Real world rides, real world riders

The time machine

A week or so ago I was coming back from a photo shoot. The subject of the shoot wasn’t me or the bike I was riding but it looked like being one of those crisp winter days where you know there isn’t going to be a lot of grip on the roads but the weather and the snap of cold in the air just invites a steady ride along anyway.

So I wrapped up and pushed the mighty V-Max out of the garage, only an hour or so in front of us to the job at hand and the sun sitting high in the crystal-clear azure blue sky.

Steady pace was all I could – or indeed wanted to – manage along the frost-kissed back roads. A lack of other traffic and the shadows laid out by huge trees stopped grip levels improving but I didn’t care. The big Yamaha was as happy to plod along as I was.

So the ride along passed without incident, the photo shoot happened as was planned and as the light started to fall so quickly that we were all caught out by just how rapidly the night was drawing in I put my riding kit back on, shook
hands with all concerned at the job of work and headed off to fill the bike up at a petrol station and head for home.

By the time I got going it was very dark. And it was cold too. The kind of cold that suddenly makes you realise that you better be sharp otherwise you could end up on your backside through nobody’s fault. Not even your own.

I stopped at the garage to fill up. £21 later and the Yamaha that had been on vapour for the last couple of miles was ready to go. The lady in the petrol station asked me if I was cold, I said no. It wasn’t a lie, apart from the gap in the helmet that exposed my nose and eyes to the outside, and my hands and feet that were wrapped in summertime kit, I was nice and toasty inside my most modern of poor-weather riding kit.

As I came out of the shop to get on the bike a builder’s van pulled up at the pump opposite. Two chaps got out and headed over to look at the bike. They ooh’d and ahh’d in the right places and asked questions about the engine, about the power and about the brakes.

Note to Yamaha. If you sell two more V-Maxes this month, I want a commission. I gave the bike high praise and explained what a jolly time I’d been having despite the weather.

Back on the road and it was properly pitch black. On the country roads I had to ride on in front of me I knew I was going to have to take my time. It was getting more slippery by the minute, frost-coated grass and middle-of-the-road gravel rakes appeared at every turn.

I messed up on the visor front though. I didn’t take my clear option for my Arai so had to flick the black visor up in order to be able to see at all. I know, dumb move.
The cold air made my eyes stream, the icy pinch on the bare skin soon caused my face to go numb. My summertime gloves had long stopped being any use, thermally. As had my summertime boots.

It had been a long time since I found myself riding in the proper cold so underprepared. I had to ride slowly and sure-footedly on rough roads with no lighting. Various parts of my body were aching as the muscles started packing up through the very minus windblast.

But you know what? I didn’t really care. It took me back to being 17 again. It took me back to winters before I bothered to get a car licence. It took me back to those times of scraping ice off the seat and riding along with the black visor (the only visor I could afford at the time) flicked up just so I could see.

The smile I had as I pulled onto the driveway at my house was huge. Partly because I’d survived the ride without incident but mostly because with every ache, with each tear-stained cheek and with each lungful of cold night air I was transported to another time.

The constant was the motorcycle.

The fun was in the riding.

The catalyst of memories was the cold air.

Have a safe ride,

Tony