11/11/12

So I was up at the Ace Cafe for breakfast on Remembrance Sunday (it was cold. I was hungry. Long runs were not appealing), and there was a fleet of old military vehicles there, on display before the Ace's Remembrance run set off. I arrived as it left, so went in for food and heat.
After breakfast I wandered around the parking lot, which is always fascinating fun at the Ace, and saw 2 options for Oddball's town car (Kelly's Heroes, for those who don't know, is my all-time favourite war movie), as well as various trucks and jeeps and even an old ambulance.
I looked for a bike with a sidecar, as per Granddad's story, but alas, there wasn't one.
My other grandfather served on the medical corps, so this one had to be blogged:

Have a good week, all.

oddball's weekend runabout

remembrance sunday at the ace

2-Wheel Tetris at HTB

How many bikes can you fit in the parking if you really try?

Unexpected Wales

The Bridge was very atmospherically shrouded in mist and cloud and absolutely freezing. But it and the roads in Wales were lined with far more spectators than I'm used to.
The route, once in Wales, went round (and round and up and over and down) the houses - and people had brought their garden chairs and morning tea down to the bottom of their driveways the better to cheer and wave. I am not used to such a warm reception. No biker is. Usually the people shouting are swearing at us, not cheering.
Chepstow itself closed off its square and nearby parking lot for us, and had set up stalls and a band. Lynn was expecting bigger, I wasn't expecting anything at all. We found a coffee shop which was as heaving as every other cafe, but the queue seemed to be moving (it had very efficient service, even if they'd decided all drinks were grande regardless of price charged). I have to say, every time I've been in Wales, I've found very good coffee. It's a major bonus for Wales (in my caffeine-addicted book).
We came back in winds so strong and cold I could barely breathe, paused for a thaw-out with the family again and across the Mendips to the A303. Which was beautiful, but we should have taken the A38 (also nice) and the M4. then maybe I wouldn't have been quite as soaked or quite as late. Notes for next time.

Hogging the Parking

I finally did Hoggin' The Bridge. I've been aware fo this run for a while, but as it's Bristol to Wales, which makes it too far for a day run, and late in the year, I've never done it before. This year,  Lynn decided she was doing it and organised a ride. I called my conveniently placed sister for a bed the night before.
We met up at the Ace cafe, which was a waste, as neither Lynn nor I was massively hungry, and the Ace does amazing huge breakfasts. And no-one else pitched up. Their loss. We had a clear run down to Glastonbury on a collection of roads I wish I could remember codes for because they were lovely, winding this way and that between Tank Crossing signs. I looked all around, but didn't see a tank. Ever since Kelly's Heroes, I have a soft spot for tanks, because I automatically think of Donald Sutherland playing tank commander and hippy (20 years too early, but never mind).
We stopped in Glastonbury for lunch. The really nice thing about Glastonbury is that there is a choice of places I can eat without having to construct a meal out of side dishes. Or pick tuna out the mixed salad.
On Sunday we got up, bundled up, saddled up and motorwayed up to the meeting point at Severn View services. Given the clouds and temperature, I was not expecting so many bikes. Given the name of the event, I was not expecting such a mix of bikes, or for it to be sponsored by Mercedes. BMW at least make bikes.
There were fresh donuts at one stall. Talk about knowing your audience on a cold morning.

Air Pollution

I was planning to do a blog about Ride To The Wall, which is in its 5^th year.  One thing and another, this was not to be.  Among various work and exhaustion issues, the significant one is that my bike has developed the mechanical version of asthma. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s living all covered up and closed off from the fresh smog of London. Maybe it’s just living in the fresh smog of London, but my bike has very frighteningly developed a nasty stutter, the hiccoughs, a coughing fit. Hell, maybe she’s just caught the common cold.

She certainly doesn’t like starting up these days – it’s cold. And I’m out of her winter additive. If she is sick because I’ve not bought her more vitamins? I guess that’s fair enough, but it’s not all that cold yet. Winter Fuel Additive is supposed to be for winter, and it’s barely autumn.

I’ll be riding along, perfectly happy, and she’ll be purring at being on the road, and suddenly her speedo drops to zero, her engine light flashes on and while she doesn’t quite cut out, she stutters and chokes and then suddenly behaves again.

