Time to reminisce.......part 2 - Where did it start?

So where did it all start? I pledged in my first ever post to this blog to potentially reveal a little of me. Letting you in when I saw fit. Now feels about right to tell you a little more. Why? Well as you know life for me is changing, radically. I know that it won’t be the same again, it will be different, much different and for the better. I must say though that I feel ready to embrace it and whereas once I day dreamed and wondered of my next outing on the bonnie I now think about how I can snatch just a little more time with baby Libby and Rachel.

It therefore feels right to reminisce a little as I stare at my “dust covered” bonnie parked away in the garage. The story of how it all started for us and where the bonnie became my expectant weekends.

Bikes figured in my growing up. Not on a grand scale but with a dad who always had a bike. For him it was a necessity, a cheap mode of transport to help bridge the financial gap with a young family. My dad had grown up with bikes and there is the odd black and white picture of him with his brothers astride their BSA’s (amongst other nostalgic brands). My memories though are not as romantic. They consist mainly of a constant crackle of a kick start on cold early mornings. The little commuter 125cc then being allowed to ‘warm up’ just a few yards from my bedroom window. The noise and routine signaled that it wasn’t long before I too had to get up for school.

I can’t say I was fascinated by my Dad’s bike. Sure he took me on a couple of small spins, usually when he took it to the garage for its MOT, but that was it really. To me football, cricket, schoolwork and chasing the fairer sex all took precedent in my early teenage years. As I approached 16 a couple of friends purchased old 50cc Hondas and that is where my interest was really first stimulated. I was a tad jealous. They had something exciting and a new found freedom that I wanted to experience also. Inevitably as my own 16th birthday approached I began to ask the questions - could I have a bike also?

Such questions were always met with a firm ‘no’. I was left in no doubt that a bike of my own was not going to happen. In fairness I didn’t sulk for long over it but the whole episode left a question in my mind as to was my Dad just being hypocritical? Soon it was forgotten as college, exams and university all followed in a flurry of years.

Since those early yearnings little of the bike world touched me. Occasionally at a Rockabilly concert I’d catch a glimpse of a classic bike or maybe a Harley. Sure, I wished I owned one but the pull of beautiful space age 1950’s cars appealed more and would take more space in my day dreams. I knew though that I had neither the mechanical skill or patience to keep such beautiful machinery on the road. In the case of the bikes – I didn’t even have the requisite license.

Suddenly I was there, post 30, with few financial concerns and little responsibility outside of work. Life was good for Rachel and I. We were able to do what we wanted, when we wanted with only an occasional glance at our bank accounts. It wasn’t luck – we had both worked hard and made the most of the opportunities that came our way. As such I played around at several hobbies to keep my interest. Learn the guitar – I enjoyed my lessons but I have to admit my talent was limited. Gardening – fabulous in the fresh air but I lost interest once my garden had reached ‘show garden’ style perfection. Wine – joined a wine club, drank loads, but you can’t live your life being ‘interested’ in wine it is just a matter of subjective taste afterall. Rockabilly – still love this music, and its culture and fashion still influence me but that is where I want to stay ‘an influence’ not a complete lifestyle. There have been other more fleeting hobbies also.

So there I was several years ago, sitting in a gents barbers shop in Hinckley contemplating my next hobby. It was new year and I’d been musing for a while of the need to do something stimulating. My work life had slowed a little and I was looking for something to put my energies into. There is only so much gardening and wine you can take.

I was actually contemplating wind surfing at one point. Not that I had undertaken any serious research into it but it had been something that kept coming to the forefront of my mind. I have little idea how I could ever have made this a practical proposition given that I live in the midlands and so far away from the coast to make it an unglamorous notion on man made lakes and reservoirs. I also went through a period of wonderment about buying a classic sports car. This did reach the research stage as I trawled through auto-trader for a potential weekend toy. Three things conspired against me – lack of a decent garage, no mechanical nous and an uncanny ability to be drawn to expensive offerings. Classic air cooled Porsche anyone? Nope the classic sports car had to go the same way as the wind surfing.

A leaflet caught my eye, scattered as it was between the tatty magazines and newspapers within the Barbers. ‘Hinckley Motorcycle School – CBT, DAS and Advanced Tuition’. I picked it up and turned it over to read. Suddenly I was 16 again. I had not thought about a riding a bike since my Dad firmly said “no” all those years ago. The desire was returning. As I left the shop, a little lighter of fair locks, I picked up the leaflet, stuffed it in my pocket and took it home.

The next reminisce will encompass the ‘L’ plate months………………………

Time to Reminisce..........

I remember it well, the days that we spent planning, the energy that went into the packing and the excitement of a sleepless night. I’d had my bike licence about a month, the bonnie only a couple of weeks. Raw and inexperienced, this was going to be an adventure.

I’d tottered around the local lanes on the bonnie, wobbling a little and getting a feel for its performance. I was gaining confidence steadily, the power delivery of the 790cc motor never really threatening, more smooth and compliant. Just how I wanted it to be. The bonnie’s lines, beautiful, I couldn’t help but admire it. To this day I still don’t think there is a better looking bike on the road than a bonnie.

I’d persuaded my long standing girlfriend (as she was back then) to buy some bike kit and become my ‘pillion candy’. Resplendent in her new gear, including a beautifully tailored Belstaff leather jacket, she looked the part. The initial trials of riding two up had gone well. We discovered that holding the rear grab rail produced an unnerving bounce at the back of the bonnie around sweeping bends. Best to lean forward and wrap your arms around the rider, ‘old style’, more intimate, we both preferred it. The pillion soon learned to relax and go with the flow, leaning with the bike when needed. With rising confidence as a ‘threesome’ it wasn’t long before we were planning our adventure.

The day arrived and the ruc-sack was packed full to bursting. All manner of items it contained. It was heavy and I worried that my girl would struggle with its weight. She insisted that she would be ok. The practicality of panniers had not reached us at this point in our biking lives and we had completely over packed to err on the side of caution. Never mind, nothing could stop us now, and so we set off – two biking ‘newbies’ – excited at the day ahead.

The distance worried us both. I had never covered so much mileage on a bike and ‘two up’ it was even more daunting. We pressed on though, we’d both watched ‘Long Way Round’.

