HEAT WAVES

 I ride all year. Each season has its own challenges and joys, and when I’m freezing my fingers off in winter, squinting in the mid-afternoon glare of LED headlights in the dark, I long for summer days and long, late hours of sun. I forget about the other things that come with summer. Heatwaves, which make the tarmac tacky, sticking to tires so every metre is like riding through chewing gum.  The summer traffic, backing up in ways that don’t want to let you through so your air-cooled engine starts to overheat (which at least comes with some notice - that ominous change in the engine note at idle), the sensation of overheating in your gear as soon as you’re doing less than 30mph, or when you get off at the pub. The glare of the sun, which somehow always manages to be at just the wrong angle for your visor, glaring of any and all glass available, strong enough to make even the dirtiest chrome blinding. 

The bugs. Although there have been fewer of those lately, according to the state of my headlight and visor. The peculiar pattern of the tan afforded by summer gloves. 

But none of it outweighs the clear days, the long hours of daylight riding, and the freedom of not having to wear at least four layers against frostbite.

DIRE STRAITS

 I mentioned that I haven’t been on any long road trips since getting my bike back, all beautifully fixed. One reason for this is that my bike, like most bikes, doesn't have a big tank. Bikes are, after all, pretty economical for fuel use. So having to worry about the petrol price and where I fill up is a new experience. When I first learned to drive, the price was set by the government, and there was no competition so it really didn’t matter. Then I moved to a place with competitive petrol pricing, and started to notice the differences. Then I got a bike and stopped worrying again, because on so few litres, it wasn’t a big deal. I chose petrol stations on grounds like whether they made me take my open-face helmet off (and to this day I refuse to return to the Esso station that wanted me to take my helmet off to use a Pay-at-Pump, which is simply them being stupid, obstreperous and anti-bike). 

Now, of course, I am having to keep a weather eye on the state of the strait of Hormuz, which means paying at least slight attention to the dire-ness that is the news. Sigh. 

Good thing riding is the best way to destress. 

HITTING THE HIGHWAY AGAIN

 It’s been a year, give or take, since I got my bike back after the accident. I haven’t been on any long trips, for circumstances unrelated to the residual cynicism about other road users, suspicion of all other vehicles and general paranoia and hyper awareness around the potential for everyone else to be utterly unpredictable, non-signalling and unobservant. I realise that these - or their levels at least - are what might be called post-traumatic effects. I’m just not sure that’s a bad thing, if it makes me safer on the road. 

I have done the fateful trip again, because I did not need any more reasons to hate the M25 (the world’s longest parking lot), and I refuse to let one idiot put me off that nightmare fuel even further. 

There’s definitely a place for learning from bad experiences, from pain and injury. I just hope the careless drivers also learn from their mistakes. But, given my increased cynicism, I’m really not holding my breath. 

EPITAPH

When I was still too small to be allowed in the front seat of the car, my mother taught me the epitaph of John Grey, who died defending his right of way (He was perfectly right as he sped along, but he’s just as dead as if he’d been wrong). She may have regretted it, because I repeated it every time we took that route. It was, however, the start of my policy of Not Arguing With Idiots if at all possible. 

But it isn’t always. Any biker knows the score: you’re happily cruising in your lane, and some absolute gearstick decides to move, with nary a signal nor a blind spot glance. You notice the cage edge over the line and you have that instantaneous sinking inevitability: you have nowhere to go and no time to get there. Cue sickening metal crunch. 

This happened to me recently, at 60mph. I’m lucky - I have no broken bones, no concussion or whiplash. My helmet, jacket, boots, gloves… they’re all completely trashed, but they did their job. A high quality helmet is cheaper than brain damage. Good armour in a good jacket is cheaper than a broken back (or arm). 

And my bike? Well, the paramedics wouldn’t let me near it (clearly they are not bikers), so we wait for that damage assessment, whenever the insurance gets around to it. Equally clearly, they’re not bikers either. 

SPRINGING FORWARD

The first flowers of spring are emerging - snowdrops, crocuses and towering over them, everywhere, daffodils. One of the biggest advantages bikes have over cars is their openness. There’s nothing between your leathers and the world, nothing but the visor between your face and the air. The quality of the air changes with the seasons - the cold of early spring does not feel the same, somehow, as the same temperature in winter. I’m sure there’s a complicated meteorological reason for that, but I’m not a scientist. I’ll just appreciate it, and the sight of colourful nodding flower heads on the verges, medians and roundabouts. 

     

 

There’s something oddly satisfying about the combination of a sunny pub terrace, daffodils popping up haphazardly as they do, and a wood fire taking the edge off the chill.

CHILLS, SPILLS…

 It’s been a cold winter so far, as well as a wet one. Riding days have been few and far between. When the weather is sufficiently clear and the roads dry enough that going out is not to hazard one’s life on slippery patches, black ice or no visibility through the mist, the air has been frigid enough to stall the engine whenever the revs drop - whether slowing down, changing gear or simply idling. It’s a little disconcerting, especially on roundabouts and hills. The problem is that the fuel recondenses too quickly for ignition as it enters the combustion chamber, and idle boosting additives can only do so much - not enough, it seems, for the air we’ve been having lately. Roll on spring, for all its rain and wind. I’ll take it if it comes with a few more degrees on the thermometer.

HAND IN GLOVE

The winter rain let up for long enough for the roads to dry a little, and while there was the seasonal excuse for sunlight, I went to Denbies. It’s a favourite winter run -  far enough for the battery to stay healthy, but close enough that I can generally still feel my fingers when I get there. I have tried all the gloves, believe me: heated gloves (they aren’t all that effective in the kind of headwind you get on a bike, and need too much recharging), double layer gloves (warm, but tend to pull their inner layer inside out when you take them off, which is problematic when you come to put them back on again), and ski gloves, which I bought for cross-country skiing and which have more flexibility than any downhill gloves I’ve tried. They don’t tend to pull inside out and also have convenient handles at the cuffs with which to pull them on (I’m not sure that was designer’s intention, but I also don’t care. It’s a useful feature). I may have to redesignate them as winter riding gloves. 

My fingertips, however, were still cold (negative temperatures in a wind chill will do that), so it was a lovely feeling to curl them around my coffee cup while basking in the warmth of central heating and festive atmosphere.