Riding Motorcycles In Britain

(Originally published on Motorcycle.com)

Forget the Frogs, the UK is best for motorcycling

Not too long ago Tod Rafferty wrote a piece for Motorcycle.com in which he intimated that France is the best country for motorcyclists. As a resident of the country that is France’s oldest and closest enemy, I feel I am duty-bound to inform you that, with all due respect to Tod, his assertion is codswallop.

Yes, codswallop. Tommyrot. Poppycock. Flapdoodle. I’m sorry to use such strong language. But if you’re anywhere east of the Atlantic Ocean, it’s Her Majesty’s United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland you want to be visiting. Britain is home to civilised riding. That's civilised with a 'S,' thank you.

I’m from America, but have lived in the UK –– in Wales, specifically –– for roughly a decade. I often pine for Minnesota thunderstorms and Texas cooking, but one thing that keeps me from going back home is knowing how much I’ll miss motorcycling here.

Germany (or possibly the United States) may be able to claim to have made the first motorcycle, but the UK is the country that made motorcycling. Triumph, Norton, Vincent, Brough Superior, and dozens of other great names. The rockers (and mods), the ton-up boys, the Isle of Man TT heroes, and adventurers like Ted Simon, Elspeth Beard, and, of course, Ewan McGregor and Charlie Boorman. Eric Gardner, the man who invented the crash helmet. Geoff Duke, the first man to wear a one-piece leather racing suit. Café racers and streetfighters. It all started here. 

Motorcycling runs in British blood. It is a part of the people’s history, a part of their present, and, as roads grow ever more congested, very much a part of their future. Just last month, MO reported sales of commuter-sized bikes are at an all-time high in the UK. That’s not surprising. I’ve driven in Houston, Los Angeles, Boston and Manhattan, and I assure you: no American has seen traffic congestion of the sort experienced in London or Manchester. Motorcycles are allowed to filter (a.k.a., lane split) in the UK, which means they are generally the best way to ensure you’ll show up on time.

Additionally, a motorcycle-friendly culture means toll roads are often free or discounted. In most cities, motorcyclists are allowed to use bus lanes. Parking lots and parking garages usually have allocated free spaces for motorcycles, and many offer locks and helmet storage.

Police enforcement of speed limits is rare, and on the occasion officers do post themselves roadside they take a relaxed view, disinclined to stop anyone going less than 30 mph over the limit. By and large, though, authorities leave speed enforcement to our machine overlords. Around cities, radar cameras are the scourge of British motorways (a.k.a. “freeways”), but the good news is: those cameras are almost all forward-facing. A motorcycle has no forward plate.

Meanwhile, the good ol’ British punk spirit means many cameras will be damaged –– lenses smashed or spraypainted –– by locals who hate them more than you. Especially in parts of Scotland and Wales where nationalists see rules as a form of English oppression.

Outside of urban areas, roads are generally free flowing. Off the beaten path, Britain’s narrow B roads and country lanes make it seem as if it was built for motorcyclists. In truth, it was built for horses and carts by Roman soldiers; it’s simply that no one since has put in effort to widen the roads. In my wife’s native Devon, roads leading to her father’s house are so narrow that hedgerows scrape both sides of a car.

It’s a situation that plays to a motorcycle’s size, allowing you to explore nooks and crannies that are effectively inaccessible to cars. Well, assuming your motorcycle is set up with good suspension. There’s a reason the BMW R1200GS (including the GSA) is the best-selling big bike in Britain. Followed closely by the Yamaha FJ-09 (known as the MT-09 Tracer over here). The country’s best-selling Suzuki (V-Strom 1000) and Triumph (Tiger 800) are also adventure-styled.

That’s not to say all the roads are awful. Routes known as “A roads” are generally in good condition and offer plenty of opportunity for engaging and spirited riding. FYI, “spirited” is British motorcycling code for “in excess of the speed limit.” Especially in Scotland in Wales.

One of the real advantages of British geography is the fact this place is so small. Run top to bottom (John o’ Groats to Land’s End) in less than a day and you’ll still need to ride a quarter of the way back to earn an Iron Butt badge. So, everything is close. Long, boring, tire-squaring rides on the interstate aren’t necessary for great riding.

Okay, it’s true what they say about the weather. It rains. If you’re one of those people who refuses to ride in the wet, you should probably stay in Arizona. The good news is that, except in winter, it doesn’t tend to rain very heavily or for very long. Besides, wearing waterproof gear isn’t uncomfortable because temperatures rarely exceed 75º F. Every few years we’ll get a day in July that hits 90º F and they treat it with the same sense of alarm and confusion as Houstonians do snow: cancelling school, closing offices, panic-buying things from grocery stores, etc.

In the case of Britons, though, the thing they’re buying is booze. This speaks to an aspect of Britain that helps one overcome the wet weather, an aspect that makes this such a great country to ride in: British people. Quirky, irreverent, foul-mouthed and quick-witted, they are a people who know how to have fun. British motorcyclists in particular.

Moto-journalism legend John Burns has written a few times about the feeling of asking oneself: “Why doesn’t somebody take this thing away from me?” The feeling that we motorcyclists are somehow pulling off a great trick on the universe, that we’re getting away with something: “Whee! Somebody’s slapped some wheels on this metal box of explosions and I’m going to sit on it! Ha-ha!”

That spirit is strong in British riders. They are mischievous and silly, and happy in their silliness. We Americans often feel need to make what we do seem more important than it is; we don’t just go on a group ride, we Ride in Support of America’s Warrior Heroes. You don’t tend to see that sort of thing here. Britons possess a sense of adventure that they don’t seek to justify or rationalize. After all, it was a Brit, George Mallory, who said he wanted to climb Mount Everest simply “because it’s there.”

