Bath or Bust (buggered bits permitted)

I am sure that you know this truth for yourselves, there is a point in your life when you have the glorious summer, it is a time in your life that can never be repeated or bettered in terms of the things that you do to excess. 

The summer of 1996 was the summer that would really be the end of my childhood, despite my actually being in my twenties. I had spent the summer holiday pursuing my glorious hobbies of climbing and mountain biking, while also getting to know a group of friends who were about to become so precious to me that even now, I will never ever forget them. By the end of the summer of 1997, my degree had come to an end and I was forced (sulking and swearing) into the adult world and a very poor show I made of it too.

As I sit here at the end of 2012, it feels like a very long time has passed since that glorious summer of 1996 and the spring of 1997. Yet when a link to 1997 suddenly reopened, I could not let it pass by unremarked or unvisited. Looking back at who I was then, I cannot help but feel that I was so terribly young, so blatantly naïve and still so innocent of life. I am not in any way saddened by this, although at a push I may admit that I miss the carefree nature of it all, but where I am now is a life of greater experience and with so much less sadness. So where is this rambling introduction to a curious adventure leading you may well ask?

Ahh, the memories of warm dry days.

From out of no where came the messenger on winged feet who stated boldly that HE was back, my dear old friend, my climbing companion, my tandem stoker and my teacher. The emblematic Dr Livingstone as it were, the man who vanished, the man who taught me about my inner strength and my having the courage to do the things that scared me and not just the dangerous sports. So the chance to meet up with a most dear friend could not simply be missed and Carol and I made our way to see him and enjoy a moment of his delicate company, his witty word play and his compelling stories of daring. After an evening of reminiscing over the old times shared and talk of new and curious adventures undertaken since, we ended our evening and wished each other well and more new exciting adventures to come. As we parted again, I never expected to see my friend again and I truly was somewhat saddened.

A short while later, I was informed that Mr Mysterious was once again in the beautiful hell that is Bath and that he would love to meet us for a coffee and a natter. To do so would mean a trip to Bath via motorcycle though given that Carol was at work during the week and could not take the time from her day to drive me there. So my friend and I agreed on a time to meet on that Thursday morning. Before leaving my warm and comfortable home I swallowed enough pain killers to keep my shoulder suitably mellow, I slowly and rather painfully donned my bike leathers and the water proof outers and then got my precious Sylvie out of the garage. Being the powerful warrior woman that I am, I was going to see my friend no matter what and if things got too nasty, I had my TENS machine in my handbag!

Sadly, Thursday morning dawned with rain, the persistent heavy rain and dark clouds of winter, but at least it was warm. Freezing rain is not great for riding motorcycles whether you are broken or not. So with a full tank of fuel and my engine purring I made my way through the rain on worryingly slippery roads and from deep with in came the sort of smile that only an adventurer can understand. Riding in the rain is not horrible if you are warm. Warm and dry is preferable, but warm and wet will do. Cold and wet though is dangerous and at speed on a bike, the cold wind can quickly suck the heat from your body. I though had the pleasure of not only riding through the rain while staying not only warm and dry, but also of being comfortable and almost pain free.

My first stop was just passed Churchill when I had to pull over for a short rest for a few minutes, fighting the bike along the soaked busy town roads that had the rainbow of spilled diesel across them had made my shoulder ache rather unpleasantly and taking five minutes out helped to ease that pain. What I did not know though was that from Churchill, the roads were about to become somewhat more epic and I can say now that with hindsight, it was an adventure that I will treasure for many years to come.

The road from Churchill to Bath goes through the Mendips and is surrounded by some of the most beautiful scenery that Somerset has to offer, the cloud clung to the hill sides like avenging wraiths, smoky claws dropping down into the gullies. The fields ran with sediment heavy, wood stain brown water, looking more like a winter marsh than the baked grazing land that they had been in 1997. My speed was steady, I was not blasting along, but I was making steadfast progress in a manner that the conditions safely allowed. The tyres on my bike held a constant firm grip on the road no matter what the rising waters could leave behind as their evidential detritus trail of naughtiness. So if you want to try a truly fantastic tyre for all conditions, give some thought to ContiMotions by Continental, they really are very, very impressive.

