The Little Bike That Could.

 A few days ago I made a mid-length journey to a job interview and stayed over with a friend. It took a fair whack of time and was a little more interesting than the usual tedium of my life. So I decided to see if I could get a piece of writing out of it. The following is my first attempt at something approaching a stream of consciousness, the thoughts and feelings are all pretty real and based upon how I felt in the moment, as such they may not be absolutely factually accurate, but they are true to me.  Without further ado:




I head out of the house and into the driving rain. Hurricane Katia? Nah, this is just Cumbria. In spite
of the horrendous weather the bike is gleaming, I cleaned it in autumn against my better judgement. Experience is borne out, by the first fuel stop the bike looks like it’s been dredged out of a lake, but that’s still a world away.  I fit the stuffed tank bag, packed a lot heavier than I would like but I had to shut the parents up. The bag bulges up so far that the clocks are obscured. A bad start. I try resting my chest on the bag, not the most comfortable position in the world, but at least I can see my speed now. The arbitrary 10am departure time is quickly approaching, best get going. 

The 20 mile route out to the M6 can be a lot of fun, but in this weather I take it on autopilot, the experience of hundreds of trips hustling the bike along almost without concentration. Looks like I’m not going much slower than if I was trying to press on. Oh well. The journey passes uneventfully, and Junction 41 soon looms ahead. Hammer round the roundabout, third exit, whack the throttle open, straight across into the outside lane and settle in for the next 130 miles.

As I approach Shap the matrix signs urge me to slow down. 

"No."

I start climbing to the highest point of the M6 and the gradient and headwind sap my momentum. Looks like I’ll be slowing down after all. 

More miles pass, Lancaster looms large on my left, I feel a pang in my gut. Still miss the place. Bugger. Soon enough though it’s just a speck moving around my heavily vibrating mirror. Still, I reckon its now only about 80 miles until my first fuel stop. Good, I really need to take a leak.

Around Manchester things at least perk up a little. Motorways are merging, and there are four, five, parallel lanes heading off to different destinations. Still, nothing so 'exciting' for me, just more M6, so I keep going in that straight line. I do find fleeting amusement in the signs warning of high winds. Bunch of soft southerners, the high winds are 60 miles back, this has about as much force as a gnat’s fart.

"What the fuck was that?!"

I’m ripped out of my warm smugness; the fucking van in front looks like it lost an exhaust clamp or something. Whatever it was, it just went under my front wheel. Alarm bells start going. Puncture? Flicked into the radiator? I back off a little. Miles pass, the tempature hasn't shot up, the front end doesn't feel any worse. It can't be that bad. I'm on the clock here so I open it up, aware all the time that this isn't the back-country of Cumbria and that scameras are a distinct possibility.

Soon the drudgery sets back in; more and more miles go by on motorway autopilot.

An indeterminable amount of time has passed, but at last I’m coming close to Keele services, time for a leak, food and fuel. Its 12:30, I now have less than 2 hours to get to Leicester. Shite. I learn later that at this point I'm technically ahead of schedule. Right now though, my poor knowledge of UK geography means that I'm not entirely sure that I can make it. With distance, time and speed as the variables in this calculation.  I resolve to use the only one I have control over to get my arse there on time. It just so happens that speed is the most fun too.

I fill the tank and head on out wondering if the pain in my backside is from being sat on the bike for over 2 hours, or from paying service station price for fuel. The final dribble my trip on the M6 passes quickly. J15 comes up and I'm finally in uncharted territory.

The A500 is a change of pace. There are speed limit signs posted for one thing.  I also get my first look at the legendary town of Stoke. A very young Jon had got the place mixed up with Stratford upon Avon answering a question at school; this is where my attachment to the place ends. Given this level of affinity with the spot, I proceed through, searching for the elusive roundabout to give me access to the A50.

“Was that the... fuck. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck. Bollocks”.