I can give you plenty of reasons to come to Britain. Americans are generally well-liked. Everyone speaks English (though, the Welsh appreciate when you use the greeting: “S’mae”). Drivers are better than those found in California, Italy or Spain. You can’t drop a bike without hitting some historical something or other. The food is far better than some would lead you to believe, especially if you like pork. And the quality of the ale will help you not care either way.

But the real reason, of course, is simply that it’s here. It’s odd and it’s beautiful, but most importantly –– and they’ve fought wars to prove this –– it’s better than France.

ADSENSE HERE

Europe 2015 pt. VI: Penarth to the Black Forest

If you haven't already seen from my Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr or G+ feeds, RideApart has published the first part of my road trip to Italy.

I have visions of one day going back and writing up an extended version of the whole trip, but, honestly that sort of thing might bore you to tears. There are times when the editorial confines of professional writing are of benefit to the reader.

I'm working on a second part at the moment and that will be published on RideApart soon. As is always the case when I link to stories I've written on RideApart, if you have any comments please make them there. That way the site editors will be duped into thinking I'm brilliant and that I'm worth what they pay me.

ADSENSE HERE

Join us

British weather is proof that there is a God and that he does not like you. When you are caught in the middle of some interminable squall, the misery is just too great for such phenomena to be random. No; a higher power crafted this. Some great and awesome mind invested tremendous time and effort fine tuning every tiny aspect to ensure maximum displeasure. 

Sitting in my living room that morning, prolonging breakfast for as long as I could, I had known it would be awful. Now, narrowly skirting yet another completely distracted driver on the A4232, I realised I had underestimated just how great the potential for this ride to suck.

My bike was due its 16,000-mile service and I was on my way to Fowler's of Bristol. The 16K service is the biggest one as far as the Honda CBF600SA is concerned, and committing to having it done is inherently an act of committing yourself to the bike for a good while longer. It's like paying for your wife to have breast implants. You don't fork over that kind of money for the sake of someone else reaping the benefit.

After weeks of actually nice early-autumn conditions the weather had turned brutal overnight. High winds shook everything that weighed less than a building, and splatty cold rain worked its magic -- obscuring visibility and seeping into the clothing I had failed to re-waterproof after my trip to Scotland. 

It was all too much for many of my fellow road users. Despite the fact they live on an island that is world famous for having crappy weather, they drove as if having never before encountered wet conditions. On the A4232, a car in the lane to my left suddenly slammed on its brakes for no discernible reason, throwing itself into a skid. On Newport Road a car drifted back and forth across three lanes of traffic. On the slip road ("entrance ramp," for those of you playing along at home) to the A48, some cars attempting to join the hardly-moving flow of traffic had managed to position themselves sideways.

Typical traffic on M4 between Cardiff and Bristol

It is in moments like these that you realise the complete breakdown of society is never really so far away. But, hey, at least human kindness will persist. I found a surprising amount of it as I weaved my way down the A48 and onto the M4. Traffic was completely stopped at some points, moving at a snail's pace at others, so I took advantage of my right to filter through it -- easing the Honda down a narrow corridor between the endless rows of cars and vans and lorries. Many drivers spotted me and shifted their vehicles to allow a wider gap.

In the 48 miles between Penarth and Fowler's I'll bet I was filtering at least 70 percent of the time. Mile after mile after mile after mile of slipping past immobile cars. When you do this, you feel shocked and empathetically sad for the drivers who put themselves through such frustration just to get to work. Part of me wanted to stop and evangelise. Tap on their windows and say: "Hey, do you not see what I'm doing here? See how I'm getting places and you're not? Stop doing this to yourself. Stop living this miserable car-bound life. Join me on two wheels."

Attempting to testify in this weather would have been a challenge, though. And to that end, I was perhaps fortunate to be stuck in a filtering situation. Moving slowly through rows of giant metal windbreaks was helping protect me from the worst of the gale-force winds. I didn't realise this until things loosened up and I sped toward the Severn Bridge.

"RHYBUDD: CYFLYRAU GYRRU PERYGLUS" blinked a highway sign. (Warning: dangerous driving conditions.)

"No shit," I muttered, as the wind bounced me around in my lane and rain splattered my visor with an audible clack-clack-clack.

When we had still been stuck in heavy traffic, a small caravan of motorcyclists had formed -- about eight of us moving through the filtering corridor, taking turns as leader. Now, as speeds picked up everyone was spacing out, each taking a lane to him- or herself and settling into individual cruising speeds. A litre-sized CBR had long ago shot off. Everyone else was moving away from me at a more leisurely pace (You can take the boy out of America but you can't take the America out of the boy; I have a lot of trouble ignoring speed limits as flagrantly as Brits do).

The Severn Bridge on a good day

The Severn Bridge is a 1-mile span that soars above the wide and tumultuous mouth of the River Severn as it becomes the Bristol Channel. Crossing it is always a bit of an experience because of high winds, especially if you are sitting atop a 600cc dandy horse.

As the road arced toward mudflats and the straight approach to the bridge, the first truly brutal gusts hit us. I saw the bikes in front of me wobble a tiny, tiny bit against the wind blast. Then, the riders visibly taking in deep breaths of resignation, tucking in and throttling forward. Once more unto the breach, dear friends.

I did the same, laying my chest on my tank bag and bringing my elbows in. I moved to the middle of three lanes to give myself some hope of avoiding trouble should I be blown completely out of my lane -- the other lanes had guardrails to punish me if I drifted too far. 

