LARKS VERSUS OWLS

We've been having a cold snap over here. Winter temperatures with a vengeance, and I've blogged about it quite a lot. I know. 
On Saturday, I headed out early-ish, cheerfully abandoning my entire to-do list and a sink full of washing up in favour of riding, and hopefully beating the worst of the traffic. I have a friend who keeps making "pillion, please" noises, but I fear she is an Owl and I ride too Lark-like for her. I'm not a natural Lark. I just enjoy quiet, clear roads more than busy ones, and I live in a city. Also, I am far less conscientious than she. I am happy to ignore the mounting pile of tasks in favour of even cold and slippish roads. 
(They weren't wet, per se, and they weren't properly icy, either. Just somewhere in between. Not quite dry, not quite slippery).
I spent the ride taking my mind off the cold by debating the Speed/Time compromise  The longer you ride, the colder you get, but the faster you ride, the colder you get. So is speed or time going to be ultimately colder?
I stopped at a nice cafe in Kent (there are a few, but this one has parking) and as soon as I entered a waiter asked if I'd like to order a drink. Yes. Coffee. Extra hot. 

WIND CHILL FACTORS

On Sunday, I went for a nice, if freezing ride, stopping off at Chessington Garden Centre (which has a lovely cafe) for coffee and a scone. The roads were still fairly damp from Saturday's rather dreich weather, but mostly not actually wet. I can live with damp if there's minimal mud-splash or floating diesel. 
I wore my toasty velvet-lined leggings under my jeans and dug out my gore-tex jacket and winter gloves, over a polo-neck and 2 buffs, and thermal socks with winter boots, and a full face helmet, but by the time I got to the A243, my fingernails were achingly cold, and my nose was practically cryogenic (closing the visor just made things foggy) and I hadn't been able to feel my toes since Robin Hood.
But - this is why we invented the coffee stop. Whether you call it a coffee stop or comfort break, the idea is always to counteract the weather. In winter, it's a chance to curl your fingers (assuming you can make them move at all) around a mug of something hot until they thaw out, to wriggle your toes until you're sure they're still attached, to let your muscles shiver in a way you can't allow while riding, and to fill your stomach with fuel to burn to keep you warmer. It's always warmer riding after such a stop, even if the temperature has dropped or the wind picked up. 

VENTING

So after a few storms knocking around during the week, Sunday dawned crisp and clear and chilly, and I layered up and headed out. 
The wind was what's best called fitful - coming in fits and starts, gusts only, but gusting like a toddler tantrum - full force. 
Now, I've had my bike for long enough to have got used to not having a screen to split the headwind and channel it past my chest and head. (I can't say I've noticed a decrease in dead bugs on my visor, whatever everyone else is reporting). 
I can handle the full headwind now, and while it's tiring sometimes, it's also predictable and controllable (insofar as it's related to my speed). A gusting wind, though, buffets bike and rider unpredictably, and generally tries to push you either off the road or into the truck next to you. 
It also tends to find any tiny gap or crack in your clothing and twist itself through to chill any part it can reach - up cuffs, through vents and seams, between the teeth of zips.
All of which is, I guess, precisely why we invented the Coffee Stop. 

COFFEE STOP

PUB CRUISING

On Saturday, I took advantage of the slightly-drier-than-Sunday forecast and went for a ride along the A40 through the Aston Rowant Reserve. That is to say, I went for a ride in the Chilterns, on a nice twisty hillside road that threads through a wood, which was surprisingly green for this time of year.
It's a run I do relatively often, and for the sake of variation, went on to try a new pub, The Chequers, which is down a back street in Watlington and a little obscure, but does very good food and friendly service (it's clearly family run).
This makes a very nice run for autumn and spring, being too short for summer, but best used when there's still enough warmth and sun to make use of their extensive beer garden.

I shall have to go back in a few weeks, to see the woods in all their autumn glory. (Of course to see the woods. It couldn't possibly be anything to do with a good pub lunch, now, could it?)

TRAFFIC WATCH

After a week away, the bike desperately needed a run, so on Saturday,  I headed off for coffee at a semi-local vineyard. Alas, everyone else had the same idea, so the traffic was hellish. 