Well that was the junction, and I’m heading past it. Balls. Back on the M6 it is then.  I have no time to waste, J16 to J15 definitely took longer last time. I slip back onto the 500, getting another good look at Stoke, and this time, thanks to the dry run, I’m ready for the A50. That was a bit of a setback, but at least now I have nothing to worry about until the M1.

I think I’m making good time. For some reason as I descend into the midlands the speed of other traffic has come down. Back home, on any multilane road the only people doing 70 are towing caravans. But here and now, 70 would be enough to get past anyone. The tank bag is in the way of my clocks though, so god knows what I’m doing.

Ow, bad back, best shift position. Resting my chest on the tank bag helps my back but hurts my legs. A reasonable trade off.  Ah, so that’s how fast I’ve been going. Best slow it down a bit. Settle back into cruising mode: Streak up the outside lane, hammer around each roundabout, back into the outside lane.  Rinse and repeat.

The A50 rolls on fairly uneventfully until I see the sign for M1 South. I’ll take that. I notice that the M1 is busy, not congested, but definitely busy. I should’ve realised that this was a taste of things to come. I have more pressing things on my mind however. I’m definitely, gonna get my yokel arse lost in Leicester, Coventry or both. So better fuel up soon, so that’ll be one less thing to worry about. Leicester Forest East services should be around here somewhere and I can barely feel the reaming I got at the last fuel stop so best get that sorted.

Another service station and once again my objectives are a leak and fuel. Check my watch, looks like I might just make it to Leicester on time. It’s time to get going again. J21 appears in less than a mile, I head into Leicester.

My destination, British Gas, is almost depressingly easy to find. Hmmm, no parking. Fuck it, I’m parking up the side of the building. I head inside; I speak with the people who may end up being my bosses. I realise that I’m simultaneously over and under-dressed in my getup. Oh well, sod ‘em.

Fifteen minutes pass, I emerge back into the carpark. Bugger this. I have some time to kill and places to see, time to head out again. I ride into the centre of Leicester, looks nice enough, but no chance I’m going to leave a bike covered in soft luggage here. It would be to scallies what a leaving out a steak would be to a dog. I spy a sign marked Hinckley. Now we’re talking, if I get the job then that’s where I want to be living.  Cities aren’t my speed anyway. I follow the A47, a Jag decides to drag race between the lights, happy to oblige, I get him off the line but back off. I like my licence.

After a while the 47 moves out into open country, and though I am a proud northerner, I have to admit that this is really very pretty. It’s nothing like the post industrial wasteland that had characterised my previous experiences with the midlands. Beautiful countryside is completely at odds with the vision of Escape from New York that I had expected. I make a mental note: stop making midlands jokes.

That was only first blow to my preconceptions.

I arrive in Hinckley proper, I have a five minute wander and the place seems to click. I could enjoy living here. I spy a Games shop stocking titles for older consoles. I could really enjoy living here. As the bike is parked less than legally, I decide to move it. I roll up next to another biker, he tells me to move on. He’s just been ticketed. The traffic warden comes back as I start moving off, sounds like brother biker may bore him a new blowhole. 

All the way through Hinckley already? Nice, the longer I spend here the more I like it. It’s too early to head to Coventry, so I surf right round the roundabout and back in for more exploration. I like what I see. I clock the Morrisons coming up on my right; it’s time to get something to eat. I leave 10 minutes later with a sarnie, a bottle of contact lens solution and my ears ringing to the overheard comment:

“He sounds like Michael Parkinson”

I assume the woman is deaf, stupid or both.  There’s still have time to kill, I don’t want to be wandering around Cov. for too long. I decide to rectify the speedo issue and split the tank bag into its halves. I’m suddenly glad to never leave home without the bungees under the seat. The top of the tank bag becomes a tail pack, and suddenly I can read my clocks. A new problem arises, my robot pants aren’t quite generous enough around the crotch to let me kick my leg over the tail pack. Shit. I hitch them up dangerously close to manjina territory and finally, gracelessly, get on the bike, my dignity in tatters.  That debacle has at least killed enough time that I can justify heading to Coventry wherein I will find the generously offered accommodation and, almost as importantly, spend more than 20 minutes out of the saddle. 