And, indeed, at one point I did drift too far. Jostling to get out of the turbulence coming off a cattle truck, I was slammed by a gust right as I moved past the giant, stinking vehicle. My bike heaved right and slipped across the dotted white lines into the next lane. Pitched at a 30-degree angle I fought against the gust to get back into my own lane. As I hit the white lines at that angle, my tires wobbled a little before finding better grip. 

It all happened too quickly to be scared. But as my brain processed what had just happened I realised that the driver of a large white van into whose lane I had accidentally flown must have sensed such a thing might happen. He had held back as I passed the cattle truck. And now he chose to straddle his and my lane, using the mass of his vehicle to block other cars from riding up on me, thereby eliminating a lot of stress.

I kept my tuck and shouted out "Thank you" as loud as I could, hoping he could somehow sense that I was saying it and how much I meant it. With him and the cattle truck effectively covering my six, I made it the made it the rest of the way across the bridge without incident. As we came off the bridge and into the wind-blocking hillocks of the English side of the river, I dropped into the slow lane, sat up a bit and waited for the van to come alongside. I saluted. He gave a thumb's up and sped off.

A few minutes later I was on the M32 and back in the "safety" of filtering through Bristol rush hour traffic. Weaving onto the surface streets and through the incongruous maze of Bristol city centre I felt alive and excited. The city was vibrant. Everything was moving. Rain was falling -- heavily enough that I could hear it on my helmet -- but lightly enough that everything was clear.

Bristol is about triple the size of Cardiff and infinitely more cosmopolitan in its mindset. So, I wasn't the only one filtering, nor was there just a single filtering corridor. Between all the cars ran flowing streams of motorcycles, scooters and bicyclists. Trickling through Cabot Circus I caught glimpse of a woman in a red Volkswagen Golf, its windows fogged on the edges by conditions. You have never seen a woman looking more miserable. Not sad or grief-stricken or angry or upset, just miserable. Flat out 20-foot-thick misery.

I felt so badly for her. And for all these other people trapped in their cars, trapped doing this every single day -- year after year. I wanted so much to let her know things didn't have to be like this. I wanted to tap on her window and say: "Hey, do you not see what I'm doing here? Stop doing this to yourself. Stop living this miserable car-bound life. Join me on two wheels."

____________________

ADSENSE HERE

The forgotten names

How many have you heard of?

• Abingdon 
• Advance 
• AJS 
• Ariel 
• Arno 
• BAT 
• Beardmore 
• Beeston 
• Brough Superior
• BSA
• Centaur
• Chater-Lea
• Clyno
• Cotton
• Coventry Eagle
• CTS
• Douglas
• Excelsior
• Garrard
• Greeves
• Grigg
• Grindlay Peerless
• Humber
• Hyde
• Invicta
• James
• Lea Francis
• Levis
• Marsh
• Martinsyde
• Matchless
• Minerva
• Montgomery
• N.U.T.
• New Comet
• New Imperial
• NLG
• Norman
• Norton
• NVT
• OEC
• OK Bradshaw
• OK Supreme
• Panther
• Quadrant
• Rex
• Reynolds
• Rover
• Royal Enfield
• Rudge Whitworth
• Scott
• Singer
• Sunbeam
• Triumph
• Velocette
• Vincent
• Wilkinson Sword
• Wooler
• Zenith

This is Part III of my Yorkshire Dales trip.

–– Click here to read Part I

–– Click here to read Part II

I was up early on the trip's final day. Showered and with all my gear packed before breakfast, I was keen to be on the road by 9 a.m.  Because I ended up fussing over my tank bag, however, actual departure time was on the lateish side of 9:30.

I have an Oxford X30 magnetic tank bag, which is a damned useful bit of kit but for the fact that it causes paint damage. I'll write a full review at some point in the future but I can tell you simply the bag is so useful that even when it starts making tiny little scratches on your tank you'll find it difficult to replace. All those pockets come in handy.

On the way up to Yorkshire I had strapped it instead to the rear rack. That removed some of the bag's functionality (e.g., I couldn't just pull to the side of the road and dig out a map or bottle of water without getting off the bike) but I thought it worth it for the sake of my paint job. At the end of that day's ride, however, I noticed the bag had shifted to the left quite a bit, despite being held down by a number of bungee cords.

Because I was using the Oxford X30 to carry my laptop, I found myself fretting too much when packing up for the ride back. Better to suffer scratched paint than the loss of a MacBook, I decided. Though it took me half an hour to make that decision.

Yorkshire Dales

Finally on the road, I learned Yorkshire Dales National Park on a weekday is absolutely one of the best places in Britain to ride. The roads were perfect and so quiet I was able to loop back and re-run certain sections, pushing my skills while staying within my comfort zone. 

For instance, I found a great section of switchback curves that I initially hit at about 45 mph. Traffic was non-existent, so I was able to go back and do the section again and again, slowly working up to taking it at 60 mph.

After a while I made my way out of the country roads to the bustle of Leeds, stopping to check out one of the physical shops for GetGeared, sort of a UK version of Revzilla. In my head, this shop was going to be ginormous and burgeoning with the toys and accoutrements of motorcycling –– a place where I could see and touch all the things that are sold on the GetGeared site. But, of course, it wasn't. 

That's sort of the way with motorcycling, isn't it? Or, at least, that's sort of the way with motorcycling in the UK. You have to downscale your expectations. Things are never as big or as flashy as you want to be.