I remember it being a beautiful summer’s morning. Clear, crisp and with prospects of warmth ahead. I concentrated on the road, very steady, no overtaking – I wasn’t ready for that just yet. My pillion relaxed, the odd squeeze letting me know that she was still there, safe and enjoying herself. With the road sweeping ahead, the sun starting to shine and the bonnie purring everything felt just right. Any worries or concerns melted away. I smiled gently within my helmet, the hours spent on a dodgy 125cc on cold winter’s nights, before my test, all seemed worth it now.

We stopped at a garage. I topped up the tank but in fairness this was our planned rest stop. We stood around for a while, stretched our legs and grinned at each other with gabbled and rushed conversation of the initial sights, sounds and feelings of part one of our adventure. The bonnie glinting in the sunlight, surrounded by numerous other bikes all stopping to take fuel before heading for the same destination. Rest taken we knew it was time to press on. We turned back onto the road.

A while later we neared our destination. I stared to feel nervous now. I was sharing my personal patch of road with numerous other bikes. Huge powerful sportsbikes, giant tourers, nakeds, street fighters and the odd classic. All their riders had to be more experienced than I. I was tense and I could feel a tighter grip around my waist. You know how it is – the fear of making a fool of yourself around peers. Let’s just say that I was a little over careful, there was no way I was going to have a low speed spill or drop the bike in the middle of a pack. In fairness the organization at the venue was really smooth and it wasn’t long before we were parking up in a mass of bikes. We’d arrived safely at Silverstone for a round of the British Superbike Championship. Helmets off we grinned at each other and we still had the journey home to go!!

Why do I reminisce? Well last weekend we rode out again to Silverstone as we have done numerous times since that initial adventure. Things are though somewhat different now. The preparation was minimal. I booked the tickets a week before, the ruc sack was packed on the morning of the journey and there was no fuel stop, after all Silverstone is only an hour and a half away. My pillion long since graduated to her own bike and the newbie persona has long since receded.

What did remain though were two important aspects of that first adventure. The ride down to Silverstone was wonderful, emptyish roads with a few glimpses of sunlight coupled with the odd overtake. Sometimes it all just clicks naturally into place. This was one of those occasions. Perhaps more than the ride though was the sense of excitement that preceded our outing. With our recent change in lifestyle and the arrival of little Libby we hadn’t managed to get out of the bikes together for a long time. With Nan and Grandpa kindly babysitting for us we had a day to get to know our bikes again. A wonderful sense of anticipation abounded both before the outward and return journey.

And the racing at Silverstone? Well you can’t ask for more than a clean sweep of all the podium places at both races of the home round of the World Superbike Championship can you?

A loss too much....

I was on edge somewhat, not sleeping at all. Hardly surprising given the previous night. I’d convinced myself it would happen again, had to, all the evidence pointed that way. Beside me the girls in my life slept, one more soundly than the other. Eyes open and ears aware to every sound, I lay there listening. I was alert to each noise in the house and village. I could even hear myself breathing.

A slight metallic rattle and I bolted upright within the bed. I strained every sense but particularly my hearing. I heard a metallic rattle again. Jumped out of bed and peered through the curtains into the night. My fears were founded. I knew they would be back. Some people have no respect and care little for society.

He peered up at me from the middle of my driveway – our eyes met for a moment. Nonchalantly he turned around towards his accomplice at the end of my driveway and into the night they went. I screamed for Rachel to pass me the phone and punched in 999. The police arrived in five minutes but to no avail – the two had long since disappeared. Frustration, anger, relief – a real mixture of emotions.

They had visited the night before – whilst we slept and cleared us out – cameras, phones and many other items of value. Worst of all though they took our wedding rings and my wife’s engagement ring. The only word that can describe them is “Scum”.

Why did I know they would return? It was obvious, in their first intrusion the previous evening they had stolen every key in the house and stolen my car off the drive. It would only be a short leap for them in looking at the keys they had taken to note the logo of “Triumph” and “Honda” and conclude that there were motorbikes in garage.

Fortunately the lock on the garage had been changed and the chains to the ground anchors also replaced. It was their attempt at getting into the garage that had awoken me. There was a degree of arrogance to them, cockiness even – they really didn’t care that I had seen and disturbed them.

So the bikes are ‘safe’ for now and I’ll be extra cautious and a little on edge for a long time. Don’t let it happen to you, check your security before it’s too late.

What ever happenned to spontaneity?

In many ways I have felt a little sorry for Rachel. Sat at home on maternity leave, looking after Libby, can’t be easy when you were used to a career and long days in the office. Don’t get me wrong I’m sure she is enjoying it but the flexibility and spontaneity of our previous 20 years together is no more. It was of no surprise therefore when Rachel described her desire to ride her bike again before the year was out. Sure she got some strange looks from the other mums in the ante natal class as they contemplated this ‘blooming’ mother to be on the back of her husbands bike. “No”, she replied “I want to ride my bike again once the baby is settled”.

So the last couple of weeks we have been trying to plan a couple of hours of freedom on the bikes. My interest is stirred more by the fact that I keep reading a couple of bike blogs (dreadful as they are but I’m a follower none the less) and as such I too desire some time together, the two bikes and two riders gently swinging down the local country lanes.

As I mentioned though that spontaneity is now gone and what would have been a five minute conversation of deciding where to go has turned into an art of planning. First thing first – the babysitter. Tick in the box here – Nana is coming to visit next week, she won’t mind a couple of hours of quality time with her granddaughter. Next – the tax disc has been lost on the little silver Honda that whisks Rachel around the country lanes. It’s been sorted now though – the duplicate disc arrived in the post this week. Errm ....typical the MOT has lapsed – we’ll have to get that completed next Sunday morning before our run. There is a garage down the road that does bike MOTs every Sunday morning. Thank Heavens for an occasional point of convenience in this village. What do you mean your bike gear does not fit you? You’re thinner than you were even before Libby came along? Hang on a minute, is not supposed to be the other way around? Well you are always one for bucking trends - better get a belt then. And so it goes on ...........but we’ll get there and next week will be great. Our first time together on our own in nearly four months. And on the bikes it will be even more special. We’ll miss Libby but even new parents need a little time on their own to preserve their sanity.

I do fear Rachel is getting a tad carried away though. She is now talking about us going to see the World Superbikes at Silverstone in August as our first ‘proper time’ on the bikes. If one little trip takes all this planning now – how long a day out at the bike races will take to plan is anyone’s guess. I blame Leon Haslam – she’s always fancied him!!

Coming Home

It’s been a long time since I posted to this blog. It’s not that I have been lazy but things have been difficult. I’ve had two girls in my life for the last few years, and my better half often jokes that I love the bonnie more. Yes I have a love for the bonnie but occasionally in life something happens that forces you to take a real perspective, put the jokes to one side and concentrate on what is important.