Which, at 70 mph, isn’t the world’s most reassuring experience for the rider. So I abandoned my plans for a longer ride and limped her home. Every time I relaxed, thinking her asthma attack was over? She did it again.

I guess I’m calling the mechanic this week… 

Astro-Tar

Instant Lawn and Astro turf come in rolls that you unroll on the relevant patch of ground and trim to size. Hey presto – instant green. Astrotar is the same basic principle applied to roads.  Which is fine, cool, a good idea, even. But not when you make the stuff out of sugar-syrup. And especially not when you have Britain’s weather. Because while it might make for fewer potholes and better wearing road surfaces (I don’t know whether it does, I’m not an engineer), and I’m guessing it works out cheaper than the old fashioned way (again, speculative – I’m not an accountant either), and while this new method might possibly be greener than traditional asphalt, it’s also going to cause more accidents. Because like diesel, like petrol, like oil, like paint, like that damn special-order gaffer-tape they used for the Olympic lanes – it’s slippery as all hell when wet.  Just because molasses  is the right damn colour is no damn reason to put it on  the road. What part of tires need to grip did they miss or don’t they drive (or ride, or take the occasional bus)?

Black Rabbits, White Elephants & Red Owls

A couple of weeks ago, I went on a chapter run down to Arundel. To, in fact, a very nice pub just beyond Arundel, along the river. It’s called The Black Rabbit and I actually had choices on their menu. They also have the sense to do mini-desserts, which are a lovely size with coffee. But enough about them. This is a bike blog, not BeerintheEvening or UrbanSpoon.

The ride down went on roads I’ve seldom used and go down that way quite a lot. (Arundel has more than the usual number of biker-friendly eateries, and it’s a nice distance from London for a shorter run).  And as we meandered in a very long snake up and around and down Box Hill I realised that while there are probably many white elephants left over from the Games,  there is a definite legacy.  It’s the lovely newly tarred, smooth and beautiful road surface at Box Hill.  One of the reasons I don’t use that road is that the last time I went down it, it was revoltingly gravelly and pot-holed.  Thank heavens for Olympic road cycling events.

About a week later, Lynn and I headed out for a Sunday ride – thinking of revisiting Arundel, when we realised that autumn has arrived. It’s chilly these mornings, and cloudy and breezy. Coffee is frequently required, if only to clutch the cup and thaw our fingers. So we stopped at the red sign of the Wise Owl in Kingsfold, on the road I will forever call the Duck Road after the duck and her ducklings who crossed it in front of my 125cc way back in the day while Lynn rode ahead wondering where I’d got to now.  The Owl’s sign used to be green and it used to pretentious with prices to match and no concept of service. It’s changed hands and colours, if not names, and vastly improved.  It serves biscuits with its coffee, which is always a plus in a pub and saves me ordering dessert.  (Which is a mixed blessing).

bomb-disposal 101

My bike likes to go. She needs a lot of exercise, rather like a large dog. So I took advantage of a dry clear Sunday and went off for a leisurely ride.
Well, that was the plan.
I took off the cover, unlocked the various locks, pulled out the choke and turned the key. All fine, all eager for the treat. I opened the throttle, thinking the bike could warm up while I strapped my bag on the back. She coughed as she always does, and choked and died.
Uh-oh.
I turned the ignition off. She started ticking, like a bomb. Double uh-oh.
And gulp, for good measure.
Turning the key back to 'on' stopped the ticking, but didn't help the engine start. Turning it off just started up the ticking. Now, the battery's new, and expensive. I put it in just before the Cascais trip. If that had died I was ready to spit and scream and threaten to sue.
Lynn walked suspiciously around the bike and tried the key for herself. Same result. We speculated about possible reasons for this sudden sullen fit the bike was having. She got on in order to roll it forward from the wall a bit - and suddenly the bomb was defused and the engine suddenly started.
Apparently the bomb effect was just a temper tantrum. Damn bike. Probably worried I wasn't actually riding, but jsut turning the engine over. But maybe I shouldn't go on any diets if rider weight is what makes the bike go...
Well, that's my excuse anyway. Pass the chocolate.

