FOREVER AUTUMN

I like riding in autumn. It's crisp and cool. It's either clear or you get to see the last of the mist rising off the land. The leaves are a range of colours from green to red to gold to brown.  There are nice seasonal dishes, usually involving pumpkin or butternut, on the pub menus, and places are generally a little quieter, because the schools are back and all but the hardiest cyclists are tucked up safely at home for the winter. The motorbike is also less inclined to overheat. 
Plus, my bike looks really good against autumn backdrops. 

I ambled down the A24, as I often do, then looped arbitrarily onto the A246, which is a nice little road if you don't mind slowing down for villages (I don't). I shall be revisiting this road, and probably stopping short of Guildford once again, as I don't mind villages but I do mind large built up towns and cities. There are several new pubs and cafes along that road to try, and other buildings which intrigue me purely for their architecture. Next dry weekend, I think. 

WORTH IT

There is no such thing as a heat-proof cover. There are heat resistant covers of various stripes, but it's always advisable not to test those limits too much. Unfortunately, it's not always possible to let the bike cool down completely before covering it up. 
So what you get, with the best will in the world, is melted bits of cover on the pipes. Now some years ago, a gent at a filling station suggested the old armourers trick of using baby oil and the finest possible steel wool. This actually works, but requires elbow grease as well as baby oil, in fairly large quantities. 
I spent some time and energy on Sunday morning, de-gunging my pipes and getting bits of steel wool embedded under my nails (the gloves didn't last. Latex and oil don't mix well. We know this). But I got it all off, cleaned my nails as best I could and headed off for a well-deserved pub roast lunch. 
As I waited for my lunch, I watched a man carefully inspect my bike from every possible angle. Twice. He leaned, he crouched, he peered, he very nearly took out a magnifying glass. 
Some time later, once he'd found his party and also spotted my helmet, he complimented me on my beautifully keep bike. And every last piece of steel wool still under my nails, every twinge from wrist and elbow and shoulder? Worth it. 

KING OF THE ROAD

There's an old song about the vagrant lifestyle, which celebrate hte simplicity of having no material ties - no phone, no pool, no pets, no permanent job or pressure or roots. I think of it often when riding. 

The underrated beauty of riding is that concentration needs to be near-absolute. Two wheels and a helmet are the perfect excuse not to answer the phone, not to red emails, not to be available to all and sundry. I know there are bluetooth headsets, ways to connect both to a pillion or another rider, and to my phone, but there's a reason I don't actually own any. I don't want to be connected 24/7, and I really don't want my job to think I can be. Or should be. The trouble with flexible working and smart technology is the tendency for that to translate as Permanently On Call for Work. 

Riding, with earplugs, helmet, loud pipes and statistically high risk factors is the perfect excuse to unplug, and focus on the present, no further forward than needed to anticipate the traffic. You could even call it that 21st century buzzword - mindfulness. 

MOVING MEDITATION