The third motorway of my journey is even less eventful than the first two; at least the M69 is simple though. It transforms into the A46 and I get my first look at true congestion. Oh hell. Note to self, when I next hear my Dad complain about traffic jams at home, tell him to STFU, nothing ever in Cumbria has ever been congestion. Ever. Two minutes of waiting and the reticence about filtering I’ve grown after finishing uni evaporates. Well that, combined with watching lardy Pan Euro going up the middle of the traffic.

“If he can get that through there, the fuck am I doing waiting?!”

I clear the “pocket” of congestion and traffic starts flowing again. The names of roads change, I keep heading forwards. The shame comes. It starts out gradually, rising until it’s unbearable; I’m gawping at everything like a fucking redneck. And that’s exactly what I am. I try to rationalise it, but it’s a futile attempt. The lights turn green and my immediate problems push the self loathing out of my head.

“Where the fuck am I meant to be going?”

I look at my directions, they say head right, a road sign fast approaching says left. My confidence lapses. I go with the sign. A mistake. Stupid yokel done got himself lost in the big city. I head into a residential street to get my bearings. Pull out the phone, check Google maps. The directions were right. I should’ve trusted my gut, it’s big enough. It seems a simple enough job to get where I need to be though. I return to the main road. This time I get it right. I’m on the street I need to be on. This should not have been the hard part, but it is. Ten to fifteen agonising minutes of looking and questioning pass. Then finally, I’m brought in.

What followed was probably the nicest, most welcoming, stay away from home I’ve ever had. However, it has no place in this story.

“Dawn of the second day.”

I hate that stupid mechanic in Majora’s Mask but it’s stuck in my damn head and seems like it always will be. More pressingly I’ve just got up... need coffee. I can’t just wander around in my underwear grunting like a normal morning. Fuck it. Get dressed. The need to be polite overrules my inability to do mornings. Mental capacity is impaired enough that I cannot feel awkward and worry about my interview simultaneously. So I just feel awkward and ill. Oh well.

It’s a beautiful morning, I leave feeling positive. That warm fuzzy feeling. It lasts; ooh, all of 5 minutes until I take a wrong turn. It seems here, like home, they assume that everyone is a local and obviously nobody would need the markings on the road to help them get in lane, so as such, they just let ‘em wear off. It’s bad enough in Carlisle where there are two or three lanes, horrific in a place where there seems to be, like, 6 lanes and I have no local knowledge. At least today I have some time, so I place trust in my sense of direction. It pays off; I get back on the outer ring. Well that’s what I think it is. Later I see a map and realise I’m talking bollocks. The bike is a godsend in this environment; filtering and fast acceleration let me change lanes at any time, almost irrespective of traffic. I decide that this is the best way to explore a new city.

Traffic is surprisingly quiet; I must have missed the commuter rush. That’s nice, but I have a new concern, it may be a nice day, but it’s around 9am in September. I’ve also taken the thermal linings out of my bike gear to get my suit underneath. So it’s getting a bit fresh, especially below the equator. Oh well, if it was all fun and games every bastard would be doing it. I concentrate on pressing on. The A46 and M69 pass in a blur. This time I know exactly what I’m doing. Feels odd.

To kill time I head into Fosse Park based on a tip. I realise that I don’t have any money and I’m not in the mood to window shop. Straight back out it is then. I may as well head to British Gas. I don’t even need to look at the directions this time. I know what I’m doing, like a boss.

On the way in I scan the left, see the Hein Gericke store. I pull into the customer parking.  I have some breakfast and feel glad I was convinced to take food. It's 45 minutes ‘til the interview, a call comes in with some words of wisdom. 35 minutes to the interview. Luckily I’m still too tired to be self conscious. I strip off my overtrousers. I have my suit trousers underneath, that’s a plus. The tie goes on, as does the interview footwear. A long subconscious sigh sneaks out, no point putting it off any longer, time to return to the lion’s den.

