once we were air borne.

Then there was another train (one per hour, and I missed it by 5 mins, so had to wait on a platform in 36 degree heat in jeans and boots). Then there was another taxi (this time in Spanish) to get to the hotel.

For all the time it takes, and the frustrations of weather and parking and petrol stations, I prefer to ride. 

I prefer the simplicity of a single mode of transport. 

I prefer to get up at stupid if I’m going to be on my own two wheels. Maybe that’s nuts, or maybe I’m just a biker.

Patches

Yesterday was another nice Sunday, which as usual = Riding. 

We headed west, out on the A40, just to do the curvy forested section between Stokenchurch and Postcombe. This involved getting caught up in the Surrey HOG Chapter run (don’t they have enough pretty roads in Surrey?) all the way from High to West Wycombe before we could pull free. I enjoyed checking out all their bikes, but I have to wonder what the comments were when they stopped – we broke all the Chapter Run riding rules - we overtook, we filtered past... we did everything that you don't do during a run, because it breaks the run up.

The reason they might have been confused by our presence is that half of them weren’t wearing their Chapter vests. On an official ride, you generally wear your vest – which is decorated with badges and patches from rallies and meets, all of which create potential conversations in a group of bikers, but which, crucially, has the HOG emblem patch and Chapter banner patch on the back. It helps on the road to know who is and isn’t with your ride, and therefore who you are and aren’t supposed to be following/ allowed to overtake with impunity.

Of course, today I got into work and saw the news of a sometime problem with patches – the fight between two bike gangs in Waco, which left 9 dead. Don’t cars and legislators pose enough of a threat to bikers without us gunning for each other?