2-wheels, engine optional

I'm a biker. You know this: it is, after all, the premise of this blog. But I cycle to work, largely as an excuse not to join a gym and because I resent the hell out of rail-fares. And I wonder, as I struggle through the traffic every rush hour about the difference between cyclists and bikers.
There's a freemasonry to bikers. Most bikers are aware of other bikers, and even if we don't greet each other during the week or the commute, we still tend to give each other space, allow each other through.
Cyclists, on the other hand, are about as ego-centric a bunch of narcissists as you could ever hope to avoid. They cut each other up, they push each other out of the way - and this isn't competitive cycling. this is (mamil) road-rage in the daily commute.
Breathe, people. No, seriously. Breathe. There are no medals up for grabs today.
Maybe it's because bikers are seen as more intimidating and formidable with loud pipes, black leather and potentially dangerous affiliations, and cyclists are seen as somewhat more squashable, at least by anything on 4 wheels. Maybe that's why bikers tend to be more accepting of other bikers than cyclists are of other bicycles. But still - could you lot on bicycles please grow up?

The Abysmal Science

If Economics is the Dismal Science, then Meteorology has got to be the Abysmal Science. The weekend was supposed to be dry in the South-East. Saturday pretty much was. Sunday morning dawned with the predicted cloud and no rain.
By the time I got to Lynn's it was grey and dry. This doesn't bother me - the UK is good at grey but dry. I can handle grey but dry, it's fine. It can even be fun because it discourages everyone else and gives me a clear road. Lynn said they'd changed their tune to "the odd shower, clearing by noon." The odd shower, I can cope with. The odd shower might be a pain when I've just had the bike cleaned, but it's no big deal.
Except that odd shower was a completely inaccurate prediction, and it poured down all the way from the M25 to Winchester. The roads were soaked, I was soaked. The bike is once again filthy.
It dried out while we had lunch and I blow-dried my jeans all the way back up the M3, but I can't help feeling that if I'd had an accurate forecast (not the spin they put on their guesswork so as not to depress people further), I'd've gone somewhere else and stayed drier...
But maybe the McDonalds ad has a point (and I can't believe I'm saying this): maybe predicting the British weather is impossible.

My kind of parking line-up

Let the fun and Games begin...

London is currently insane. The traffic is by turns non-existent and appalling – I got stuck last week in a traffic jam I couldn’t get out of for 10 minutes. I was on a bicycle. 

There are far too many people around who aren’t familiar with driving on the left, and the offside Olympic lanes are just confusing the issue, because half the time, you’re allowed in them (according to the LED screens) and two blocks later it’s Games traffic only with a £150 fine. Also, you have to cut up the Olympic coaches in order to turn right. This requires nerves of steel.

I decided to avoid the opening ceremony and attendant traffic/ road closures/ crowds and took myself off to Somerset instead. All  was well until about Reading, whereafter traffic crawled. I filtered a bit, thanking the nice drivers who gave me space, and swearing under my breath at the ones who got in my way for no reason other than to annoy me because hell knows there was nothing they could gain by moving there. There was, eventually, an explanation - when the 3 lanes went down to 1 and I could see the truck in the ditch. And also the tow-crane thing attempting to lift it out. I sighed and when passing the accident didn't help the traffic much, got off the motorway to take the pretty A-roads. Which were choked with trucks and tourists and those who think mirrors are for decoration. And observations are for the weak. And halfway through a turn is a good time to indicate. And I must needs be some kind of hellion on speed with anger management issues when I get frustrated at being cut-up repeatedly and roar past at the earliest opportunity. Just to get away from all the emergency braking. 

In the end, I reached my destination in one piece, looking forward to the return trip already. Oh, yes. 

By the time I had to leave, the weather had turned grey and drizzly, and I anxiously checked  several times to figure out how much rain I would hit on the way home. And if it was worth setting out in my waterproofs and risking "boil-in-bag" syndrome or if I might be lucky. I took the risk and the quick way home, which meant I managed to avoid the actual rain (until London) but did get severely sprayed by wet roads. At one point, the road was so wet they had to bring the speed limit down to 40, and even then we were aquaplaning. No, not a strong enough word. Waterskiing. Should have been an Olympic event, that. 