You go to a Sideburn event hoping for Wheels & Waves, but instead find it's just four dudes drinking cider next to a rat rod Harley. You go to a bike show picturing food vendors and rock bands and custom bikes and revelry, but instead it's just a dozen rollie-smoking middle-aged blokes in worn-out leather onesies eating bacon sandwiches and prodding Ninjas with all the enthusiasm and cheer of a wet cat. You go to the brick-and-mortar location of a large internet retailer imagining an endless wonderland of goods, but instead it's just a dusty shop in an industrial estate.

I looked at a few bags, bought a new pair of riding sunglasses for £14, and got back on the road.

The northern trunk of England is split by the Pennines, a mountain range of sorts oft referred to as the "backbone of England." The main transportation arteries in that part of the country run on either side. Dropping to Leeds and thereby following the eastern route home had tacked on an additional 20 miles to my journey home but I didn't have anywhere particular to be and it's always nice to see someplace new.

National Motorcycle Museum

Plus, this route took me past the National Motorcycle Museum –– a place I've been wanting to visit for a while. I've mentioned before that Britain has an incredibly rich motorcycle past, and that I find it sad so little of that spirit is felt in the modern era. The British archipelago was once home to hundreds of motorcycle manufacturers, and their products were an integral part of life here. From the Isle of Man TT to the ton-up boys, the motorcycle was for many decades intrinsic to the British character.

Take a look at the names listed on the right side of this post. They are the bike manufacturers you will find represented at the National Motorcycle Museum –– still only some of the names from the United Kingdom's amazing and largely forgotten motorcycling past.

I was excited to go to the museum to see these machines and learn their history, to learn more about the culture in which they existed (What factors led to the UK having so many motorcycle manufacturers? Why wasn't there a similar culture in the United States?), and the people of that culture. I wanted to learn about the ton-up boys, the rockers, the mods, the road racers, the war dispatch riders, the butlers on Royal Enfields, the fiery socialists who would speed from rally to rally, the wild poets who would fly down country lanes. These are all tales that I have heard pieces of, tales that have been features of greater tales, but not tales in and of themselves.

1934 New Imperial

I imagined spending all day at the motorcycle museum, getting lost in the story of each bike. But remember a few paragraphs ago when I was talking about downscaling expectations?

Yeah. That.

The National Motorcycle Museum is squeezed into a building that appears to be an abandoned Holiday Inn. Taking up three large conference rooms of this "hotel" is a great mass of bikes that are placed within inches of each other, the overall effect being that everything just sort of blurs together. The bikes feel more as if in storage rather than on display, with single sheets of paper identifying them. In most cases, these sheets of paper offer only the make, model, year and engine size of the bike –– no information about the bike's significance or history is given.

Basically, the National Motorcycle Museum is just a collection of things. There is almost no interpretation. A good example of this was the CTS motorcycle Robin Jac had ridden in the Isle of Man. I only knew it was his bike because on the seat had been placed a copy of Y Fellten Goch, the Welsh-language book about him.

1938 OEC

Robin Jac was an absolute nutcase who used to spray paint his racing leathers red and smoke cigarettes whilst racing. But what visitor to the National Motorcycle Museum –– located in  Birmingham, in the heart of England –– would know that? I'll bet the number of Welsh speakers who visit each year could be counted on one hand.

You could create an entire interpretive display around Robin Jac's motorcycle and the character who rode it. Pictures, perhaps video, and some text telling of his wilder adventures (such as the fact that he used to practice for the Isle of Man TT by screaming down public mountain roads in Snowdonia National Park). And that's just one bike among hundreds.

Within the National Motorcycle Museum there exists incredible potential for rich and fascinating storytelling. Thousands of tales are right there to inspire and excite the imagination. But as is, the museum is just a big warehouse full of oily old pieces of metal. Three rooms full of forgotten names. It is a great disappointment and not really worth the £9 admission price.

1932 Panther

On the floor above the museum I found a balcony where I sat and ate some food I had packed in the morning. Looking out across the car park, I saw two motorbikes trundling up, both dirty from the road and absolutely weighed down with gear. One was considerably older and rougher than the other, though: placing its rider in a cafe racer position, spitting smoke and growling its way through the car park.

I watched as the riders parked, dismounted and walked toward the museum to experience its disappointment for themselves. I tried to get my things together quickly enough to meet them downstairs and ask about their bikes but was too slow. Truthfully, though, one part of me was happy with this, though, because it meant I could scrutinise their bikes more closely, without worrying that I was making the owners uncomfortable by standing too close or paying too much attention to this or that aspect.

Arriving at the bikes, I could tell said owners would not have given a damn about my having a look. Both machines wore the black-and-silver number plates of a classic motorcycle. One was a late 80s Honda Revere, though: a 650-cc shaft driven lump of ugly that I personally feel fudges the definition of "classic." No doubt, the damned thing will continue to run for the next century, until it really is a classic.

Moving history

Next to it was a ridden-hard Triton. I mean, it had really been ridden hard. The air-cooled engine still tink-tinking with heat, it had already marked its territory with a few drops of oil. The rider had wrapped the grips in gaffer tape, with a dowel rod being taped to the throttle to serve as a homemade cramp buster. The tank was dented, the pipes were rusted, and it was clear the only time the thing saw cleaning was when it rained. But this bike told more of a story than any of those I had seen in the museum.

Walking back to my own bike I saw it now in a slightly different light. It's a workhorse is my Honda CBF600 SA. She's not sexy, she's not terribly fast, but she goes and goes and goes, and she takes me where I want to be. Maybe that's what I want right now. Or, at least, what I should be thankful for right now.

Sure, a BMW F800GT might do it better, an Indian Scout would definitely do it with more style, but the Honda is what I have. And the point of a bike is not for it to be just something to look at, to be something to put in a museum and have serve as a lifeless example of what a motorcycle looks like. The point is that it takes you places; it's the research tool for all the stories you'll tell.