For seven months it had been a breeze - our social lifestyle changing, perhaps slowing down a little. With the bikes tucked away for the Winter there was only one thing on our minds. It had crept up on us late in life, later than either of us expected but suddenly there was a realization that life was going to change massively. My wife was pregnant and a nervous happiness pushed us through the Winter and into Spring as we planned for our new arrival. And then I got the phone call, 60 miles away and unexpected – “your wife is going into labour and it’s seven weeks early”. Nervous happiness quickly turned to nervous concern.

I’ll spare you the details but things got complicated, more complicated than we ever imagined from attending our ante natal classes. It wasn’t meant to happen like this - a slow drawn out week of a labour culminating in 48 hour birth that neither of us will forget. The baby taken from us almost immediately as it arrived – transferred into an incubator on the Special Care Baby Unit. A confusing array of clinicians, numerous tests and various drugs followed. Poor “little Libby Pearl” had them all. The prognosis was good though – she was strong and breathing unaided. We kept the vigil by her incubator for five days, helping where we could, until the doctors decided she was strong enough to leave the special care unit and be placed on a maternity ward. Still in an incubator but at least with mum. A further five days on the maternity ward under the lights of phototherapy followed before I got a different phone call at work – it was my better half – “c’mon, get yourself over here we are being sent home”. I allowed myself a smile although the feeling of relief was mixed in with the happiness.

So I’ve spent the last few weeks learning how to be a dad. There have been many ‘ups’ and the odd down but I’m thoroughly enjoying getting to know Libby Pearl. Knackered though – you really do lose a lot of sleep!!

You’ll understand therefore that Little Suzy Q has had to be pushed into the background for a while. Indeed life kinda stopped for three weeks when things got difficult and all my efforts were focused on my wife and Libby. Eventually though LittleSuzyQ and I rekindled our relationship – I took her for a brief spin and an MOT. It felt good, clearing the cobwebs and easing back into her laid back riding style. A comforting familiarity. I’m started to get excited now as I write, for tomorrow will be our day. I’ve put aside some time for us to spend together and I’m really looking forward to it. Just a couple of hours to ourselves but enough to enjoy each others company. Nowhere in particular to go – we’ll see where the roads take us. I won’t be ”pushing it”, although I’m not sure you really want to on a bonnie. It will be a lazy, relaxing and careful run out. The emphasis being on the careful, afterall I have even more to return home to now. There were two girls in my life, now there are three.

Note - A song to come home to.......incidently my brother's favourite rockabilly track
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=elyvIMUd0H0

Is it time to move on?

I often try something new. I’m not a magpie that flits from one latest thing to another but I do know that I like to explore my boundaries. Perhaps that is why I ride a bike? Indeed I can still recall the Saturday morning sitting in a gents barbers, just after Christmas, pondering a new year’s resolution of something a little different. A leaflet ‘Hinckley Motorcycle School’ caught my eye on the counter next to the till. I took it, read it and 24 hours later I was on the phone booking my CBT with every intention of progressing to my full licence as soon as possible. A little impulsive maybe but sometimes you just have to do these things.

It then started, a desire to learn everything I could about my new hobby. The Moto GP and British Superbikes were suddenly an essential part of my Sunday viewing, the ‘Ford Football Special’ relegated to second place. World Superbikes followed next. Suddenly I noticed my local pub was a real biker pub covered in biker memorabilia. I’d been there loads of times over the years yet it had not met my consciousness, but now I found myself staring at the bike race pictures on the wall as I drank a draft of real ale. Most of all though it was the magazines. An easy way in to the world of biking. Reviews, new models, the language, the lifestyle. All could be found in some glossy pages of easy styled writing and beautiful photography.

At first it didn’t matter which, I could read them all. RIDE, TWO, Sport and Leisure and even the weekly tabloid rag MCN with its fantasy stories, all of which fed my thirst for biker knowledge. Eventually though I settled on one – BIKE – pulled in by its ‘broad church’ appeal and a free biker rucksack with a 12 month subscription. BIKE kept me sustained with fantasies of beautiful roads, cool kit and hedonistic biker lifestyle as I wobbled down country lanes on a dodgy 125cc during my initial weeks of biker training. I looked forward to it dropping through my letterbox – within a couple of hours most its articles would be read and within a couple of days I had exhausted it. What kit shall I buy? Where shall I go? Touring abroad? BIKE influenced it all. Now though the latest copy sits sadly by my bed, unread or should I venture unloved?

I’m not entirely sure what has happened. The magazine has certainly changed over the years. Its highlight for me being a few years ago when the BIKE was dominated by witty writing and silly challenges on wonky old 2 wheeled lemons. Khal Harris, a young staff writer, had a beautiful honesty in his writing. Not for him was the macho bravado of knee down, uber fast sports bikes and one piece leathers but reflections about his own mortality and true feelings for the bikes he rode and tested. I could relate to him and his prose was always perused first. These were good times for BIKE and I, really happy times.

The magazine has moved on again and I have no problem with that. An editor has to change the outlook to keep things fresh and attract new readers, but the move to a number of 70’s and 80’s retro articles and more serious writing holds no interest for me. Somehow it is more than a change in direction of the magazine. I’ve changed. I no longer feel the desire to understand every new model of bike, how the latest kit actually performs in a monsoon, or the touring challenges of staff writers that used to hold me gripped.

I suppose we all move on, we all mature. I’ve saturated myself in bike knowledge, learnt what I want to know and experienced what pulled me in to biking in the first place. No longer do I need that literary monthly to keep me brimmed up full. Don’t get me wrong I want to feel more with the bike, go different places, the desire for the bonnie still burns deep. In the future though I’ll do it on my terms without feeling the need to replicate the experiences of a bike journalist. I think it is time to can cancel the subscription and maybe move to furtive reading of BIKE articles in WHSmith like so many others.

Last Ride to Rockingham

The curtains were drawn back, a weak winter sun forced its way through into the bedroom, my wife sat up and stared out of the window. I just lay there, head a bit "fuzzy" from one too many Everards Tiger bitters the night before. The suggestion was made, took me somewhat by surprise - a final dash out on the bikes before they were put away for the Winter. I may have had a little hangover but the prospect of a couple of hours on the bonnie was more than appealing. I knew the cold Winter air would more than clear my head.