I lack patience with traffic and idiots, and it's depressing how often they seem to coincide. My fuse tends to shorten as my engine heats. 
The highlight of the day came when I was leaving. An old lady was crossing the parking as I did a downhill alley dock out of the parking. When I paused to check my pockets were zipped before roaring off, I saw the lady had stopped to lean on a bollard, the better to watch and give me two thumbs up as I took off. Nearly home, there was further cheer in the form of wide eyed kid with hands clapped firmly over his ears, refusing to move until he'd watched me past. Who says riding isn't a spectator sport?

All Shiny Again!

OF ROADS & LIDS & OTHER THINGS

The last time I wore a full face helmet, I dropped it onto cement driveway and it bounced merrily towards the road. After that, I could no longer pretend it was undamaged.

This isn’t a huge impediment to riding, because generally I prefer an open face anyway. But the bike has no screen, so if I expect more than a couple of junctions of motorway, a full face is somewhat imperative, if only for the sake of not having to stop every 10 miles for eyedrops. So when such a trip loomed, I went shopping.

Helmet regulations and shopping have changed since the last time I bought a lid. This says something for how long I keep my lids, which is partly because they cost a bomb (for a good one) and partly because disposal of the old is always the big problem, as they’re too composite in make-up to recycle.

I’ve seen some creative solutions- repurposing lids to be hanging flower baskets, or small storage hutches, but I lack the tools to do either conversion and the space for use afterwards.

So I went down the usually suggested route of offering it as a training aid to my local fire service –  who still haven’t replied and it’s been months  - or ambulance service, who didn’t initially understand the question, put me through the training, who haven’t responded to my voicemail.

You’d think such places would be grateful for a supply of free lids on which to practice cutting up and removing safely.

What I don’t understand is why the bike shop chains don’t make a deal with the ambulance and fire services by which they collect lids (dropped off when you buy a new one) and the services pick them up in bulk from there. It would make things easier and probably cheaper for bikers & services, and wouldn’t do the stores any harm either, especially as a PR exercise.

(If anyone wants to act on this idea, please be my damn guest).

NEVER KNOWN

The thing about riding is that it's always an adventure. However well you know the roads you're on, you don't know what else is on them this time. Any particular ride has never happened before. 
It was due to be dry to the south and east, so I took my favourite route down to Brighton, thinking of going to either my usual coffee shop. A wholly familiar ride and destination. 
The traffic gods were feeling oddly benign, and I had a lovely clear run down. This does not happen on that route. Ever. 
It was so clear, that by the time I got to Brighton, I'd forgotten it was Pride weekend, and therefore my favourite bike rank was suspended and the coffee shop (largely my usual because of proximity to said bike rank) was blocked off. 
The annoying part was not seeing the suspension sign until after I'd parked up. 
But as I snarled up the side streets and back ways I found a new bike rank: larger and deeper and conveniently tucked next to a brick wall that would stop any overly wide turns from hitting actual bikes. 
And a short stroll away I found a new independent coffee shop, with a reasonable brunch menu and friendly staff quite happy for me to occupy a table big enough to accommodate my lid as well. 
My usual route to a familiar place wound up a brand new adventure. 

IRON SUPPLEMENTS & HEARING

A friend sent me a picture of a Harley, with the caption: Stressed Out? Maybe you just need an iron supplement.

I always take good advice, so at the first half-dry opportunity, went for a ride. I didn't go far - London was be-ringed by rain - but I managed to get past the M25 for a coffee.

I didn't really pay enough attention to the warning signs about road closures and a cycling event... Coming back, I hit lengthly tailbacks from Robin Hood to Waterloo. As usual, at least half the cars stuck in them resented my ability to filter, and blocked me, forcing me to queue too. This would be less of a problem on a bike with a water cooled engine. 

Around Vauxhall, the idle note changed. I kind of love that my bike audibly pants when she's overheating, so I know in time to do something about it. I hate hearing it, though. 

I kept switching off whenever stationary, which helps just enough to get me back into the parking, where she can cool off all week. Of course, the lack of engine noise means idiots are audible when they look at me, and the bike, and then ask "is that a Sportster?" because of course a woman can't possibly ride anything more powerful. Sportsters look nothing like Softails. I should know, I've had both models. 