The story I wanted to tell now, though, was one of being home, back in Penarth with Jenn. I covered the last 120 miles of my ride as quickly as I could, finding light traffic on the M50 and only stopping once to pee.

With the NATO summit now just days away, the area between Newport and Cardiff was crawling with security. Police officers were stationed on every single bridge that crossed the M4. But this somehow resulted in a more steady flow. It turns out all those traffic planners are right: if people would just stick to a consistent speed we really would get places faster.

A short while later, the sun was starting to set as I washed the bugs off my bike. I oiled the chain and went through my usual post-ride ritual of checking fluids and spraying bits with WD-40 to help keep away rust. The engine still had a tiny bit of warmth as I pulled on the bike's heavy cover.

"You're alright, girl," I said aloud to the bike. "Thanks for taking me on adventures."

ADSENSE HERE

Ay up

A stone wall near Grassington

This is Part 2 of my Yorkshire Dales trip. To read Part 1 click here.

One of the strange aspects of British life is that all 64 million of us are crammed into a space no larger than the state of Oregon, but getting around in that space takes an excruciatingly long time. And it feels even longer. As I've said before, the best way to think about it is to add a 0 to whatever distance you intend to travel. So, this 260-mile ride to Yorkshire Dales National Park felt like one that was 2,600 miles long.

By the time I had escaped the northern reaches of Birmingham I was stupid with boredom. Traffic had been slowed to 50 mph thanks to congestion and roadworks. The flow of traffic was steady, so putt-putting along at about 4,000 rpm was doing wonders for my fuel consumption, but it was heavy enough I could not take my eyes off the road. I wasn't able to look at the surrounding countryside, just the Land Rover ahead of me, the impatient Audi behind me, and the various cars we passed as we put faith in the "10% + 6" equation (a).

My knees were aching again and I was having that particularly male issue in which "the boys" refuse to settle. If you are female and don't know what I'm talking about, don't read that sexually. It simply means I was uncomfortable. Doing a full stand-grab-and-adjust manoeuvre is difficult and dangerous when travelling at speed and wearing full gear, so I was left to constantly shift around on my seat.

To keep my mind occupied I had "conversations" with drivers and passengers in the cars around me. They couldn't hear me, obviously, because I was talking in a normal voice with a helmet on and their windows were up.

Also, I spent quite a lot of time wondering whether this trip would be more enjoyable if I were on a BMW F800GT. Or perhaps an R1200RT. A number of the cops I had passed earlier in my journey had been on R1200s and had looked pretty cool. Sure, those things are stupid wide but they have a real presence on the road. And I bet they're a hell of a lot of fun. I bet, too, they'd be more comfortable for Jenn than my existing bike.

This led to the inevitable lament of my not being able to even imagine a time when I could afford such a bike. Jenn and I are severely strapped for cash these days and I've had to dip into some of the savings that I was slowly, slowly accumulating toward a new bike. I try to take solace in the fact that my Honda is still relatively low mileage and is, after all, a Honda. Which means I can continue to ride the thing until Jesus comes back. But that doesn't satiate the emotional need for a new bike. I want a garage full of bikes and I want it now.

Back in the real universe, I pushed on into Lancashire before stopping. Increasingly, I find the north is my favourite part of England. The accents strike me as more engaging than in many other parts of England and Wales –– you enjoy just listening to people speak –– and there are often semi-poetic turns of phrase, such as, "T'wer like suppin' lead," to describe something as difficult.

If you like narrow streets you'll love the Yorkshire Dales.

At Charnock Richard motorway services I supped hot chocolate and put away a piece of lemon cake Jenn had sent along with me. In the last few miles before stopping I had been able to pick up speed and again my right arm had been hurting. I thought of Curt Carter's recent post, posing the question no motorcyclist really wants to consider –– How long will I be able to ride? –– and that again kicked up thoughts about all the different bikes I wish I owned.

I often feel a sense of urgency toward motorcycling: I need to go everywhere now; I need to ride all the bikes now. This comes as a result of my having gotten into things so late. Though I've had my motorcycle endorsement since I was 18, I didn't really start riding until I was 36. Optimistically, that gives me a roughly 40-year riding career, maybe 50 if I stay lithe, keep my brain active and can one day manage to convince myself that a Can-Am Spyder is cool. I guess that's a decent amount of time, but it doesn't feel enough. I lament the 20 years in which I could have been riding but did not.

Back on the road, I was soon zipping along the delightfully open space of the M65. Near Burnley, a Volkswagen Polo came up hard behind me in the fast lane, flashing its lights as it approached. I shifted left (into the slow lane here in the UK) and nodded at the car to go on by. As I did this, though, I twisted the throttle and kept pace. I looked over at the driver and nodded again, as if to say, "No, really, go ahead," and again accelerated to keep pace. I did this a few more times, making grand "Go ahead, after you," gestures but always remaining side by side with the Volkswagen. When we reached 110 mph the car's driver finally got the joke and waved a playful middle finger at me. I waved back and eased up, letting him speed on (b).

Within a few minutes I was off the motorway and into the land of the white rose. God's own Yorkshire. The kingdom of Jorvik. The part of England that is, in a way, the most English and yet unlike any other part of England.

The roads of the Yorkshire Dales made for great riding: lots of curves, relatively well-maintained roads, and good sight lines. I swooped and soared my way to Grassington, where I would be staying the next few nights, all too quickly. When I pulled into the driveway of my B&B, the owner was already out the door and saying hello before I could cut the engine.