I must look like a complete berk on the bike dressed like this. No different from usual then. About half a mile of chilly riding gets me to the office, again. I take the bike to the bottom of the car park. I find space but it’s not a bay.  Screw it, they can’t clamp a bike. Another voice chirps up.

“They may have the technology”

I decide to ignore the voice, probably for the best. My body suddenly seems very heavy; it takes more effort than it should to heave myself of the bike. I muse briefly if it’s the feeling of the weight of reality crashing down. Crush the thoughts; this is no time to be an intellectual ponce.

I pull the suit jacket out of the top box, grab my documents. Give my hair a quick comb in the bike mirror, more to calm my nerves than for anything else. I look like a bouncer in this suit anyway; no amount of preening will fix that.  Deep breath.

“Once more unto the breach”

12:50. I walk out. I know in my gut that I haven’t got it. I’m not really bothered; don’t think I’m enough of a bastard to do it anyway. Now I just want to get out of here. Fifteen more minutes of dicking about in the carpark and I’m ready to go. I go back the way I came, onto the M1 northbound this time. I head to Leicester Forest East services once again for yet another round of food, fuel and leak.  

I buy my first fast food in 8 months and wolf it down in the carpark. I immediately remember why it had been over 3 years since I’d last been to Burger King. Sticky, greasy and bland. Pity, because I could really go for a decent burger. Enough messing around, it’s 2pm now, if I leave now my ETA is just back of 6. Feeling appropriately disgusting inside, I roll over to the pumps for hopefully my last wallet emptying service station refill.  

Right; tank filled; plugs in; lid and gloves on. Let’s rock.

The M1 and A50 pass quickly without any events of note. It seems like the trip home from anywhere always passes quicker than the journey out. I reflect a little on life, now safe to be an intellectual ponce in the sealed bubble of my lid. I realise that the closer I get to home the more of my inertia returns. Yesterday had been the first time I’d spoken to a friend in person in almost 3 months. I had spent the day feeling aware, independent and alive. Even if it was only a 250 mile trip, I had, in some small way, felt true agency over my life for the first time since the job rejections had started coming in. Now the lead is pulling taut and I am being dragged back where I belong. Out of sight and out of mind, with the other failures.

I crush the brooding. I need to concentrate. Easy to do. I remember Lee Parks calling riding the lazy man’s zen. True enough. I wish that I won’t have to stop, that I can just ride from place to place, from person to person. Not going to happen. The inner pragmatist finally smacks the romantic over the head with a steel chair. It slinks off back into the shadows, behind the mask, where it belongs.

I come off the 50 onto the 500. The weather is starting to turn. Stoke is looking dreary, well more dreary. I predict that the weather will get worse later. I’m right.  The 500 merges onto the M6. My legs are starting to ache a little. I just came on at what? 16? And Lancaster is 32 or 33. I think. Glance at the trip meter. I want to be fuelling up around 150 to be safe. I should make it to Lancaster before reserve. Hmmm, but I have spent the last 80 miles about 2/3 up the rev range. Stop worrying, have faith in the bike. 

The weather gets colder, the clouds gradually thicker and my right leg really aches. Still, the miles keep tumbling. The names on the signs get more familiar. I pass Manchester almost without noticing. All the motorway mergers that had caught my attention on the way down, now almost go unnoticed. Save for me noticing that I almost didn’t notice.

As I pass Preston I get the feeling of passing into home territory. I feel a sort of bittersweet relief. This potential for emotional bullshit is thankfully truncated by the pressing matter of if I’ll reach my next planned fuel stop or if I’ll have to bite the bullet and stop short at Forton services.

“Was that a stutter? Am I losing power?”

Fuck it, on to reserve just to be safe... can’t risk fuel cutting out whilst trying to overtake.