I passed the turning for Burrington Combe and the road conditions grew even more treacherous, the metal drain covers at the side of the road puked forth thick dark water rather than swallowing it down and a steady river of water was starting to flow down the side of the road. My concentration was held fast as I slipped into that state that experience climbers know well, a stillness of the soul and the absolute awareness of what you are doing. I have only felt this feeling when I have been involved in either complex technical climbing or when painting delicate works of art. For me, the rest of the world vanishes and all that matters is the task being undertaken, it is like a level of deep thought, a place where the brain is so at peace with what is being done that it ignores everything that is not relevant at that moment. It is the complete submersion into the moment and I love that feeling because at that moment, I am not a rider on a motorcycle. I am instead the machine. The engine is my heart and its pulse is my pulse.

The roads conditions continued to deteriorate when a steady trickle of gravel began running down the middle of each lane being carried by the water from the hills above. The streams at the side of the road had become torrents and ahead of me approaching at speed was a large delivery lorry. I saw the wall of water rise up as the truck rushed through the flood with an urgency known only to delivery drivers on a deadline. The water was a foot deep and I approached this ford across the road with trepidation, my speed reduced to a level that I felt comfortable with and yet not so slow that I would stall if the water proved too deep for my nerves. The steam from the sudden emersion of my exhaust pipe and the resultant hiss were most gratifying, but what was more pleasing was the realisation that I was no longer afraid of riding in floods. In 2008, I crashed a training bike while traversing such a flood and have never forgotten the feeling of fear as the bike failed to follow my lead and instead careered almost unguided into the back of my instructor’s bike.

My next flood was even deeper and it covered both sides of the road for some distance, the grin on my face was suddenly and viciously wiped off though when a large van sped through from the other way and the wall of water hit me in the chest with the force of a punch. The impact on my helmet threw my head back and yet my Sylvie just carried on unflinching of such dangers. The road could have held nothing but dry tarmac for her, given the relaxed feeling she gave at the handle bars. My precious Suzuki SV650 just continues to inspire and impress me and for all of her subtle quirks she is a truly magnificent machine.

From that point the road developed into a series of sweeping S bends so deluged that I pondered the need for a jet ski. Yet with every rain soaked and water washed curve, the absolute involvement with the activity grew within me and left me hungry for the next perilous curve until once again I was the morph of woman and machine. My tempered, swift and even relentless little bike swept through every corner as if she were a train on rails, through the floods and muddy puddles that occasionally came up to her engine cases and which would erupt a cloud of violently hissing steam as it ran over the hot exhaust pipe. Finally and with a little sadness that my journey was over, I passed through the village of Corston and then past the entrance to my former place of study, Bath Spa University. From there is was a quick blast down the duel carriage way, a trip I remember doing on a bike once before with another dear friend. I was a pillion upon his recently rebuilt CB750 and what a fine machine it had been.

Sylvie simply and capably danced along the miles, the biggest limitation to her that day had as always been me, crippled as I was by shoulder and other forms of pain. Given how well she handled the bad weather and even how well she handled the snow only a couple of years ago, I would happily say that she is one of the finest road bikes out there, her light weight and impeccable road manners make her a constant joy to live with and yet at a moments notice there comes forth the sharp little demon horns and she lets out the hooligan from with in that furious little heart of an engine. My SV650 is more than just a plain commuter bike, she has soul and passion under that insectile fairing and I can honestly say that I love my bike.

As for Mr Mysterious, well that is a story for another day.

Back in the days before they invented colour.

Full Power, full speed ahead!

Two years ago this week I passed my Motorcycle test, on Henry my plucky little CG125, resulting in my first real ride of Sylvie, my lovely Suzuki SV650 in her restricted form. Two years on and I have been riding around on a restricted bike, been touring with full panniers and have taken many friends for a blast up the road.

So how is it to ride a full power SV650S with a handle bar conversion?

Can I start the engine now please?

There is only one word that fits Sylvie in her unrestricted form, beautiful! I am however once again back on the learning curve and this time it is a little easier. Well it was, then Carol said those word that involve great power... "Have a go on Noreen!" she said...