"Y'alright Chris?" she said. "Good ride up, was it? Shall I get you a cuppa tea?"

Yorkshire hospitality. I thanked her profusely and started unloading my gear. When I got up to my room, there was a fresh pot of tea and a slice of lemon cake waiting for me. I lingered on these things as long I could. The last part of the ride had offered up some beautiful scenery but I was exhausted.

Honest food: pork belly on black pudding with gravy.

A while later, cleaned up and in comfortable clothes, I walked to the village square to find a pub where I could have dinner. The B&B's landlady had described The Forester's Arms as "a bit worn around the edges but with honest food –– you know, proper portions for a lad."

It was in better condition than many high-end pubs in Wales, but she had been right about the food. I filled up on pork belly and black pudding, the latter of which gets a lot more love in the north than down where I live.

For those of you playing along in the United States, black pudding is a sausage of sorts. There's no meat; it's effectively just oatmeal soaked in pig's blood and stuffed into sausage casing. There's absolutely no way to make it sound tasty, but it's actually pretty good when used in combination with other proteins such as eggs or pork. Washing it all down with a cold beer I started to feel like a proper Yorkshireman (c).

I decided to head out for a walk across the fields south of the village, my belly full and my head spinning from tiredness, happiness, and a few pints of beer. Quietly to myself I had started talking in a Yorkshire accent and commenting on just how beautiful everything was.

Occasionally, I would drift out of the Yorkshire patois and hear my father's voice rising up in me. He loves Britain; I sometimes wonder if I stay here just so he'll have the chance to visit. The late-day sun had turned everything golden and I knew my dad would be going crazy for it.

"This is just so great!" I said aloud, channeling his kid-like enthusiasm. "I mean, gosh! Wow!"

I came to a river and walked along its banks a while, eventually passing an old man out walking his dog.

"Ay up," he said.

I grinned. It was the first "ay up" I had gotten in Yorkshire –– a phrase that's a bit like "howdy" in Texas: a part of speech so iconic it's almost caricature.

You can see why I love it.

"Ay up," I said back.

And we each walked on in the Yorkshire sunset.

To be continued...

____________________

(a) If you are caught speeding at 10 percent of the limit plus 6 mph you can avoid getting points on your license and instead take a traffic safety course. This means that in a 50-mph zone you can try your luck and go 61 mph. In some constabularies, the rule is "10% + 9", but reliable information on exactly which constabularies adhere to this rule is hard to find, so it is best to stick to the lower number. Of course, the even better bet is to simply not speed and save yourself the trouble, which is, of course, what I always do because I'm a good boy.

(b) If you are a member of law enforcement in the UK, please note that this story is totally made up. I always ride according to conditions and never above the national speed limit.

(c) Actually, I suppose a proper Yorkshireman would have been drinking ale, not that Nancy-boy lager stuff they drink in London.

ADSENSE HERE

It's (not at all) grim up North

My route

It is roughly 260 miles from the quaintly crumbling South Wales town of Penarth to the Yorkshire village of Grassington. That's assuming you do most of your travelling via motorway, which is what I tend to stick to when I need to get to places on time.

Of course, the "on time" concept is often a fuzzy one for me. I am a strong adherent to the Ride Your Own Ride school of thinking and one of the ways in which that manifests is in how long it takes to do certain things. Some days I move pretty fluidly -- stops for petrol or food are well-coordinated and efficient. On other days, I seem inclined to spend upward of 10 minutes adjusting my scarf before putting on my gloves. Such was the case this past Sunday when I set out for northern England.

Grassington is one of the "honey pot" villages of Yorkshire Dales National Park, which is to say it is one of the places that sees the most visitors. For those of you playing along in the United States and other countries where governments actually adhere to IUCN categorisation, a national park in Her Majesty's United Kingdom is not what you might expect. Here, national parks are, in fact Category V and Category VI protected areas. In truth, there are no real national parks (Category II) in Britain, we just like using that phrase because it sounds good. 

The best U.S. comparison to a British "national park" that I can think of is the area that falls under the purview of the Tahoe Regional Planning Agency in California and Nevada. Except, much of that area is far more wild and I would argue that the TRPA does a better job at pro-actively protecting landscapes (a).

I realise all this is off the point -- this is a motorcycle blog, after all -- and that I have mentioned it before, and that on the Venn diagram showing motorcyclists and environmentalists the space where those two circles intersect is probably not very large, but that doesn't stop me from being annoyed by the whole thing. So, I rant about it at any opportunity. The United Kingdom needs to try harder to protect its natural spaces.

That's not to say British national parks aren't lovely, though. They are. If you want to be guaranteed of enjoying the very best that this tiny archipelago has to offer in terms of scenery, landscape, and hospitality, head to one of the 15 UK national parks. Before Sunday, I had visited Brecon Beacons, Cairngorms, Dartmoor, Exmoor, Lake District, New Forest, Northumberland, Peak District, Pembrokeshire Coast, Snowdonia and South Downs. With the Yorkshire Dales I've now visited an even dozen.

Timing is everything when it comes to visiting any outdoor space in Britain. The weather can make it the best or worst experience of your life. So, I accept that my personal list of favourites shows bias toward places I've visited on warm spring/summer days. But even so, I think the Yorkshire Dales is the bee's knees. 

Getting there was easy enough. As I mentioned, I was in a somewhat relaxed mood when I set out. So, my intended departure time of 10 a.m. became 11. And by the time I was actually fuelled up and properly under way it was edging close to 11:30.

Security forces have erected barriers and a 9-foot fence to protect a castle...