We dressed, many layers, two muffs and inner gloves all with the aim of keeping the chill at bay. As we stood on the drive, bikes ticking over warming up, I felt the anticipation. Sure it was cold but the sun gleamed in a cloudless blue sky - a crisp beautiful Winter's morning.

Soon the familiar feel of the bonnie, purring away down the lanes had me smiling. The cold though made its way through to the base of my neck, chilling me. I adjusted the muff a little, blocked out the worst of the wind chill and squinted into the low sun. I followed Rachel steadily, I could tell she was enjoying herself, a couple of overtakes and little sprints when the country roads straightened out. It felt good to be out, we passed many other bikes, everyone seemed to be getting in their last ride of the year. I'm not a Winter rider - I get no pleasure from being cold and wet and even less pleasure from constantly cleaning a mass of chrome that is a T100 bonnie. I don't see any shame in being this way.

Our eventual destination was Rockingham Classics.

http://www.rcands.co.uk/

I've visited this place a few times over the last couple of years - it just gets better and better. A Guzzi and Endfield Dealer with a selection of 'classic bikes' to tempt your wallet. The welcome is always friendly, encouraging you to browse, breathe it in and dream a little. On this particular morning there were a number of bikers 'milling around' studying the initmate detail of both the modern and classic bikes. I took the opportunity to take a few "arty" photies with my digital SLR. Nobody seemed to mind least of all the owner of Rockingham Classics.

The 'Pitstop Cafe' is inspired. By converting the upstairs of the building into a cafe, Rockingham Classics has created an extension of its welcoming atmosphere. The classic memorabilia lining the walls and bike magazines scatterred at each table encourage you to relax and enjoy a bite to eat. There are even a couple of tables downstairs so you can sit amongst the bikes if you so wish. The Chorizo sausage butty provided a sustaining brunch. A strong cuppa to wash it all down reviving the warmth in my fingers and chest.

Warmed through, Rachel and I wandered around the bikes once more. I've always admired the Guzzi Calafornia Tourer. If I didn't have a bonnie then I guess this would be my riding companion.............I couldn't part with the bonnie though..................she is too pretty and holds many fond memories.

Soon we headed home, the Winter sun a little higher in the sky. I'd grown used to the cold wind chill, it no longer bothered me. The ride home was beautiful, sweeping corners and long straights back through Leicestershire. It was tinged with sadness however, we both knew this was the last ride before SuzyQ was hibernated for the Winter.

The sadness became complete as I closed the garage door, I wished her well until the Spring.

(Despite the Bike now being put away for a few months, I'll still be posting the odd ditty so keep checking in if you follow this blog).

Party, party, party........Bonnie 50th Birthday

Some People Like to Rock, Some People Like to Roll, but moving and a grooving’s gonna satisfy my soul let’s have Party..................oooooooooooooooo......................let’s have a party.

Elvis belted out the lyrics, calling a nation of teenagers to join a party. I must admit I prefer the female country rocker, Wanda Jackson’s version. it’s dirtier and less polished but the teenage call to arms remains the same – party, party, party. The bonnie is 50 this year – so c’mon let’s have a party!

I had swayed in my own mind whether or not to go to the Bonnie 50th Celebration event as organised by the Triumph owners motorcycle club. There had been a debate on the merits of attendance on the new bonnie owners forum. Some were ‘up for it’, others more apathetic. I fell into the apathetic camp. The bonnie and I were still in our trial separation phase. We couldn’t bear to look at each other. Eventually the increasing thought that I might miss something and the acceptance that I would have to get back on the bonnie at some point caused me to wheel her out of the garage and begin the pre flight checks (or a rub down with a bit of polish as is more appropriate to the T100).

The venue of the Motor Heritage Museum was just over an hour away. I knew the route well. An old roman road, straight as a die between Warwickshire and the Cotswolds – “The Fosse”. It was a bright sunny day and we rekindled a little bit of the passion that had died through France. She purred along beautifully. I just sat there smiling, a gentle pitch of the throttle and the occasional gear change. As I drew nearer there were a few waves from Bonnie owners of various ages. No doubt they shared my smile, a combined passion and love for an inanimate object that you just can’t help but cherish. Not smug but knowing that there is something else to the bonnie that is missing from other bikes. Dare I mention that word again “Soul”?

I swallowed the £25 admission price, a little steep for an afternoon’s entertainment but good value for those attending for the entire weekend. I’d made up my mind to just wander around. I had nothing in particular that I was looking for but I hoped to pick up the odd goodie with a twitching credit card and a weighty wallet. First stop was the main ‘arena’ and the line up of bonnies across all years. Some beautiful examples across the ages caused me to stop and stare, a photo here and there, amazed at their purity and factory brighteness but gradually my inspection moved to a purpose. I began to look at the various incarnations of the Hinckley Bonneville looking for that inspiration or small item that might suit my own tastes. They were all there to look at, race prepped, tourers, scramblers, paired down etc. A credit to their owners, some radical, some subtle. I’ve never really had a theme to my bonnie preferring to add the odd trinket and modification to suit my requirements. If I had to label it I suppose I would go for a “sporty inspired tourer”.

Despite my inspection of the show arena and the ‘overflow’ parking field nothing particularly sprang to the fore. Single or ‘grey top’ seats caught my eye more than most, a simple mod that can alter the look of the bonnie quite radically. Perhaps that’s next year’s purchase. I was hoping to see some different rear view mirrors. I just can’t get the comment ‘Mickey Mouse Ears’ out of my mind every time I look at the stock mirrors. Lots of bar end examples to think about but I still like the aftermarket Triumph ellipse shaped mirrors even if the price is somewhat salty. It was time to have a look at the vendors’ stalls and loosen the shackles of my wallet.

Anticipation and inspiration heightened by the display areas I wanted to find a ‘jenks bolts’ or ‘mototwin’ stall full of new bonnie accessories. I was disappointed. The vendor’s area was more of an auto jumble which was fine for the event but I was hopeful of more. I’d brought an empty rucksack to fill up but at this rate it was going to go home empty and poor old SuzyQ would have to go without a birthday present. Oh well, if the bike couldn’t have anything then at least I could buy a T-Shirt or something. It was a brave man or woman that entered the ‘official’ Staffordshire Triumph clothing area. It was chaos, boxes on the floor, people 2 or 3 deep at the rails all searching for the essential souvenir. I entered the fray, battled my way through and emerged with a long sleeved T-shirt at a bargain half price. Stressful bit of shopping though.