Right a bit, left a bit... Eek, too much power!

Riding a full power muscle bike is a revelation, but what really shines out is that there is a sense of menace with a bike this powerful, the sort of menace that lurks deep inside, the sort that wants to twist that throttle hard and sprint down the road at super speed... Me naughty? Never!

A perfect track stand, utterly still, the rider in perfect balance with machine!

So with the full power ECU back in place and the 33BHP unit sat in an envelope ready to post off to a person on the SV forum, it was time for a ride. Shame it was so damn cold.

OK, but I am not riding your bike back home!

Yes, good old Sand Bay here in Weston, a place we came when we brought Sylvie to her new home for the very first time, back in the days when a 125cc Bike scared the life out of me.

Through the mists of time, we can see Jayne in 2008!

I can nearly ride a bike me!

Now with us both on full power bikes at last, Carol no longer has to hang around at the back waiting for me to catch up. Although, in all fairness to the fabulous Sylvie, even restricted she was able to make good time on her trips out. So now I have to start learning again how to ride my bike and as a full power bike she is just awesome. So for a training ride with the wife, we headed out to Blagdon to buy some food for Alby the Barnowl. With two frozen chicks strapped to the back of Noreen, we got ready to ride home and then the heavens opened.

Got there safe, time to buy some Alby dinner.

Here comes the rain

Jayne enjoying British spring time

The ride home was awesome and watching Carol disappear into the distance reminds of just how far I have come and how far I still want to achieve. Learning to ride a bike well is not something that can be rushed with a five day training course, it is about learning skills, building experience and getting through the mistakes. Riding well takes practice and it takes training, so if I had to do my time again, I would still do it the same way. If you are about to start riding a bike, do it my way and really enjoy the learning. Every bike I have ridden so far has been an awesome place to be sat, be it Henry the Honda CG125, Agnes the Yamaha XJ400 or My dear Sylvie the Suzuki SV650S. Maybe one day when my skills are a little more refined I can enjoy the experience of taking Noreen the Kawasaki ZRX1100 for a ride, but that wont happen until I am ready and for that there is no rush.

Thank you Carol for all of your patience, training and advice, all of it was greatly appreciated. 

MAG protest ride against bike fiddling laws...

Ban this sick filth!

Mag protest Ride, 25^th September 2011. Did you go? Did you know why it took place? Do you care?

We did this because we were worried about what Legislation is going to hit us from the non elected bodies that advise the EU law makers. Now this is not the place to make a political statement, this blog is about fun and adventures, but even we get political occasionally.

So it was planned and we spread the word and we well buggered about in pouring rain trying to stay dry. But most of all, we had a damn good laugh while making a powerful statement. We as Bikers, yes bikers, leather clad, tattooed, petrol snorting, fag smoking, café racer building, chop making and streetfighter riding bikers are not prepared to take it up the arse any more.

Is that a Type Approved Air Filter Madam?

Sunday the 25^th September, I got up early which was not hard because I was at work and about ready to come home. Usually after a night at work I crave only my bed for it’s comforts and the warmth of my wife, but not today. Today I dashed home and dumped the work kit before heading out into the rain to collect a good friend of Curious Adventures, Carley, also known as Fazer girl. Carley has just over come huge personal difficulties and life threatening illness and has fallen in love with bikes. Seems pretty normal to us and it is always cool to have a biker mate to hold your pint while you drill out a stuck exhaust stud.

Sadly Sylvie is still away at the motorbike hospital and it seems more and more likely that she is about to be written off, so today’s adventure for Carley and I was on a bike designed for elderly gentlefolk, the classic lines of the do it all Honda. A bike so bland it makes knitting and embroidery appear to be dangerous pursuits. Luckily Carley was not too unkind about the Chronically boring 600 and just about managed to climb aboard. The ride back to Curious Adventures HQ was so dull both of us nearly fell asleep on that Honda.

Carol and Alex were almost ready, computers were packed and barn owls fussed. Pulling on the one piece water proof suit Alex declared that he felt like he had gained years if not decades in age and kept stating that he felt like an old man! I was sure that there would be plenty for him at Gordano.

