'TIS THE SEASON

Every summer, just when the schools break up and the roads get crowded with people trying to get away, there is invariably a sudden sprouting of roadworks on all major routes. Currently the M4 has about a 5-junction run of them, the M25, A24, A272, A205, A243 and A3 all have their share, and minor urban B-roads also have their share of pipework, resurfacing and other excuses to cause traffic jams and slipping/ skidding in hot weather. 

And lately, we have had hot weather. Which means, with an air-cooled engine, the odds of overheating increase exponentially. Thus far, I’ve manged to avoid that, thanks to very nice cars making me space to filter, but it’s come close. 

Why those who schedule such things as resurfacing and pipe-maintenance work invariably choose summer as the very best time to do it, I do not know. I can only think they don’t drive and certainly don’t ride...

REFUELLING

Some things go together. Bikes and coffee, winter Sunday rides and pub roasts, clear skies and a full tank... You get the picture. 
Between life in general and lousy weather on weekends, I haven't managed to ride much lately, so I was in almost as desperate a need of a ride as the bike by the time the skies and my schedule cleared. Sometimes the best way to refuel my battery is a good ride. I'm really not that different from my bike.  
As usual after a hiatus, the engine growled and yawned for a bit before waking up properly, then purred very happily all the way to a coffee shop I'd passed previously, but never tried. It had looked promising, so I made a mental note and luckily managed to remember that. It's not a massively long ride, so is great for winter runs or busy-life runs, when you really need a break from everything but can't afford to take a very long one. 
Southdown Coffee and Wine in Brockham off the A25 has paved parking - no slippery gravel here - and the coffee is good. I can recommend the pastries, too. The staff are friendly, and wished me a safe ride when I left. Places with pro-biker staff and good coffee are to be treasured. And frequented, in the most literal sense of the word, so as to help to keep them in business.

WINGING IT

Last summer, there was a lot of media attention on the decline of insert-insect-of-choice. Part of the proposed solution was to allow kerbs and islands to grow a little longer, to be mini-meadows. This has certainly had an effect on winged life, as well as being really pretty to ride past, or be stuck in traffic beside. My visor is dead-bug-central far more often than last summer. I even hit a butterfly on the motorway – which hasn’t ever happened to me before. 

In mainland Europe, you get poppies and company growing right up to the road in some places, so close that a bird can fly out of a hedge and straight into my arm. I’m not sure who was more stunned when this happened – me or it - and the same question occurred as the pretty butterfly wings plastered themselves to my headlight.

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.