Then I just wandered, looking again at the show arena, perusing the club stands and even a look at the auto jumble. The more I wandered the more I struggled to understand what the event lacked. It just felt flat. Here I was surrounded by a bike that I love, its graceful lines, sculpted tank, spoked wheels and a history to dream of, but my emotions weren’t stirred. Then it dawned on me – Music. Where was the music? Music brings events alive, it loosens inhibitions, brings people together, makes us smile. Oh for some music associated with ‘Triumph Era’ – rockers music. Gene Vincent, Eddie Cochrane, Billy Fury – all were desperately needed to lighten the atmosphere, bring people out a little, have a party. The more these thoughts passed my mind the flatter the event became for me. Even the ACE Cafe stand did not have a bit of music blaring out. I left soon after, glad I went but it could have been so much better.

Elvis though would have been disappointed. A celebration? I'm not sure, somehow it just didn’t feel like a party, it lacked the "moving and a grooving to satisfy my soul".

Music and bonnies now there is something to celebrate.

Relationship troubles

It is an inevitable consequence of life that relationships break down. It’s often sad and hurtful when it happens, the pain carried with us for months or even years. In most instances we work hard to avoid breaking a relationship, counselling, ‘make or break holidays’ and even trial separation. These are all remedies advocated by agony aunts the world over.

Looking back I guess things had been going down hill for a while. Over familiarity breeds contempt and it was becoming mutual in us both. We didn’t argue, have blazing rows and all the other signs of relieving tension in a relationship but we had grown apart. Spending so much time together on holiday had been the last straw. We both agreed we needed time apart, to see if we could rekindle the spark that had initially brought us together. Test the notion that absence makes the heart grow fonder.

I shut the garage door on SuzyQ…………………it would be a while before we would ride out again…………..we needed some time apart.

Beer, wine or champagne?

Beer. I just love it. Nothing better than a cool, creamy frothing pint of ale to relax with. In the winter it has a warming effect – dark, fruity sweet and bitter, in Summer it cools with a blonde crisp, hoppiness. Very versatile. I probably drink too much of it. Nope I know I used to drink too much of it – increasing problems with gout, a widening middle girth and even a brush with pancreatitis – woke me up somewhat. I now don’t drink at all during the week, exercise more, have lost the extra pounds and take my medication and drink plenty of water to keep the gout at bay. Still doesn’t stop at me weekends though enjoying more beer than I probably should. I could blame my dad as he likes a pint, but actually it would be more of a ‘thankyou’ than blame.



Whilst beer will always be my first love I have over the years turned my attention somewhat to the joys of a decent glass of wine. Started a few years back with a friend of the Mrs, inviting us to join a wine club – Laithwaites. I’ve bought numerous bottles now over the years, even been to a few wine tastings and visited a couple of English vineyards. I am not an expert by any means but I have reached that stage where I know what my preference is and what I prefer to stock my “cellar” with. One thing I’ve never quite understood though is the hype over champagne. Sure I’ve tasted a couple of well rounded champagnes but most of them just appear to be expensive, over fizzed, dry nothingness. The worst examples just give me heartburn.

It was a little strange therefore that on our journey home we decided to have an overnight stay around Reims, the Champagne capital. In our heads we had visions of a romantic little hotel or a magnificent chateau to finish off the last night of the holiday. In many instances dreams don’t quite work out, this was one of them. It was getting late and we’d been driving all day, plus the fact the bonnie was low on fuel. We passed through many villages, drove round in circles, asked the locals, checked the Sat Nav etc but kept get getting pointed back to the only hotel within a 20 mile radius – a modern motel on the main busy road. Eventually we realised it was our only option and booked in, dreams somewhat dashed. Don’t get me wrong it was clean and comfortable but not quite what we had envisaged for our last night.

The receptionist pointed us in the direction of the nearest restaurant about a couple of hundred yards down the road. It was nothing special from the outside, but that does not matter much to the French as they take their food seriously and it’s rare to be served a poor meal. It was reasonably busy, a few locals and a smattering of guests from the motel. To accompany our meal we decided to have a bottle of champagne, “when in Rome……”. We were handed a menu of champagne that listed about dozen or so producers from the surrounding villages, all within 10km. We asked the waitress for her thoughts, she pointed to one of the local village producers just a couple of kilometres away. We went with her recommendation.

Now I am not going to say it was the best bottle of champagne ever because it wasn’t. I’d simply be lying. It was though a lovely quaffable example of champagne, a million miles away from the mass producers that line the shelves of British supermarkets. For just 28 euros, in a restaurant, it also represented good value for money. Perhaps what this ‘little’ champagne demonstrated more though was the fact that most of the champagne we see in Britain is a triumph of marketing and snobbery over taste. The ad men have certainly done their job well when it comes to champagne, Moet, Bollinger etc you can keep it.

In the future however I may buy the odd bottle of champagne from smaller producers in the hope of finding one that represents similar taste and value for money. Who knows maybe I’ll even find one that doesn’t give me heartburn.

Breathe it in .................. Lovely Bonnie

There is one particular aspect of the Bonnie that is understated but admirable. It has an ability to be “involving”. Bike journalists often describe a bike as involving but this is predominantly based on how much fun the bike is to corner, blast along a country road or lift its front wheel under acceleration. Involving with regard to the bonnie is the way it makes you feel part of the surroundings. No need to hurry, take it all in, look around you, breathe the fresh air, relax. Sure you can hustle it if needed but I’m not convinced that’s what the Hinckley engineers designed into their creation. It’s about emotion – involving.

With the bonnie purring along, the scenery in the Alps rolled on by. The chocolate box houses, rolling fields and green forests giving way to the occasional stream. Mountain side villages with their small hotels, church steeples, cafes and shops. Window boxes full of red geraniums, the occasional cheery wave from a passer by and a bright cloudless sky all pushed themselves forward and pulled me in. The setting of sheer alpine mountain peaks providing the final striking background.

We rode all day, no real destination in mind, changing our minds at will. Occasionally we got it wrong – a mountain road ascending sharply and changing into a gravel mountain path. No worries, turn the bikes around, try somewhere else. Eventually we set a target of Annecy for lunch – a beautiful if somewhat crowded lakeside town. The scenery, the roads and the need for a cool breeze in the hot sun soon drew us back to the bikes though.

Towards the end of the day it got a little harder. Wrists stiff from constant hair pin bends, eyes getting tired from continued concentration. With no route in mind we stumbled on a mountain climb that was quite simply scary, stunning and involving all at once. The Col Alvis features a breathtaking view from the top of Mont Blanc, a rewarding surprise on reaching the summit.

