PICKING UP THE PIECE(S)

They say that there are only two types of bike. The ones that have been dropped, and the ones that haven't been dropped yet. Which is why it's always a good idea to be sure you can pick up the bike you're riding if you should, somehow, drop it. Given what bikes weigh in relation to many bikers (especially ones like me), this can look like a tall order. 

England has had a lot of rain lately, but it paused for the weekend, at least in my region. So, of course, I went riding, I parked up, kicked out my stand, which slid on a mud patch, recoiled in horror at the sliminess and folded itself back up. Of course, I was already leaning the bike onto it at this point, so the bike went over in slow, controlled stages. I got free easily enough, but was then faced with the task of picking it up again. 

Heavy sigh, about a tenth of the weight of the bike (which is 700lbs, give or take accessories, so many times the weight of me).  

Now, while I have never had to pick up this bike before, I do know the technique, so crouched down, with my back against the seat, gripped the chassis to either side and put my legs into it. This would have been easier with less mud or grippier boots, but you never get ideal conditions for these things. The key is to use the biggest muscles - legs - to do the work for you. 

The bike has a small paint chip on the edge of the foot board and some cement mortar residue on the engine case. Plus, of course, the ubiquitous and iniquitous mud. That is the sum total of its trauma. My hamstrings, on the other hand, have yet to forgive me. 

SPRING CLEAN

The clean, soft, freshly laundered air, all warming up and pollen-filled. April showers might bring forth may flowers, but they also bring forth mud and insects. So I spent an hour or so de-dead bugging the bike, and cleaning off all the dirt splatters, getting into all the little nooks and crannies with soap, cloth and polish, checking for rust and pitting, trying to take a good 2 years off the bike’s apparent age. 

Once all was shining and clean, of course I went riding. On country roads liable to contain insects and mud. But I’d heard about a pub called the Grumpy Mole, not far off the A25 near Dorking, and with a name like that, how could I not try it?

The staff aren’t grumpy, I’ll give them that, and the food is good. But these country pubs seem to be obsessed with gravelled parking, and on a bike, that’s skid central. 

At least the Grumpy Mole’s parking is fairly flat. I had to do gravel on an incline when I was still on L-plates, and the experience left me unenthusiastic for any kind of repeat. 

ICE BREAKER

 On one of those deceptive days – when the sun shines with no warmth and the air is Icy, I parked up by an older gentleman who was keen to have a chat about the bike, while I warmed my hands by the engine. Like most bikers, I’m always happy to chat about my wheels. And I’ve found, especially when travelling, it’s the perfect ice-breaker, whatever the weather. From the border police laughing at the sight of 2 drenched women on 2 equally soaked Harleys in northern Italy, to the various waiters, diners, bartenders and hoteliers across Europe who have shared fantastic local knowledge with me – because the bike gave us all a non-offensive conversational opener, no matter the language barriers. 
Of course, it helps that I'm  quite happy to ask for, and take, directions. 

SECOND CHANCE SALOON

Once upon a time, there was a pub in the Surrey Hills. It was a lovely pub, in an old mill-house in a little village. (The Gomshall Mill). It had good food, good service, reasonable prices and nice parking. Then it changed hands. 

The new management changed the menu to include nothing I could eat, upped the prices, and somehow managed to degrade the service. I ceased to visit. 

But recently, I was checking options in that part of the world and a new, more interesting (to me, anyway) menu popped up. Hmm. The pub appeared to have changed hands again.

Was it worth another visit?

I took myself down there, pleased to discover the parking has been resurfaced since last I was there, and the service is again friendly and efficient. 

The food is also back to standard, and while not the cheapest, at least it again feels worth its price-tag. Except the coffee, which is a weak point. Literally.

I’m glad I can reinstate it to my mental list of nice pubs on pleasant roads. 

SPRING INTO WINTER

It’s that variable time of year, when the weather vacillates between winter and spring quite arbitrarily. And it’s this time of year when the different kinds of cold are most clearly defined. 

There’s the biting cold, with the lazy wind that goes straight through all barriers rather than around, and freezes your blood in your veins. You spasm with the pain of it as it thaws again and starts to flow, and wonder why you came out.

There’s the damp, clammy cold of winter mists and fogs and freezing rain, that permeates everything and chills the bone marrow and refuses to shift, the kind that keeps you too cold to shiver. You clench your teeth in your helmet and hope your eyes don't freeze solid. 

There’s the sharp, clear cold that nips at exposed skin but stops short at thermal layering. The kind of cold that goes with bright skies and freshly coloured landscapes, as if the world is newly painted, freshly minted. 

The kind of cold that makes you gratefully curl your fingers around your coffee cup, thankful they’re not completely numb, although they tingle at the added heat. The kind of cold that's perfect for a winter-spring ride, layers deep past daffodils. 

CHARGE = DISTANCE/ TIME?

Recently, the question I've been asking is: does is matter more how far you ride or how long you ride in order to recharge your battery fully from a cold start? 
And there doesn’t seem to be an answer, just an endless debate. Currently, this is a riddle that weighs on my mind, because, thank you so very much, I have no intention of having to pay for another new battery anytime soon. 
Clearly my mid-winter arctic-weather runs were not far nor frequent enough, hence the recent back and forth with the mechanics, which has ruled out one of my favourite winter pubs. It didn’t used to be a problem – but I moved a lot closer to it than I thought I had (getting out of London takes the same inordinate amount of time regardless of distance to periphery, apparently) – so now, what used to be a long enough run for a full recharge, is clearly not.

ON A MISTY MOISTY MORNING

While the bike was being serviced, the steering lock key got a little damaged, and ceased to fit the lock. I called the workshop. They said fine, they’d replace my key, but they needed me to bring them the old one to pull the correct serial number off it to order the right new one.

Thus it was that on a misty, foggy morning, I was heading off blindly to sort this out. I do mean blindly, because the mist was fogging everything up – glasses, visor, general visibility. And unlike more usual condensation, mist is not dispelled by movement. It just swirls and resettles and causes further condensation and lack of visibility. 

The only remedy other than constantly wiping lenses/ visors is to open the visor, pull the glasses down to the end of your nose and peer over the top of them, like a stereotype of a disapproving librarian. 

Also, winter mist is surprisingly penetrative and very cold as it seeps through into your bones. Coffee is the recommended treatment here, preferably served in a cup you can lace your fingers around until you can feel them again.