So two bikes, four riders, all bikers. Carol and Alex were to ride Noreen the ZRX1100, leaving Carley and I with the Chronically Boring 600. So off to the motorway we headed and with in minutes car drivers started doing what they do best in the rain. Drive like bigger pillocks than normal! While we are on the subject, car drivers this question is for you. Why, when it rains, do you insist on driving like you are a gorilla that has just had a frontal lobotomy? You are inside your nice dry steel boxes all tucked up nice and safe, yet you still manage to drive your two tonne death machine like a dangerous road weapon. Use you damn mirrors, give motorcyclists braking space and try to drive with a bit of consideration. To the gentleman who changed lanes with out even so much as a sideways glance and in doing so nearly took out the two beings I care for most in the whole world, I say this. Stay off the road you dangerous old fool. Had you hurt or killed those two people, you would have been deeply sorry. Luckily for you, you got away with a pushed back mirror. Eye for an eye remember.

So we hit the motorway and headed to Gordano, it was a gentle ride, a little bit of speed never hurt anyone did it? However, being undertaken by a tit in a road going 4x4, pulling a caravan at over eighty was taking the biscuit. You are the sort of man who deserves to have a Police Man following you and then taking away your license. Swerving from your lane to mine because you were speeding, while towing a caravan in bad weather makes you an idiot. It is not often that we here at Curious Adventures use such harsh language in text, but you deserved it, for nearly hitting my friend and I, it is justified. Let’s just hope that you did not hit anyone else that day.

Arriving at Gordano we were greeted by a beautiful sight, half of the car park was filled by bikers, of every conceivable type. Fluro vest wearing super distance riders, chop riding old schoolers, sports bike riding super heros, hack bike riding couriers, patch club members and us. Even the Harley riders turned out despite the rain, ever seen a rain soaked Harley? I have now and they are still pretty.

Unfortunately for me, the Chronically Boring had picked up a bolt and which pierced her tyre and slowly let the air escape. A quick discussion and the thought of a RAC truck home with a lovely chap just did not appeal. So from the hidden depths of friendship appeared a bottle of Tyre weld and this got us home. I do not know how, to me it looked like soap foam, the stuff you would use to wash the sofa (especially if you have a pet Barn Owl!) or the carpet, yet it blocked the hole with white foam and held the air tightly enough to make it ridable.

With seconds to spare, I inflated the tyre and found Wayne waiting with Carol, Alex and Carley. With in seconds, we were off. It felt like well over a thousand bikers surged forwards as one and the ride was begun. Carley and I sat upon the Old persons bike, Carol and Alex on Noreen and Wayne riding his old work horse Fazer. It was time to make a statement. That statement was big bold and took place all over the country and it was this. Do not mess with our lifestyle!

Now I know that some people have discussed the mass protest ride and stated that it achieved nothing except for slowing down other road users and annoying car drivers. Well, I have a counter to this, in the fight fir civil rights, some people are going to be upset. After all, let’s look at some of the significant figures in history. Emmeline Pankhurst (1858 – 1928), a women that we adore to this day caused a significant amount of upset. If you check out the joy that is Wikipedia, it has this to say about her.

“She was widely criticized for her militant tactics, and historians disagree about their effectiveness, but her work is recognized as a crucial element in achieving women's suffrage in Britain.”

(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emmeline_Pankhurst)

Given the fun things she got up to, a few thousand Motorcyclists taking up a couple of lanes on the motorway is hardly that big a thing. Remember though, this was about civil rights, your right to modify your bike with parts that may not meet the strict rules of EU law. We all want safe bikes and to be safe on the road, but do we want the strict anti modification laws telling us which air filter we can use and what bits we can bolt on to where? I don’t think so. My bike is unique, it may look like many others, but it is mine and I will do with it what ever I want.