10 miles from Junction 33 the weather finally breaks. Visibility falls to around 50 meters. I am also rudely made aware that the only bits of gear I hadn’t remembered to waterproof are my gloves. I turn the heated grips up to max. I can just about feel my fingers. It’s my own fault for not wearing my proper winter gloves.

I’m glad of the chance to get off of the motorway, but I don’t recognise this. Have I got it wrong? Somehow? Five tense seconds pass. Ah. I may have used this junction loads of times, but only from the North. Yep, this is right. The ride up to Galgate brings a wave of nostalgia. I should be too young for nostalgia and it’s also only been three months, Jesus.

There’s a line of traffic virtually all the way into Lancaster. Adorable. I carve my way up it fairly quickly, glad of the newfound confidence to do so.

With my final fill up done at a slightly less ridiculous price, I relocate the bike to Halford’s carpark. I know that it’ll be empty and it isn’t too far out of the way. I phone home to say the weather will slow me down. If it’s this bad here, I’m expecting a biblical flood up at home. Nobody is in. I leave a message. When I get back I’ll discover that nobody got it. Charming.

I decide that conditions look too bad to hustle up as fast as I normally would.  I end up doing it anyway.  In spite of the weather, the ache in my leg is my most pressing concern. In response I flip down the pillion pegs. I have a plan. Final preparation for the last leg is to bust out the mp3 player. I normally avoid music on the bike, it impedes concentration. At this point though I’m cold, wet, and about to repeat a journey I’ve done more times than I can remember. Ah, Devo’s Greatest Hits, I’d used this to help get to sleep the night before. It should keep me calm and slow. It doesn’t.

I accelerate hard out onto the motorway and I climb up through the box, after slotting the old girl into sixth I settle into the spirited cruise. I lie down on the tank and hoist my legs up onto the pillion pegs. No different from having highway pegs on a cruiser really. The shift in riding position works. I get a few funny gestures from oncoming bikers, I can’t change gear immediately and I can’t reach my back brake, but damnit I’m comfortable. So comfortable, that I make a mental note to search for rearsets when I get home.

The standard cut and thrust of the motorway continues unabated. Traffic is really starting to get sparse and quick now. There are some things I really do love about Cumbria. Still, my thoughts of this being just another boring motorway trip are cut off as I come over Shap.

...It’s sunny. Very sunny. It looks like the motherland was using up part of her tight quota of sunny days to welcome her boy home. It’s also very pretty. It looks like a fantasy landscape; other people can keep their awe at the vistas from the Lord of the Rings. This is my favourite landscape. It looks like this run home won’t be so bad after all.

My gratifying, rather than depressing, gawping over, the motorway journey runs its course and I finally make it to the home straight. The twisting, undulating, home straight. I have five-ish songs left, and twenty sun drenched B Road miles to do. A challenge emerges. I remember another reason why I don’t listen to music on the bike.

I slam off the roundabout, taking two cars in the process. No point in shifting beyond fifth, I need the engine revving freely. Even after all the long, tiring, motorway miles I feel awake once again. The yawns subside and I’m fully on it. The restricted performance of the bike is becoming a noticeable limiting factor. A few hours later, in retrospect, this will worry me. Right now it’s a minor annoyance. Whilst hustling the bike along, I see a sign telling me I have seven miles to go. Seven winding miles and two-ish songs left. This is going to take a miracle. I have a bike. Close enough.

I know I’m being stupid, but I also know this road and I know this bike. Most vitally, I know that it can be done. I break as late as possible before the 30 limit, the forks dive. It would be silly to lose the front and wipe out now. It doesn’t happen.

I take the final turns up into the estate like a saint and roll up outside the garage with the final chants of “We must repeat, D-E-V-O” ringing in my ears. I’m home. I’ve won my own arbitrary challenge. I feel stupidly proud. Later I’ll realise the extent to which it’s been a long, tiring, fun and fascinating trip. Right now, all I can think about is a strong cup of coffee and a pee, in that order.