I got back into London, damp shins drying nicely, and the rain came down and the traffic snarled up. The A4 was closed for a road cycling event. I heaved a large sigh (although I'd known this. I'd seen the signs on my way out of town. I am sufficiently literate to have read them and made the mental note. Wish I could say the same of half the other vehicles around). I slunk up a back way I know to join up with the A40, which is more convenient for my bike parking anyway. 

The weather continues to be typically British. Dry up, damn it! I want to go riding.

Finished.

Finished
I'm home. 17 days and over 3000 miles later, the bike and I got back
late last night. The bags are unpacked, the bike has been cleaned,
her oil cap is properly on again, and I have one more day to get back
into gear before I go back to work to pay for it all.
The final day dawned clear enough, and we loaded up and woke the
neighbours all one mile from the hotel to the ferry port. We sat in
the queue for a while, watching the trucks inch through customs. We
met a triumph rider from the Wirral (and boy, was he surprised I knew
where that was) and a Scottish couple on a road king, also heading
home from Cascais.
We chatted a bit, as bikers do, and I begged some insulation tape of
the Harley rider.
My oil cap is temperamental. If you can get it off without breaking
it, you can check the oil, which I had to on Thursday. But to get it
back in, flush with the tank as per a pretty but wholly impractical
piece of design, is another knack altogether. One I lack. Which is why
I seldom check my oil. So since oil-light-gate; it had been 45 degrees
off flush, and I popped it out every time my leg bumped it taking the
bike off the stand. Tape was required before the bike got tied down on
board, and in the absence of gaffer, insulation would do. Hell, I'd
have used sellotape at that point.
The crossing was uneventful if choppy and Guernsey isn't where I
thought it was.
I passed some of the time practicing Kung Fu forms in preparation for
grading, much to the amusement of the Latvian goldwing club. I note
that they confined their pointing and laughing to one deck below and
well out of reach. Considering the size of these guys, I find that
very funny.
We disembarked in the dry and risked it without waterproofs. It may
not have been raining, but clearly it had, and the spray from the road
soaked us from the knees down long before guildford.
I made it home, having dropped off the bike and battled the tube just
in time to collapse in that position technically known as a heap on my
nice, comfortable bed.


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St Malo old town

St Malo beachfront

You know you're in a port town when...

Well Oiled

We gave ourselves an easier day, and left Harry and Route 66 around 10, planning to peage it pretty much all the way to Rennes. So far so good. It started raining around Le Mans, where we hurriedly stopped for lunch. We clambered into our raingear and headed back into the fray. 16 miles later, amid bucketing rain and stormy winds (very violent vents. Again), my oil light came on, overtaking a truck at 120 kph. Panic stations. I pulled over, sweating and swearing, and explained to Lynn in a rather small voice that my oil light was on. I limped the 30km to the next services with petrol, worrying like mad, and cursing the fact France seems to believe in services that aren't. They have frequent rest areas, which are signposted like services, but only have toilets and picnic tables. The services sold oil, but not the right type. I called the recovery service who told me to call the dealer. The dealer told me, after a false start with the parts department, which of the available oils would be the least problematic. They also told me it might be oil pressure rather than amount. I checked my oil. It was fine. I called the dealer back, they said don't ride if the lights on (this is 114km from Rennes and the nearest dealer). I called recovery. They put me through to the international office once they had established, after 10 minutes of hold music, that I wasn't in the UK. I had said this first thing, but never mind. International involved another 10 minutes of holding, 5 minutes of completely arbitrary recorded messages and options, and finally, eventually, just when I thought I was getting somewhere, a message saying all English speaking agents were busy, pick another language or leave a message and they'll get back to me in 24 hours. Hm. In the meantime I what? Drink espresso and twiddlemy thumbs? I called my mechanic. He listened to my sob story and said: it's probably water shorting out the light cable. Ride to the next services, and if the engine sounds normal and happy, ignore the light. I followed the instructions and behold! The light stopped flickering and the bike purred as usual. I am changing recovery services. We made St Malo after about 40 minutes looping through villages looking for petrol, found the hotel and parked up. Or I did. Lynn hit a bad angle and a loose brick simultaneously and had to either slip several discs or drop the bike. At least I could help pick up the bike. St Malo is a very pretty little port, and we wandered around for ages until we found a menu we could compromise on. In English, too, which is convenient. Tomorrow it all ends. Here's hoping that includes the rain.