So we headed onto the Motorway, our statement big and bold as brass. Keep your hands off of our bikes. The rain fell and the traffic slowed. Cars suddenly took on formula one tactics, weaving in and out of the bikes like action movie stars. This was despite the fact that we had left the outside lane clear. Then came the git in the Gold coloured Range Rover, pushing his way through the bikes and forcing me into the middle lane. He wound down his window and began to shout abusively at me. He was disgusted that we were doing what we did. It hardly seemed fair to argue back while trying to ride in a pack with others on a motorway. Instead as he attempted to push onto my lane, forcing me back slightly, I just opened up the throttle and pulled forwards. Mr Range Rover had to stay in his own lane. Maybe if he had indicated I could have moved out of the way, but he was using his large truck as a weapon and once he came close enough I was able to reach into his vehicle and rifle through his glove box, help myself to a werthers and switch his radio station. He was very cross and he promptly sped up and tried to bully the bikes in front of him.

Our next incident came from an orange people carrier, one of those vans that are littered with seats so the comically inbred can carry their sisters and all of their children in one big car. Mr Inbred sat on my wheel, luckily Carley was in the way so he could not take up the pillion seat, but he was close. Then with no indication he snapped into the clear outside lane and then darted back in front of me, causing me to brake hard and sound my horn. Another stupid Car driver thinking that they can bully a biker out of the way. I will be eternally thankful for the chap riding the yellow GSXR Streetfighter who shot up behind me and proceeded to bang on the window of Mr Inbred. Mr Inbred then backed off from riding on the rear tyre of the bike in front of him.

After that excitement, it just chilled out. One car driver chose to leave the motorway by driving down the hard shoulder for half a mile before cutting up a queue of bikers by the exit. Mr 4x4 gave it a good shot of doing the same too and Mr Inbred managed to slip away with out endangering anyone else. We left the M4 and turned onto the M32, heading for Bristol. The last few miles of calm before the chaos that is Bristol, scary when you ride a bike. The procession slowed and more cars joined the queue to leave or enter the motorway. Finally we hit the end of the motorway and rolled to a stop at the traffic lights. Here everyone dispersed and with in minutes, no one could tell that Bristol had just been besieged by bikers with a political agenda.

So, who do we have to thank for this protest ride? Firstly, the EU. With out them none of this would have been needed. Now I usually love Europe, especially having travelled around a lot of it and been to many of it’s beautiful countries, but suggesting that I stop fiddling with my bike was a step too damn far. This leads us to MAG, the Motorcycle Action Group, a huge massive thank you to them for organising and designing the idea. With out them, many things would just go with out comment that would other wise affect our hobby. So thanks MAG and keep up the good work. Also a big lot of thanks to the riders who rode with us, you made a cold and wet day a huge amount of fun and made sure that every one had a good day.

We're not going to take it -

Do you remember your first time?

It felt slightly dirty, a little bit taboo and then it made me squeal with ecstasy, the chap who took my cherry chatted to me for a while as the heat of excitement dissipated and then we did it again. 

Yeah, my first ever ride on a bike was with a dear friend of mine on the back of his CB250 Super Dream. The bike was slow, heavy and under powered, but it was a bike and we were free to ride where ever we wanted. We clocked up hundreds of miles and even attended a rally together. That was nearly twenty years ago and I had forgotten about it until very recently.

What reminded me was something that happened to me on Friday, or rather happened to some one else with me. I was working in a small town near Bristol and took a ride over on the SV due to the Yam still being a paper weight in the garage.

The support worker I was teamed with on this day was a young woman called Rosie, just into her twenties and she is lovely, very gentle and brilliant with our lad. However, upon telling her that I was going to offer her a lift home, she squealed and danced around the house, which made our lad smile and laugh, before giving her a hug.

So at the end of our day, having enjoyed some great art and even some cooking, Rosie started to get ready to go. I gave her some spare gear that I had brought with me, which only just fitted her due to me being tall and chubby and her being shorter and a lot thinner, the joy of age and then we were ready to go.

Now I am not averse to nubile young women holding onto me, but I will admit that this was cool for a different reason. She giggled and laughed as she got comfortable on the pillion pad before I pressed the go buttons. I swear to you that she screamed all the way down the drive way and giggled all the way to the first turn. I was being very gentle and was giving her time to get used to how a bike feels. All I could hear was excited giggling as we gently headed up the road.

Our first stop was where she phoned the home of her next client. she told them to look out for her on my bike. The client was not amused, she wanted a go on the bike too! So we headed off into the hills and made our way to the clients house. At one point we entered a section of road that has national speed limit signs and the car in front of us was travelling at barely 40. It just required a little over take and so I nipped out and back in again making progress past the slow moving car. My friend on the back was giggling and whooping as we ambled past.