The route up was hard, incredibly steep and long, no respite from first and second gear corners. Sportsbikes were in abundance, their riders looking for that “twisty” experience at speeds that would scare and frighten anyone with a degree of self preservation. It was the people on push bikes though that I noticed. Thin mountain air and the steepness of the climb straining every sinew and muscle. One rider was stripped to his waist, his tanned back glistened with the sweat of strained effort. His face contorted with pain. It was hard enough on a motorbike, on a human powered cycle I could only imagine the level of effort and endeavour. I passed slowly, respectfully giving him the room to continue the rocking motion of the bike below him as he pumped the pedals slowly.

We reached the top – crowded – took a couple of photos and pushed into the long twisting descent for home as the afternoon was getting late.

I’ve thought a couple of times since about that poor cyclist and the effort he needed to make his goal. Did he reach the top? Probably, his determination as I followed and then passed was startling. On a sportsbike though, would I have noticed him? I don’t think I would. On the bonnie I did – Involving you see.

Trying to reach our destination

Slowly it crawls deeper through every pore, exposing weakness in your defensive shield. You move, you feel it more, cold and unpleasant. It hurts, stinging your exposed legs. It has to stop, you urge it to stop, it doesn’t listen. Relentless.

Around you it blackens, harder now, even more incessant. But you are alive, every sinew striving for control, every movement felt, scanning, alert for danger. Try to keep your vision clear. You process countless information streams, make the changes, - survive.

This is hard, you know it can’t get much worse. There is no respite, no relaxation just the occasional burst through a bore hole in a mountain to provide some fleeting relief. You must keep your focus, fatigue could be fatal.

Other users, more fortunate than you, take their place obliquely in front of you, oblivious to the damage they inflict. Back away from them, keep safe, wipe it quickly away from in front of your eyes.

Rain, hard rain, heavy rain, crashing thunder and bright white lightening……………..four long hours, crowded motorway, dangerous.

We have ridden in gale force wind and rain before, but nothing like an Alpine summer storm. Its intensity and longevity coupled with a crowded motorway made it genuinely frightening. We arrived at our destination that evening, no sense of celebration, just relief, sheer bloody relief.

Hoping for a memory

There are places we visit that stay with us, often aligned to a pleasant memory or experience. Hotels, Bed and Breakfast, Guesthouses and even Camp Sites can all be recalled for how they influenced us or made us feel at a particular point in time. For me there are a number of special places that I’ll always remember for the impact they made on me - our honeymoon hotel in the lakes, a two bedroom cottage in deepest Winter in the Peak District and a Coaching Inn’s hospitality during a boozy wine tasting, but there are numerous others too.

It had been a long first day on our trip to the French Alps. The tedium of the crowded English motorways and long wait in Dover to join the ferry. The flat and featureless plains of the Pas de Calais region were neither spectacular or interesting but the emptiness of the motorway network came as blessed relief and allowed us to acclimatise gently into a different country. The excitement of the holiday ahead still buzzed around us and the challenge of taking two ‘little’ naked bikes to the French Italian border remained our goal.

I must confess our first night hotel was nothing special, a major French chain, booked for its convenience, a mere stopover on our journey. The surprise though was the Town – Arras – with its pretty square lined by bars and restaurants all vibrating to a heady Friday night atmosphere. We immersed ourselves within it, dining al fresco and partaking of a few beers. First day fatigue was our main enemy however and we knew we had to keep fresh. Stifled yawns signalled to us both that we should draw our first night to a conclusion.

After a morning of more French motorways it was time to head into the wine making Burgundy region of France. Chablis, and the Beaune villages beckoned. Here we entered the ‘real’ France. Rolling fields of agriculture flanked with vines on the hills. Pretty and sleepy French villages ambled by our bikes, tree lined roads giving needy shade from the mid-day sun. We were enjoying ourselves, extending the bikes for the occasional overtake, slowing in the villages to breathe in our surroundings. I could wait no longer it was time to sample that glorious French institution of “Lunch”. Not for the French is a grabbed Marks and Spencer butty or a baked spud on the run. You sit, you enjoy, you take your time, maybe a little wine to wash it down. Where we stopped I have no idea, it was a Restaurant like you find in any French village, its importance in their culture paramount judging by the amount of tables taken as again we dined al fresco to a lazy lunch of local produce.

After Lunch we were only an hour or so from our destination for the evening and I must admit to a sense of anticipation. Our second night stay had the potential to reach the status of ‘memorable’ that I dearly wanted it to be. As we turned into the gates you could not help but smile at its beauty, this was going to be special. An imposing, beautifully symmetrical French Country house in its own grounds with a heady mix of flowers and shrubs. It looked gorgeous. Our host greeted us warmly and showed us to a beautiful room at the top of a winding spiral staircase.

Relaxing is an overused term for hotel and holiday brochures but a more apt word I cannot think of. We spent a lazy afternoon with a dip in the pool, a snooze in the bedroom and a draught of wheat beer in the grounds whilst we awaited our friends, a number of whom were also travelling down through France to our holiday destination in the Alps. Our hosts busied themselves in their kitchen preparing our evening meal. The beer made me a little ‘woozy’, my cheeks reddened and slowly the hours passed.

We joined the rest of the guests later that evening on the lawn as we awaited dinner. A bottle of Chablis topping up glasses at will. The table was set outside and then it happened suddenly – a summer storm of flashing lightening, crashing thunder and raindrops soaking everything. Quickly we all hurried the set table back in doors into the grand dining room, all the guests and hosts ‘mucking in' as quickly as possible. It just demonstrated further the informal, relaxed atmosphere that the house generated amongst all. The father of the house insisted that Rachel and I move our bikes into his garage for shelter – just another caring touch.

Some of our friends were a little late for dinner. It didn’t seem to phase our hosts, a little more wine and an acceptance that serving dinner might be a little chaotic for them that evening as many of our friends looked to ensure that their young children were tucked up in bed. I won’t describe the intimate details of the meal other than to say it was every bit as good as you would expect from a trained French cookery teacher (the mother of the house also runs French cookery classes from the kitchen). The wine flowed, local food, cheeses and a tot of spirit to complete the evening. I slept soundly that night.