Also some random idiot on an upright-position bike: 'Noisy!' Um. Yes. That's kind of the point, and why I wear earplugs when riding. At least other road users can hear me, regardless of whether they're looking at their phones or not. And honestly? I'm quieter than a lot of car radios. 

COUNTRY ROADS, TAKE ME... WELL, NOT HOME.

So I booked a day off work, and wandered off to Guildford to have my new 2-up seat fitted, before heading from there to Lower Weare, Somerset.

The stop in Guildford meant there was no particular value in going up to the M4, so having found my way with no stops or errors (for once) through central Guildford and reached the dealer with 10 minutes to spare – also a novelty – I spent my time while waiting in browsing and asking about ways to get to the M3.

It’s just as well I have no qualms about asking for directions as the recent heatwave had quite literally collapsed the usual feeder road as it was still partially closed and under repair.

I took their advice and backroads to the M3, then picked up the A303, which was fairly pleasant going up until Stonehenge.

Near Stonehenge, the road narrows rapidly from 3 lanes to 1, and it always causes a tailback. Luckily, most people were not in a mad hurry or a bad mood and they let me filter through as much as they could.

Just after Stonehenge, where it widens up again, I made the colossal mistake of pulling off into the services. I have never met such badly sign-posted services. From the road, they’re clearly marked. Off the road, they are a maze of roads and roundabouts with little to no useful signage visible amid the competing café and pub banners. I wanted fuel, dammit, not a pint.

When I got back on the road, I nearly sobbed to discover a much simpler fuel stop only a mile or two further on. However.

I got to Lower Weare through the Mendips, incidentally discovering a bunch of little A and B roads I seldom encounter. Twisties are much milder and much more FUN on a bike.

HOG DAYS OF SUMMER

We’re having a heatwave. Clear, sunny weekends = riding, even on a scorcher of a day.
I took a ride down to Penshurst Place in Kent, which had been recommended by a friend as having a) very pretty gardens and b) an excellent afternoon tea. Plus, it has grass parking, rather than gravel. In wetter weather, this would be a muddy nightmare, but - we have a heatwave.
I meandered down the A2 and A20, behaving especially well because I acquired a cop bike behind me at Bricklayers Arms, just after the flyover, who stayed with me until the Lewisham roundabout where the A20 and A21 part ways.
I wandered onto the A225, and I have to wonder why I don’t take that road more often. In between the towns and villages, it’s full of fun twisty bits and pretty shady bits, where in summer the trees create a cool green tunnel, and in winter it’s a test of how fast photochromic lenses can really react.
I shall try it again in 5 months or so. I spotted some nice pubs along the way, too, which will make good stopping points.
Eventually, I reached the Penshurst gates and parked in the shadiest spot I could, in a vain attempt to let the engine cool down while I whiled away time wandering the gardens, drinking cold things, and trying (delicious) cake at the Porcupine Pantry.

I say vain, because when the temperature is hovering near the 30 Celsius mark, cooling down is a very relative term. The one trouble with riding in hot weather is that as soon as you’re off the bike, you’re in jeans and boots. On the bike, with the breeze in your face, that’s absolutely fine. Off the bike? Well, the term boil-in-bag springs to mind.

DEAD BUG CENTRAL

Once upon a time, I had a bike with a screen. This meant open-face helmet riding all summer long, visor up, without ever noticing the insect life, at least until time came to clean the bike, when I’d suddenly realise my headlight, my indicators, the backs of my mirrors and my screen had all become Dead Bug Central. And as those who’ve ever had to remove insect guts from glass or plastic know well, it’s not actually that easy. They respond best to warm soapy water and a fair degree of elbow grease, depending on how long it’s been since they landed.

The screen used to save me from a large part of the headwind, almost all the insect life (and death), a lot of the pollen and a lot of the dirt.

Now, I have a bike with no screen, and still an open-face helmet. This makes me the sole target for the headwind, which isn’t so bad, if only because motorways are generally pretty boring, so I tend to be confined to under 70mph. My bars, my riser, my jacket, my helmet, my visor, my sunglasses, my face and my eyes are now the landing place of choice for pollen, dirt, and – you guessed it – insects of all shapes and stripes.

I don’t know if it’s really much compensation that the mirrors and indicators are less bug be-spattered these days.