It’s been a long wet winter. Very long, pretty mild, but
very, very wet. Just ask Somerset or Cornwall.
So what with one thing and another, I haven’t been for a
decent ride in about 6 weeks. My little insurance risk (to other people, who
are so busy staring they forget to go/indicate/stay in one lane) has been
huddled under cover, feeling neglected.
I did faithfully start her up once a week, but didn’t let
her run long enough, because, behold: the battery sputtered and coughed and
died. I’m guessing this is the case for
a fair number of us.
On Sunday – the first decent Sunday in months – I got up
early and made my yawning way to the bike, pausing only at a coffee shop for a
prescription to stop yawning.
I called the RAC and waited, sipping coffee and enjoying the
sight of sunshine. They told me 75 minutes. They actually meant 15.
It took the RAC 2 minutes to sort me out and I promised to
go for a long ride to recharge the battery.
‘How long is that?’
‘At least 100 miles.’
‘That is long. Do you have enough petrol in the tank to do
that?’
As it happened, yes, but good grief! That’s what filling
stations are for. Or did I miss
something?
I fought my way out of London, thinking, as always, of
the description in a Herriot book about
walking in cities involving ‘big steps and little ones’ and therefore you can’t find your rhythm. Yeah. Try riding
in London sometime.
I hit the A3 with a sigh of relief and vaguely headed SW. I
wound up on the A303, passing itsy-bitsy Stonehenge (no, seriously. It’s small)
and remembering why I generally avoid the A303, which is also surprisingly
small for as significant a route as it is.
I paused to refuel, and exhaled when the bike growled to life
instantly. I was considering heading for Cheddar and surprising Jen & co
when I noticed increasingly marshy fields on either side of the road, and
realised that approaching Cheddar from the Levels side wasn’t perhaps the most
intelligent option after the very wet winter.
A36 to Bath via Warminster, then. The bike was now purring
much better past Warminster, Trowbridge,
Chippenham and I realised I was on the A350 now, and the A36 had disappeared
off the signboards. In the absence of a sequence of towns I recognised, I
started to loop north and east. Also, I was getting hungry and the pubs weren’t
quite open yet. I had allowed far more time for the RAC to arrive and sort me
out necessary. I peeled an eyeball for a country pub open early. Such a gem failed
to materialise.
240 miles later, I was back and parked up and grinning from
ear to ear and invigorated. The bike was still purring softly under her cover, although I might
have been hearing echoes of the road.
