90 Years Young

In June 1924, a shop opened in London, with an undisclosed amount of fanfare. It was a Harley-Davidson dealership, and has somehow managed to survive, becoming the oldest one in Europe. So, on 1^st June 2014, it threw a party, with just about as much fanfare as it could manage. Nobody parties like a bunch of bikers, after all.

I, of course, was there, because we all know how much I like a) bikes, b) street parties, c) live music and d) museums. This was a convergence of them all, from the Silent Grey Fellow bikes from 1914, to the WW2 models complete with re-enactors and replica rations and weaponry.

There was also a scooter. (Harley built a scooter! Hehehe! I wonder if the Rockers knew that when they were mixing it up with the Mods?)

2 Castle views

 Yes, the crown is balanced on the fountain

This structure is entirely wooden. Seriously.

Bank Holiday Blues (Sky, that is)

Something went very wrong in the southeast this weekend. For once, a bank holiday weekend was not heralded by storm, gale, sleet and contraflow. For once, all 3 days were - well - glorious.
I had to spend one of them at work, but on the Monday, blue sky above showing only the slightest wisps of cloud, I went riding. A proper ride, all day long.
We went early, with our usual coffee and brioche (I love that Pain Quotidien opens early on Sundays and Bank Holidays. Makes riding so much better), and headed south. Coffee is a riding essential. I don't know why - but motorcycles and coffee just go together.
The Met Office had mentioned possible rain later coming in from the west. Note to self - avoid the west. Especially after 2.5 hours cleaning the bike the day before.
We went down the A29 (mind the gatsos) to Arundel, and paid to go into the castle gardens. I recommend them.
When we parked up, we caught the eye of a 4 year old girl headed townwards by both parents. She was more interested in us and the bikes than going for ice-cream. Hang in there, lass. One day, I promise, you can have a Harley of your very own. And yes, it's much more fun than ice-cream.
After a lovely meander through the tulips - mainly tulips at the moment, those gigantic tall ones - and the greenhouse with its "Don't touch the Peaches" sign and a vast display of Schwarzkopf (does Schwarzkopf know about the plant? It's not a good ad for a hair day), we left for lunch as the packs of kiddies arrived to play.
Lunch is easy in Arundel, where there are many good places to go, and over the years, I've tried at least half of them.
On the way home, we split off from the A29 onto the A283, just to see where it comes out. I only know it from the Brighton side, as one of the various ways to avoid the evil M23. I love the days of rolling down whichever road takes my fancy, under blue skies with high altitude clouds "allowing for long sunny spells" - which has to be one of my favourite forecast phrases of all time.

Spring fever

So after various trials, tribulations and trips to the mechanic (fork seals & MOT), I finally got back on the road for the Easter long weekend. This is probably my favourite holiday of the lot - it's a 4 day weekend, and the weather's generally good enough to enjoy a long ride.
I've been writing this blog for a few years now, and riding for a lot longer than that and I still can't find the words for the feeling of riding - the freedom, the soul-deep well-spring of joy that bubbles up when there's a clear sky above you and an open road in front.
Okay, so I had a deadline for meeting up with family on the other side of the country (near enough) but that pressure doesn't detract from the sheer exhilaration of twisting the throttle and hearing the engine snarl, then purr at the thought of so many miles for breakfast.
Spring has sprung, the grass is growing and even the fields of rapeseed (which make me sneeze) are a minor (and very temporary at this speed) irritation.
Every halfway decent day sees me glaring out the office window with my throttle hand itching and my feet tapping invisible brakes and gears.  My annual hay fever doesn't come from pollen (okay, fine, some of it does) - it comes from the wind in my face and my visor up.

Recharging

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. 

Winter Wonderlands

The other day over coffee, a friend and I were trying to find the words for the feeling of riding after an enforced break. The weather here has been foul – typically wintry and wet. No, flooded.

So when we finally had a dry weekend, we hit the road.  Freezing or not, it wasn’t going to rain, the roads had been drying for 24 hours – and there’s a reason I spent good money on Gore-Tex. There is some truth in the adage that’s there’s no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothes; but I’ve yet to meet a truly warm and windproof pair of gloves I can still ride in, and still manipulate the throttle, clutch, brakes and indicators.  But hey, that’s why we invented coffee.

The wind-chill factor notwithstanding, it was – wow. If I have to explain, then I’m in trouble because there are no words. The roads were gloriously clear; devoid of most traffic, with a conspicuous absence of boy-racers, ballistic cyclists and meno-Porsche convertibles.  The sky was clear blue, the air newly washed and too cold to have a scent yet, other than wood-smoke whenever we passed a country pub. 

Winter Sunday mornings, when you have a clear road to yourself, purring through patches of pale sunlight slanting between elegantly bare trees and over frosted fields, is about as close to transcendence as I’m likely to get. The exhilaration, the sheer breathless joy of freedom as the winter air bites your cheeks and lungs, defies description.

This is the point where language punches its time-card and goes for a drink. Or a ride, with a coffee at the end of it, to nest in its fingers and thaw out its hands. 

Grossglockner: the movie

So, I finally managed to get the video from the Grossglockner pass sorted out into a nice sequence. It's too long to post here, so I've uploaded it here.
Unfortunately, the card an out before I was all the way down, but hey. The fun part is there.