The next day it was still raining. After a breakfast of fresh croissants and homemade jams we prepared the bikes, still harbouring the shelter of the garage and gathered our waterproofs around us. Slowly we manouvered the bikes gently down the wet gravel pathway. Some of our friends and their children leaned out of their room windows and waved us goodbye, I was sad to leave. La Cimentelle you will stay with me as memory, hopefully one day to return.

http://www.lacimentelle.com/

Ready, steady, go..................

Anticipation is everywhere. Excitement even. Nervous energy abounds. The planning has been rambling for weeks, perhaps even months, scouring the internet for hotels, routes and points of interest along the way. The list of essentials is all but ticked off, nothing has been left to chance. The bikes have been prepped and the luggage filled with neither a nook or cranny left to cram. Just one more check in the morning and we’ll be on our way. Two bikes, two riders and the essentials to get us through the next 10 days. The French Alps beckon.

And therein lies the biggest challenge of my blog so far. I pledged in my first post that I would not descend into a descriptive blog rambling about the roads I took, the places I stopped and the state of my tyres. I need to keep you interested, a desire to read more. I have with me a little black moleskin note book. It will be my companion. Jotted scribbles recording the sights, feelings and sounds. An old fashioned way to diarise but one that has more romance, more empathy, more “Soul”.

So please stay patient, allow me some time to translate my notebook ruminations. I promise I’ll update you on my return.

So different, but a shared love....

I have little or no practical ability and the creativity of my hands is severely lacking. As a man this can be seen as a real weakness , an embarrassment even, but it is something I have learnt to live with. Not for me are the basic mechanical and engineering tasks that are required to keep the bonnie on the road. Instead I used to sheepishly take her down to the Triumph dealer for all manner of small tasks that even those with a little more mechanical aplomb could easily undertake. I say “used to” because things have changed in the last 12 months. Not that I have changed, it’s too late for me, but I have found that there is another way. Don’t get me wrong, the dealership was always welcoming and met my requests without incredulity or surprise, but there was always something lacking and now that I’ve found it I’ll endeavour to keep it.

The relationship of being his customer has been growing steadily. My wife found him first, a faulty battery on the Honda and a need for a new clutch lever. Yellow pages, a simple one line and telephone number, no fancy advert to draw your attention, just the fact that he was a motorbike mechanic located a couple of miles from where we live. He wasn’t dismissive of a novice ladybiker but showed her the kind of respect and calmness that is rooted in a love of what he does. It’s not about the money for him, yes it’s a business, a means to earn a living but it was difficult to get him to take any money from her for anything other than the fitted parts. He simply wanted to help us get the bike running reliably again – his interest was in us and the bike. It was both refreshing and touching.

Last week I took the bonnie to him for a front tire change. I was late, an hour late but he greeted me enthusiastically, told me my timing was great and that it had given him a little more time to mess around with some of his other “customer” bikes. It was his way of putting me at ease, telling me not to worry. We rolled the bonnie down the side of his house into his lock up, careful not to catch his BSA and other assorted bike debris that lay around his driveway.

Once inside the lock up, there at eye level, on a raised workbench, stood a piece of mechanical art. Brooding, black, shimmering – graceful lines of a bygone era - beautiful. “Is that a....?” I asked, “Yep, a Vincent Black Shadow, customer bike and worth a bob or two” he replied. But his mind was not on the Vincent but a bonnie that needed a new tire, he started to work. I stood in his workspace and drew in the sights of his lock up, as beautiful as the Vincent was there was far more to look at and breathe in. Cluttered is an unkind word, it suggests untidy and unkempt, but this was cluttered in a way that each implement, package or tool had its place – it was more busy than untidy. Another “customer bike”, a 1970’s bonnie sat on a second raised workbench. On the walls were shelves stuffed with oil cans, sprocket sets, drill bits, spanners and spay canisters. The sides of the floors seemed to sink under large toolboxes, compressors, old bike frames and spare dented exhausts.

I turned to watch him work and studied him intimately. The long dark ‘biker’ hair, greying as it fell about his face, oily short fingers picking up tire irons and the obligatory greasy overalls and boots. Certainly old style, in tune with his “customer bikes”, he matched his lock up perfectly. There was no modern machinery to help ease the task, it was all undertaken on a wheel jig using his experience to make the task easy, taking an inordinate amount of care as he removed the tyre and cleaned up the wheel rim.

We chatted gently over the next hour as he working diligently through the task at hand. The subjects were harmless – real ale, “customers” and even the scooter generation. Nothing controversial that might hold views against which we might rile each other, finding common ground in a world where we were clearly different in lifestyle and skills. Accentuating our similarities and pushing our differences to one side.

The balancing of the wheel showed me the most though, just a simple piece of string and a spindle. Spinning the wheel, adjusting the weight and moving the string around the rim until it was perfectly balanced. I could do nothing but stare, transfixed on the skill of a simple process administered beautifully. The care, the attention to detail and grinning smile as the task was accomplished.

As he replaced the wheel into the forks I took out my wallet to pay him. It’s always cash, no credit or debit cards – such electronic technology would be at odds with the surroundings. I was embarrassed. I was short by £30. My own fault, in my lateness I had rushed to get there and forgotten to visit the cash machine. “No worries” he said, “just drop it by tomorrow”. My embarrassment put at ease, we rolled the bonnie out of the lock up back to the road. I thanked him and set for home.

The next day I returned. He came out to greet me, same greasy overalls, bedraggled hair and oily fingers. I gave him the balance. He didn’t check it, no need to, he trusted me, bikes being our common ground. It went straight into his overall breast pocket, with a joke that he could now afford a few pints of ale down the pub that evening. I left him again with words of gratitude and assurances that I would be returning for his services again when needed.

I have been fortunate enough to take a profession that has furnished me with a more than a comfortable lifestyle, the usual trappings as I head towards middle age, nice cars, motorbikes, good holidays and more. I don’t think the comforts of a middle aged professional mean anything to him though. It’s the love of bikes, helping his “customers” and the chance to sink a couple of pints now and then that make his world turn. It’s a simpler way of life and one that part of me wishes I could take, although I know it is just a remote thought - wishful thinking even. In many ways we are so very different but I’m glad that we have that one link that means our paths in the world have crossed and will continue to do so. I will be remaining one of his “customers” of that there is no doubt. Different lives but kindred spirits.