Traffic was light, but for the first time in my eight years of living in this country everyone was sticking to the speed limit. I suspect this had something to do with the ever-growing police presence coming that had come in preparation for the NATO summit taking place a week later. More than 67 world leaders are attending the event, including President Barack Obama, so all the security bells and whistles were being brought in. A 9-foot-tall fence had been erected around Cardiff city centre, Cardiff Bay and Celtic Manor in Newport; seven NATO warships were stationed in Cardiff Bay; and more than 10,000 police officers from all parts of the UK were being brought in.

Ten thousand. Riding up the A449 and M50 I encountered several hundred of them en route to their posts: great convoys of police riot vans and Land Rovers, as well as the lightning-quick packs of motorcycle police, riding two abreast and looking like DayGlo versions of the Nazgûl.

I am in the process of training to run a marathon these days and had run 15 miles the day before, so by the time I was nearing the southern edges of Worcestershire my knees were aching, and the right arm thing that happens from time to time was worse than usual.

Sometimes when I ride it feels as if a nerve in my armpit is being pinched; it causes slight pain in my bicep and elbow, and results in my losing feeling in my fingers. I can never really figure out what causes this, though I have noticed it more since I started wearing a Knox Fastback gilet.

Based on that, one automatically assumes the Fastback is to blame, but it's not pinching me at all and is comfortable to wear. Also, I started wearing the Fastback right when I started taking longer journeys -- first throwing it on when I rode to the Peak District back in April. So, perhaps the issue is not with what I'm wearing on the bike but how long I'm on the bike. Additionally, the pain and numbness really only seems to show up when my Honda's engine is turning above 5,000 rpm; perhaps buzzing in the handlebars is the true culprit? If anyone has any input on what might be at the heart of my right arm thing I'd be glad to hear it.

Regardless, Strensham motorway services was my first port of call. The sun was shining and the weather warm. I chose to sit in the grass near where I had parked my bike and eat the sandwich Jenn had made for me. This somehow communicated to everyone who walked by that I wanted to answer any questions they might have about motorcycling, as well as hear stories about the bike they used to have.

More often than not I enjoy this aspect of motorcycling -- that everyone wants to talk to you -- and was happy to indulge it today. A mother took a picture of her son sitting on my bike. A man told me of the Fazer he had owned before "the wife" made him sell it (b). Another man asked if I thought the Honda CBF600 SA was the right size bike for him, as if he were shopping. But the best moment came as I was packing up to get back on the road.

"My dad's a biker," a balding man said, walking up to me. "Well. Was. He's 93 now, he is. But, you know, in his heart, yeah, he's a biker. Loves his bikes, him. Listen, mate, you wouldn't mind coming over to have a chat with him would you? Only take a moment and it'd mean the world."

He pointed to a car parked a few yards away in a handicapped spot. It was close enough to just wheel my bike over, but when I started to do that he stopped me and asked that I pull up at the passenger side of the car with my engine running.

"Really give 'er a good rev," he said. "Dad'll love that."

Not wanting to scare a senior citizen to death I waited until I was alongside the old man before even touching the throttle. The car's door was open and I pulled up to within arm's reach. The old man was weak and frail and pretty much asleep. Then he caught sight of me in his peripheral vision and rolled his head toward me.

"Go on, mate, give 'er a good rev," said the old man's son.

The old man lifted a bony hand and waved it as encouragement. Stock Honda pipes are not exactly renown for their sound but I gave it my best shot. I clicked the bike into neutral and held in the clutch just in case, then twisted the throttle back as hard as it would go. The inline four's engine jumped to 9,000 rpm and let out a roaring whine that probably frightened me more than anyone else.

A British dispatch rider in WWII.

The old man was grinning now. He motioned for me to kill the engine. He wanted to tell me about his motorcycling days. He had started riding bikes in World War II, as a dispatch rider in Italy. He had been seriously injured four times in crashes because they would have him ride at night without lights and inevitably the dispatch riders would end up crashing into shelling craters.

"'Course, you'd rather be thrown from a motorbike than shot," the old man explained. "So you kept going, didn't you?"

He talked for a good 45 minutes -- about riding in the war, some racing he had done, and listing off just about every machine he'd ever ridden or encountered. His body was beat up, and he did little more than move his head and weakly wave his right hand, but he wasn't a 93-year-old man. Not in his eyes, at least. When I glanced at the man's son, the one who had insisted I come over, I saw in his eyes, too, a much younger person. I saw a little kid looking up to his dad.

The old man spoke until he wore himself out, mumbling and beginning to retell the story of his breaking his leg because he was thinking too much about a girl and not the moonlit Italian road he had been speeding down. His son smiled warmly and cut him off. He thanked me for taking the time and told me to ride safe.

I pulled on my helmet and fired the Honda to life. The old man came back around and said something unintelligible, but reading his face I guessed it to be a joke. I laughed as loud as I could, to be heard through the helmet, then waved goodbye.

A few seconds later I was out of the car park and on the M5, settling into an 80-mph cruising speed. I thought of Italian girls and felt thankful that British potholes aren't quite as bad as they could be.

To be continued...

____________________

(a) British conservationism is too often nothing more than a happy side effect of protracted bureaucratic ineptitude. It's similar to the way a massive insurance snafu that keeps you from driving for six weeks would help to "preserve" the engine life of your car.

(b) Usually when I hear these stories I suspect the truth is that "the wife" is, in fact, "a temporary fit of intelligent self awareness." I imagine the individual realised that his combined lack of skill, immaturity, and unwillingness to subject to the "embarrassment" of learning was eventually going to get him killed, but to admit any of this would be emasculating so he blames his partner.

