Good Start

I'm commuting by sports tourer at the moment, as the little Yam has developed an annoying habit of losing its electrics at random times, and until I find and fix the fault I can't rely on it to get me to work and back on unlit roads.

This morning, I had the most amazing run into work. The roads were dry and clear (two cars, one bicycle in the entire journey, which is no big surprise at 5.30 am on New Year's Day) and visibility was excellent. Although not exactly warm, the temperature was mild enough to be unnoticed. So much high-speed tomfoolery was to be had, even in the pitch-dark with the standard crappy Triumph lighting.

Dry road, clear air, warmish, sparse traffic. Let's hope it's an omen for 2012.

How I got into all this

Via Sonja, I learn that Gary France has a post up describing how he got into motorcycling, and throws out the challenge for other people to do the same. So here's my tuppence-worth.

I think I've always treasured mobility. I had a tricycle very young, and then got onto two wheels as soon as I was able. I can still remember the moment I took to my wings on a bicycle. My Dad had his hand under the saddle as we wobbled along the road, then the coins in his pocket started jungling as he ran faster, and then the noise stopped. He had stopped running and I was still going - therefore, I was riding under my own steam. The feeling of euphoria and sheer bloody joy when I realised I could do it by myself was overwhelming, and I have never looked back. I cycled everywhere as a child (even running away from home on it once, and getting down the A1 and into the next county before I realised that I was hungry - I think I was 9) and getting a powered two-wheeler was an ambition from the age of about 12.

Parents forbade it, of course (and, looking back, rightly so), but I had plenty of friends with scooters and Cubs and C15s and Honda CB72s, so I got plenty of 'goes'. It was only a matter of time, and money, before I had my own.

The first bike was a Honda C70 in banana yellow, bought new from Watson Cairns in Leeds with a loan from my Dad. I was at University at the time, and the excuse was that it would save him all those tedious car journeys to take me there and back, but really it was just a chance to fulfil an ambition. I loved that bike, and it took me all over the place, but I hankered after something bigger. I passed my test on the C70 and soon afterwards traded it in for the only 'big' bike that I could afford, a Jawa 350 two-stroke twin. That bike deserves a whole post to itself, but suffice it to say that it got me a lot of places for three years and broke my spirit with its unreliability and general shittiness. One good thing was that it left me with a complete lack of fear about taking things apart to mend them, and the ability to strip a two-stroke and fit new crank seals, pistons and rings in a dark room with my eyes shut.

I haven't always had a bike since then. Like many others, marriage meant a proper car and I did without a bike for a year or two. And a period of serious illness later on meant that making monthly repayments on a bike I was not using was unsustainable, and at that point I truly believed my biking days were over. My balance had gone, and I didn't know if it would ever come back.

But I did get better, slowly, and soon I was back at work, this time in a training role for an advertising paper. The company acquired a biking website and installed a die-hard rider as its head honcho. Via company email, he asked for anyone with the vaguest interest to post bike reviews on the website, just to generate some much-needed content. I posted one, then two, then many more, and as I did so, I realised that I was missing motorcycling more than I could have imagined. A vague, hands-in-pockets, whistling-at-the-sky visit to my local dealership ensued, and a week after that a 3-year-old Yamaha XT660 was on my driveway. It had been ten years since I had last ridden, and that first ride was a strange affair. After ten years in a car I felt very vulnerable and small, but I soon got over that and was riding every day. Even so, I reckon it took me about a year to get my 'bike head' back on.

So here I am today, with an old scrapper of a trailbike for the commuting duties and a nice shiny sports-tourer for the faster days and longer rides. And I won't be giving it up again so easily.

Cold, dead hands, and all that.

Quote of the Week

Via Canajun, I found this quotation which I thought worth sharing, as it explains something that is hard to put into words. It's from Patrick Symmes' work Chasing Che: A Motorcycle Journey in Search of the Guevara Legend.

There are moments on a motorcycle when all the glory of motion is distilled into one purposeful package. Chasing curves over a swelling landscape, a motorcycle enters the pure expression of physics and is bound to the road in a way no car will ever know. The rider and machine are literally balanced on the infinitely thin line where centripetal force meets gravity. Despite this state of suspended disaster, the sensation of risk is largely a sensation; the motorcycle is in harmony with the road, and risk comes overwhelmingly from other drivers. Any moment of travel on a motorcycle is a light and essential moment, an agile rebuke to a life conducted in one place. The raw force of the engine is not hidden beneath a hood, but alternately purrs and growls a few inches from the knees, demanding the consciousness of power. Sealed behind glass, insulated by climate control systems and music, the driver of a car knows nothing about the directions of the wind, the lay of sunlight, the small changes in temperature between a peak and a valley, the textured noise of differing asphalts, or the sweet and sour aromas of manured fields or passing pine forests. Engaged in all the senses and elements, balanced in the present tense, a rider on two wheels can taste moments of oneness with the road.

I'm not a fan of Che Guevara, who had a very murky history and does not deserve the adulation given him by the ignorant and naive. And I haven't read the book, so I don't know what Symmes' take on his 'hero' is. But that passage says something that resonates with me.

My Ambition ...

... is to beat this guy.

Britain's oldest biker still going strong at 94: Reg Scott has ridden nearly 400,000 miles

Adrenaline junkie Reg Scott is still burning rubber as Britain's oldest motorcyclist - aged 94.

The great-granddad has covered a staggering 384,800 miles during his 74 years on the road, the equivalent of riding around the world more than 15 times.

At the age when most people are sitting in a comfy chair, dribbling, Reg looks to be remarkable fit, healthy and independent. Reg has ridden a motorbike for 74 years, and still rides most days. I wonder if the two are connected?

He bought his first bike - a Norton 16H 490cc - on hire purchase for 73 pounds in 1937 and has had seven more since. The most powerful was a BMW Boxer 1000cc.

Reg now rides a Honda 250cc around his home town of Ludham, Norfolk, at least four times a week, often taking it out to do his weekly grocery shop.

He admits he has had to slow down over the years but still manages to top an impressive 60 miles per hour when out on the road.

[He says] 'You are always in the open air and can feel the ground rushing past you. You just can't get that with a car.

'On a motorbike you always feel like you are speeding even at a slow pace like 50 miles per hour. It's a real adrenaline rush and I still get it.

'Age means nothing to me. I value the independence I have with a bike and plan to carry on until I can't do it anymore.

Me too, pal. I've only got 37 years to go and I will be passing you.

Thirty-seven years? That's almost as long as I have been riding! In Reg terms, I'm only just half-way.

It is often said that there are many old riders, and many bold riders, but there are very few old, bold riders. I'll settle for being an old one. If riding is so much fun, why wouldn't you want to carry on as long as possible?

This guy cheers me up.