Finally we arrived at the clients house, a young woman who we both know well and really enjoy working with. Technically I was finished for the day, Rosie was about to start a night shift, but just going back home seemed boring. Our clients was a little jealous of Rosie because she has been desperate for a ride on the bike ever since she first met me, how could I refuse?

Working with adults who have learning difficulties and physical disabilities is both very challenging and very rewarding work, but it is work I really enjoy. My friend and I helped our client put on her bike gear and checked her new helmet before going outside and starting the bike. She climbed on the back and we both made sure that she knew how to tell me to stop if she needed to get off. Then I pulled away and very gently performed a full circle on the road outside her house, thank the town planner for the extra wide vehicle turning area.

My new pillion hugged me tightly from behind and was looking over my right shoulder to see where we were going, I knew that she was a little scared, but she would never show it to her housemate or us support workers. So at gentle pace we set off for a short ride around town. She loved it. As we were coming home and coming across the motorway fly over, we watched a black unmarked Police Car, come racing up the slip way with blue flashing lights and tare off in pursuit of a badly driven Landrover Disco!

Once back home our client jumped off, she was in a completely different mood to the quiet, with drawn mood that we found her in. Her face was all smiles, she was bouncing along and filled with joy, just like my friend Rosie. Two very different women, with very different places in the world, now joined in a common experience of adventure.

Rosie will be having a lift again when we work together next, she loved the bike and maybe one day she will get a bike of her own. Our client though is another story, she will never be allowed to ride her own bike on the roads due to her disability, but I do not see why this should stop her having fun. So once we hit summer and the local bike nights start up again, I will be picking her up and bringing her over, so she can have a proper ride out, she can see lots of other bikes and she can meet other bikers. I know that she wants to do this and I know that she is hugely excited by the idea.

Damn, I love my job and I love riding my bike, I love it even more when the two things are combined. So folks, if any of you happen to bump into me at a bike event and I have a young woman in my care, don't be shy or dismissive of her because of her disability, she is just as much a biker as the rest of us.

Let it snow, let it snow...

Hello my dear friends, Aunty Jayne here to tell you about another little adventure in our curious lives. This one happened only yesterday and I am still cold, but what can you expect from winter in Northern Europe, which let's face it Britain is in.

So yesterday morning, I popped down to the garage and got the always fantastic Sylvie out for the blast over to Nailsea, there was the first frost of the new winter on the ground and the morning sunshine was glorious. I was wearing a thermal base layer, a thermal t-shirt, a fleece, cycling shorts, cycling tights, two pairs of socks, motorcycle trousers and over trousers. Walking was hard work, but I was toasty warm. My liner gloves and my outer gloves have given me huge hands, but inside the layers my hands can barely close around the grips anymore. However with Sylvie's precious little engine rumbling happily away, I popped her into first and rode away.

Now, I needed to fuel up and decided to stop at Sainsbury's on the way, which was a great idea because when I got there, my hands were too cold to work the fuel cap and I ended up with both hands wrapped around the exhaust system as they slowly defrosted. Once I was fueled up, came the laborious process of pulling on the outer shells again and getting ready for the motorway wind blast which must have been below zero.

Sylvie was flawless in her running, she galloped up the motorway with her usual finesse, barely working hard as we worked our way through the traffic. Even when it was that cold, she is a pleasure to ride and before long I was pulling off the motorway and onto the nice windy roads that lead to Nailsea. The final approach though was a nightmare of freezing air and a road so bumpy, it was like riding off road in the arctic! A stop for coffee and a chat and then I was off again.

From Nailsea, I took the winding road to Failand and then over to Portishead before meeting a new lad and making myself known as a fixer of computers and supplier of hard, dirty Metal. With a few plugs for the Sunday School, I began looking out of the window and then saw to my horror, snow flakes, whirling in the street lighting outside.