Ladybiker - Musings and ramblings

Strange, but I’ve always enjoyed writing. I’ve often wondered how I fell into my profession which is numbers, numbers, numbers all day long. Still it pays the bills. My first real attempt at writing was for LadyBiker magazine. The editor was going to publish the article in issue 4 but the magazine seems to have stalled. Anyway below is the ditty……………maybe one day it will see the light of day in the magazine.

http://www.ladybikermagazine.com/index.htm

Losing a piece of you…………

Every time I’ve taken my Triumph Bonnie (LittleSuzyQ) out of the garage recently it has been tinged with sadness. You see I lost my pillion a few weeks ago and it still hurts, really hurts. We had been a happy threesome for the last three years exploring back lanes, country pubs and venturing further a field touring North Wales and the Cotswolds. Using SuzyQ whenever we could had brought us closer together than ever before.

It was on one such trip, as we huddled close against the cold on a journey back home, that I decided to ask her to marry me. It seemed such a natural thing to do and SuzyQ had been the catalyst. The three of us were so close we even went on honeymoon together. Leaving the wedding hotel with my new bride excitedly tapping my leg, giving me the signal to set off, as our guests waved goodbye still remains one of my fondest memories of the whole wedding weekend.

Now I stand here staring at SuzyQ wondering what to do. The black bench seat with its small but perfect pillion perch is redundant. It certainly won’t be feeling the warm glow of her on it again. I now know that I need to change it, get myself a single seat or at the very least buy a seat cowel. Anything at all to erase these sorrowful thoughts from my mind. Thearpy – that’s what I need. Yes - SuzyQ would like a new seat – I’m sure of it.

Worst of all though is bending down to turn the pillion foot pegs back in towards the bike. They’re not needed anymore. Now I know it’s final, there’s a bit of a lump in my throat, she has definitely gone, our threesome is no more, it is now just the two of us.

SuzyQ knows that something is not quite right. As I take her out she rebels accelerating faster than she has done for years, keeping her forks steady, not diving as I brake for a series of sweeping turns. I can tell she is showing off a bit “see it’s just the two of us now …………things will be wilder, we can go quicker, brake harder, turn tighter and have loads of fun together,” but it is tinged with bravado. She is not a quick bike and has never been interested in going quickly preferring to putter along admiring the scenery and taking in the sights around her, cheerfully letting the world go by as she takes her owner and pillion to their desired destination, drawing admiring glances wherever she goes. I know though that she yearns for her pillion as much as I do, but she is managing to put a brave face on it. So am I – at least I think I am. I must admit I’m struggling to come to terms with the fact that I’ll never have her arms wrapped around me, giving me a squeeze when needed to let me know she is enjoying herself behind me or just to keep us both warm on the journey home.

They do say that every cloud has a silver lining. Well I’m sorry to say there is no silver lining to this tale. Not at all silver - this time the lining is golden and sparkling with diamonds. You see I may have lost a pillion but I have gained a riding partner. A month ago my better half took her test and passed first time. Sure SuzyQ and I are feeling a bit emotional at the moment but we’ll get over it especially as our thoughts turn towards the year ahead – we have plans to make: where to go, what to see, how far, how fast …….and……dare I say it ………..‘as a foursome’.

Yes Dex (a Honda CBF 500) has joined SuzyQ in our garage. SuzyQ knows she is a bit of looker, a little bit vain even, always after that little bit of extra chrome to dress her up and make her stand out. I’m sure I can hear Dex flirting with her in the garage. He is clearly attracted to her and she likes the attention. I’ve noticed since Dex joined us that he has spruced himself up a bit to look his best with a new flyscreen and hugger. A handsome little bike if ever I saw one. SuzyQ has only been on a date with him once so far and although it’s early days I think she secretly enjoyed it. I’m sure they will both be stepping out quite a lot together next year. I think their relationship will definitely blossom. Don’t worry I’ll be keeping my eye on them.

And my good lady? Well she is quite simply fantastic and I’m immensely proud of her. She was a willing pillion right from the start and when she made up her mind to have a go at CBT and DAS I just knew nothing would stop her. A real ladybiker.

The point of this article? Well I won’t pretend that writing this down hasn’t been good for me. It has calmed my troubled mind. But there are other reasons. If there are any ladies out there that have rode pillion for a number years and are happy doing so – I’m sure your partner and bike will be very happy also. Threesomes are good. If however you do feel the urge to go it alone then make sure you grab it, be determined. Whatever you do don’t worry about those of us you leave behind – we’ll cope – and before you know it a happy threesome will become a cheerful and excited foursome.

Is it Ego?

Why bother with a blog, boring people to death with your rambling and inane views? Is it ego that compels us, wanting to show people how important our little world is or is it just that basic human need to communicate? I confess that I am not sure of either but there is something that gnaws away at my conscious – why don’t bike blogs have soul? A sweeping statement of generalisation? Probably, but I must have been terribly unlucky to have read several bike blogs that describe the hackneyed and tiresome view of riding a motorbike - “Took the A54678999 to Upper Fartpants, loads of twisty roads, got my kneedown, stopped for a cup of tea with my mate chunky…..etc, etc”. Unfortunately I can’t stop myself from reading them, compulsion takes over, but I find myself empty at the end of the latest instalment wishing I hadn’t bothered. The last entry on which tires to choose being just too dull to comprehend – “dear God, why did you make me read it”?!!. That’s it “never again” I tell myself. The problem is could I do better? I don’t know, that will be for other people to decide.

If I’m to write a blog it has to have “soul” – a description of feelings be they pleasurable, excitement or sadness. A love of the ride for it being just that, describing the sights, smells and relationships along the way. The bike has to be an integral part of me, feeling an affinity for each other when we bond, cursing when we do not. It’s almost marriage like. Mix in some humour and wit and maybe I can stretch the reader enough to come back for more, not because they feel compelled to but because they want to. I’ve set myself a challenge now. Judge me accordingly – is it genuine desire or just compulsion to read further?

So who am I? Well we British are terribly reserved and appallingly bad at describing ourselves particularly our perception of where we stand in the world. I’m afraid I too am made of this British mould. They’ll be a few details that will leak out and for those that do know me I hope you find an accurate description as you read. For those of you that don’t know me I hope you agree that it’s a little bit more interesting if I remain a somewhat elusive and anonymous blogger. Form your own picture, maybe we’ll meet at some point. What I will say is that I’m not an expert in all things Bike related. Far from it and this will quickly become apparent. Put simply I’m a normal bloke that has a healthy respect for the escapism my bike provides.

I hope you return, remember desire not compulsion, hopefully I’ll keep you interested. If I start describing the A54678999 to Upper Fartpants then I have failed and you have every right to remove me from your browser.