Route 66 biker hotel bussiere-poitevine

Photo op! (isn't she lovely?)

Running into Dunedin Chapter

N230 through Pyrenees

Miles to go before I Sleep

Miles to go before I Sleep
I would suggest, if you're thinking of going to Spain, to visit
Huesca. Stay at the sancho abarca (and possibly explain to the chef
that fish are not vegetables). Then do as we did and look st the
satellite, which suggested we cross the Pyrenees further south to
avoid the thunderstorms predicted.
We headed for barbastro, then for benabarre on the n132 & over the
border on n230. I recommend both roads. They are stunning; the
twisties, the scenery, the cute little villages dotted along them. The
lack of trucks because they're too heavy and there are motorway
options. The cold tunnels often cut into the bare rock.
At one viewpoint, we pulled over for a photo op and ran into the
dunedin chapter, on their way home as well.
We paused for lunch on the border, in a tiny town that had an
ingenious tapas bar where everything was on skewers, buffet style, and
at the end, they count your empty skewers. One way to make you clear
your table. We crossed the border without noticing until i saw a sign
saying Chassee Deformee, which i love as a phrase for bad roads.
We were doing really well for time when we got to Montrejeau just
before the peage. So we decided to take free roads instead. Silly
cheapskate decision - must be those Scots we bumped into rubbing off
on me.
Don't get me wrong: the N21 isn't a bad road. In fact, it would be
quite nice to ride if we weren't worried about the time, because we'd
booked into a hotel just beyond Limoges.
Once you're on the N21, it goes away from the motorway, so it becomes
pointless to try and get back to the peage when you realize how long
this is now taking. My excuse if stopped? Sorry, officer, I must have
been reading the wrong dial on my speedo... Luckily, we didn't hit
cameras or cops. We saw some bike police, going the otherway, notably
in shirt-sleeves with no hi-vis in sight. Clearly not into that idea,
should it actually become compulsory in France.
Eventually, 550 odd miles later, we finally made it to Route 66 where
we were inserting the bikes into the garage when Harry came to meet
us, complete with kilt as predicted. He bought us a drink in his bar,
and then we had dinner. It was my Best meal on trip, even if Chef sam
was more offended by my dietary restrictions than our lateness.
Seriously: stay here if you're between Poitiers and Limoges. And like
bikes.


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Casa del conches, Salamanca

Main square Salamanca. Mojito sorbets!!

Bell tower with 2 stork nests on it. Salamanca

Still pilgrim-ing in Salamanca

Lovely road, shame about the surface...

A marathon run today. For some reason, travelling by road in the UK is very slow, France is nearly as bad, but Spain is quick. Portugal is an impossible combination of France and Spain. This morning saw me wake up in Salamanca and finish up in Huesca near the pyrenees on the east of Spain. That's 530km, give or take because that's as the pilgrim walks (we probably rode further but the driving directions take a completely different route). Tomorrow is about the same distance, but hopefully mainly on faster roads. Although, we will be in France... Today we decided to trust the satnav. That is, Lynn decided to trust the satnav and I decided to keep my mouth shut. Lynn doesn't trust her own reading of the satnav. After the third stop in 50km, I suggested she switch comms channels in orde to hear the satnav before it's too late to indicate and I have to cut up artics to make the turn. This probably saved several years of my hearing as I no longer had her wind noise to contend with. I left my earplugs in cascais. We ended up on the na-125 through a national park. It's a lovely road, with very pretty scenery. (Almost all of Spain has pretty scenery. This was just a bit wilder). But the surface was increasingly bad, and it didn't help that we were chasing rain. The roads were wet and slippy, but at least our mudguards are cleaner now. We passed a trio of BMW riders, who waved, but I'll bet they were thinking we had to be lost, harleys would never choose that road. And women, too! Insert every cliche you wish. We did choose that road - we just didn't know what condition it was in. And if we had? Well, it took us 30 minutes of riding up and down steep cobbles that looked worryingly pedestrian to get out of Tudela, which is a town you could spit across. Satnav says? Just pass me the map already! Although I will say it has fantastic taste in hotels and tends to pick 4-star ones with parking. Lynn has just told me the weather forecast is thunderstorms. That could be fun. Not.

