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.


Sent from my iPhone

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.