From Portishead to Weston is usually a short blast down the motorway, holding between fifty five and seventy, depending on which bike I am riding. With Agnes, a fifty five mile per hour cruise is just joyous, on Sylvie, a seventy MPH blast is much more fitting. However with snow howling in my face and freezing on my helmet, just getting to the motorway was a challenge. Wiping snow off of my visor was getting harder as the snow got heavier, but with the visor up, I could barely see a thing or keep my eyes open. So it was a long journey of wiping the snow drift off of my visor.

Gordano Roundabout was full of traffic, the motorway was moving very slowly and on every surface not being driven on, snow was settling, covering every blemish with a crisp clean blanket of white. The world looks so clean with a fresh coating of snow hiding the litter, dirty streets and churned up mud. I dropped down the sliproad and joined the flow of the motorway, tucking in behind a large truck. The snow was so heavy that I was wiping my visor every twenty or thirty seconds when it became too clogged to see through, my air vent filled with ice and froze up, which stopped air blowing on the inside of my visor and de-misting the double laminate. As we made progress along the road, traffic was moving at a steady forty five miles per hour and so I just sat serenely behind the truck, watching the road carefully.

Riding in snow is probably one of the most scary things I have done on a motorbike, riding pillion with a nutter who rode at 150MPH was nothing compared to this, every corner became a fear filled step into the unknown, Sylvie took it all in her stride and just kept rumbling away happily, although her temperature was reading somewhat lower than usual. Finally with hands that felt like they were cast in ice, the Weston junction came and as I prepared to turn off of the motorway, a lunatic in a Mercedes sports car, came hurtling across the three lanes of traffic, braked really hard and turned the road in front of me into a red mist with his high intensity brake lights. I had no option but to keep going and hope that he had not stopped in my path. Luckily he had decided that the line of traffic I was a part of was too slow, so had turned across the lane and pelted off ahead, only to have to brake hard for a large truck in the outside lane of the motorway exit!

I trundled off and headed up to the lights and pulled out onto a slowly freezing road, the edges of the road where white and the snow was starting to settle on the damp tarmac. Sylvie cut through the snow and just kept going, agile and sure footed as always.  The traffic was backing up again and so with a carefully made decision I headed for the Toll Road into Weston and then back home. Only once before has the Toll Road felt so long and on that occasion I was riding my mountain bike while fighting off an illness. Half way along the dark, but sheltered road I could stand it no more and almost in tears I pulled into a small layby and dismounted, the pain in my frozen hands was too much to bare and for five minutes I just knealed in the snow, resting my poor cold, gloved hands on the thin exhaust pipe, just below the exhaust can. The heat began to seep through to my hands and the bust of pain did bring a tear to my eyes.

I waited for a few minutes, the pain in my hands had subsided somewhat, but getting back on my precious Sylvie was one of the hardest choices I have ever made. Coming out of the woods, the road was a coated with snow, the going was treacherous and the wind made my whole want to shrink away. I have not been this cold since being sat on an icy belay in the lakes while winter climbing with my old friend Will the Mountain Leader. I passed by my Mother in laws house and wondered if I could take shelter from the weather, but thought better of it. I was so nearly home, I had less than a mile to go.

Pulling up outside the garage was a moment of bliss, I had made it home despite the weather. Sylvie purred on idle as once again I had my hands resting on the exhaust system just for the warmth it provided. Finally, when my hands could move once again I phoned Carol and asked her for her help in putting Sylvie away. I could not stop shivering and the ice in front of the garage was the final step for me. Between us both, we parked Sylvie up before Carol and I locked up and headed back to the warmth of the flat, a roaring fire and a got drink.

Never before have I ridden a motorbike in the snow, never before has my decision making been so important and never before have I wanted to get off and sit on the side of the road while I sobbed. Once inside my helmet was frozen shut, my jacket was soaked and the ice on the outside was starting to melt. My hands were barely able to move and Carol had to help me out of my gear, before wrapping me in my sleeping bag and leaving me on the sofa with a cup of hot chocolate. That night she cooked one of her stews, a boiling hot blend of meat and veg and never before has it tasted so good or been so warming.

In another universe somewhere, I did not make it home, another Carol was struck with the loss of me and I could almost feel the grief of that desperate soul. If every action and every possibility has it's own universe, I wonder in just how many of them I made it home?