View from the road near Soria

Lovely road, didn't mean to

So it's over, finito and for that, Cascais heaves a sigh of relief and puts its earplugs away, I'm sure. We got up, loaded, fueled & outta there. That was the plan. Lisbon's Monday rush hour? Not for the faint-hearted. We got lost, spent ages panicking because we both thought we were looking for the IP2, a fast road with tolls I cannot pay (love it) without realizing it was 6 steps later. The IP2 is on a computer system that talks to a piece of kit in your vehicle, then charges you later. But you can't hire the piece of kit, nor can you fit one in a foreign vehicle. Love political logic. Eventually, I saw a sign for Espanha. This wasn't what the satnav had planned, so it sulked by taking us all the way up the N18. This is a lovely curvy road through hills and valleys and sleepy villages. But it's in Portugal, not Spain and it's slow. Especially when you're stuck behind a nervous artic who keeps braking sharply in the bends. The road bends. Get used to it and gear the hell down. Around 3:30, we were waved into Spain. We should have been ther for lunch. And we promptly lost an hour by going onto Madrid time. Still, too many people had told us Salamanca was pretty (gorgeous) so we pushed on. I'd got chatting to a couple on a road-king at a fuel stop near Fundao and they told us about a hotel they knew in Salamanca. Just as well, because we didn't get in till 6:30, which is late for hotel hunting and this one has some very secure parking for our poor, abused, filthy bikes. Backroads may be fun and pretty, but they're also full of mud and sand and insects. All with a magnetic attraction to bikes. Tomorrow we attempt to get to the Pyrenees. Assuming we can tail behind the Basque chapter I saw earlier on the E-80...

View from hotel in Salamanca

The N-18 trying to get out of Portugal. Lovely road. Not what we were looking for.

Adeus, Cascais!

National Shame

National Shame
We went for a chilled out farewell dinner at the Palm and of course
got caught in the nightly football frenzy. Holland was playing
Portugal and Germany was playing Denmark. And as I sat amid a sea of
orange, green and red, I felt an overwhelming sense of national shame
- because SA has a helluva lot to answer for, exporting that evil
tactic of hearing aid companies, the vuvuzela. (The kids kicking and
pushing and pulling my chair in their excitement didn't help either).


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It's a Wrap

It's a Wrap
The weather's been amazing, the bands and stalks have mostly been
good. The police and the locals have been very understanding and
tolerant of the thunder of about 17000 Harley engines, loud music and
all night parties. I haven't got to bed before the small hours once
this weekend and i haven't wanted to.We won the chapter award, thanks
largely to all 3 custom bikes winning in the custom show even though
all of them were damaged on the ride down. Just goes to show, designer
damage doesn't just apply to jeans.
Also did a mini-chapter ride to Sintra and back, this tine without
getting lost or being told we couldn't park. I do like twisties when
I'm not trying to navigate.
But it's all over bar the shipping and I have one last day to soak up
some vitamin D and watch all the pretty bikes load up and leave before
my own 4 day marathon back to St Malo for Friday's ferry.


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Moonlighting

Moonlighting
One of the things I like about Portugal is the 24 hour-ness of it. We
went, of course, to our chapter party Friday night and there was, of
course, nothing I could eat. 4 hours and a few mojitos later, I was
starving so we wandered off to our new favourite restaurant, which was
decidedly still serving. We love the place largely because the maitre
d missed his calling and should have been a comedian. (Actually, this
extends to most of the staff. I swear if they had the time, they'd
make a fortune as an ensemble act).
Bruno is brilliant at getting new customers smiling and seated. And
then, despite the excess of tourists/bikers in town, remembers us.
We've eaten here 4 times in 3 days and the comedy has yet to get
stale. I'm a bit bored of omelette but hey. The salad menu's amazing.
So if ever you're in Cascais, look for Bruno at The Palm Tree behind
the Baia hotel.



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Parade snapshot

Small part of the parade

Some of the further flung