ADSENSE HERE

What makes a rider-friendly region?

The Spinnaker Tower, as viewed from Old Portsmouth.

Last weekend I got a chance to spend a little time in South Downs National Park and the surrounding environs, including my old stomping grounds of Portsmouth -- where I attended university in the late 1990s. It was that year in an exchange programme that initiated my love affair with Britain and eventually resulted in my moving back here just shy of a decade later.

I feel inclined now to do a bit of self promotion and point out that I used a number of my experiences from that exchange year in my first novel, The Way Forward, which you can buy for Kindle from both Amazon.com and Amazon.co.uk.

But I digress. The point is simply that while I was in that particular part of the world I couldn't help observing it contained a hell of a lot more motorcyclists than Wales. And it was not just that Southern England appeared to have more riders but also a greater diversity of them. Whereas Wales is the land where Bandits and Fazers come to die, Southern England delivered sights of Moto Guzzis, top-tier Ducatis, the first VMAX motorcycles I've ever seen on actual British roads, and a great contingent of Harley-Davidsons, as well as the usual parade of Triumphs and BMW R1200GS machines.

Meanwhile, there were signs of greater acceptance of motorcycles. Cars were quicker to shift over in their lane to give me space when I was filtering and more businesses had motorcycle-specific parking. At Gunwharf Quays, for instance, they had provided not just special motorcycle bays but lockers for helmets and gloves, as well as chains to secure your bike against theft. Oh, and parking for motorcycles was free. It all made me feel like a welcomed and valued customer -- not something one necessarily feels in South Wales.

All of this got me to thinking: what makes one area more rider friendly than another? Are there certain factors that lead to an environment that is more conducive, more welcoming to motorcycling? To some extent, these are questions fellow blogger MotoCynic asked himself after a recent visit to New York City. There, he found far more riders than he sees in Los Angeles, despite the latter being theoretically a better place to ride (legal filtering, year-round sun, etc.)

Rockers were once a common sight on Britain's South Coast.

To some extent, motorcycling is just naturally more entrenched in Southern England than in Wales. After all, the South Downs borders the town of Brighton: home to the famous mods and rockers fights of the 1960s. And, of course, ever encroaching on the South Downs' northern border is the London metropolis: the culture king of the British Isles for roughly a millennium. It seems somewhat logical to think that cultural richness would result in a higher rate of motorcycle ownership. That would certainly back up MotoCynic's observation of New York City having more riders than Los Angeles (a).

Though, it wouldn't explain why New Hampshire, Iowa and South Dakota are the top three states for motorcycle ownership in the United States. Nor would it necessarily explain why I encountered so many riders in Hampshire and West Sussex -- counties that are well outside of London (b).

Possibly it is another kind of richness that comes into play. The average income in Southern England is considerably higher than in Wales, so perhaps a motorcycle-friendly community is borne of a people with a good deal of disposable income. But, again, that doesn't seem to fit terribly well with U.S. figures. Los Angelinos are not exactly impoverished compared to New Yorkers, and I can't think of a great many wealthy South Dakotans. Tom Brokaw and Brock Lesnar, I suppose (c). 

(Though, perhaps it is worth noting that in the United States, none of the 10 poorest states are in the list of 10 most motorcycle-owning states)

Similarly, statistics in the UK also don't seem to back up the "wealth = motorcycles" theory. Yes, four of the top 10 motorcycle-owning postcodes in the UK are in London but three other top postcodes are in far-less-posh Leicestershire (d). 

To that end, population density doesn't seem to have much to do with things, either. I had thought it might, since Southern England has the highest population density in all of Europe. And certainly there are more people crammed in per square mile in New York City than in Los Angeles. But it doesn't explain South Dakota nor why nearly 1 in 10 people in Southport (in northern England) own a motorcycle.

Generally, the only constant I can find is geography. It would appear that, contrary to what you might think, motorcyclists live in areas that aren't terribly hilly. There are some exceptions to this rule, too, and clearly it is not the only factor, else Indiana would be the motorcycling capital of the USA.

So, what is it? What makes a city or region motorcycle-friendly? What magical thing or things need to exist to create a true motorcycle-enthusiast scene? Is it just random, inexplicable luck? Or is there something to it? Of the places you've been where motorcycles and motorcycling were popular, what were the commonalities? I'd like to know, if not simply to help me choose where to visit.

____________________

(a) Los Angeles may be big and may be home to Hollywood but it is nowhere near as culturally rich as New York City.

(b) Distance is always a strange thing in the UK. In actual terms, no part is so very far away from another. But things can feel far away. Perhaps the best way for an outsider to understand this distance is to add a 0 to whatever mileage exists between point A and point B. For example, Cardiff is only 150 miles from London but it feels 1,500 miles away. So, physically the South Downs may be just 50 miles from London's centre but they feel 500 miles away.

(c) Both of whom were born in Webster, South Dakota -- a town of 1,800 people which is also, strangely, home to two different women I have dated.

(d) Possibly there is a connection here in that Leicestershire is home to the headquarters of both Triumph and Norton, as well as two of Britain's most famous motorcycle race tracks: Donnington  Park and Mallory Park.

ADSENSE HERE

Bring on Dirt Quake IV

Dirt Quake II by Iron Bird from SIDEBURN on Vimeo.

I'm missing Dirt Quake III this weekend and I can't help feeling ridiculously foolish for doing so. Oh, sure, I have a good reason for doing so -- actually, two good reasons -- but that doesn't make me feel any better. I can't help feeling that this is the sort of thing that will go on the list of Greatest Regrets to be flashed before me in my final moments within the mortal coil. Right up there with the time I chose not to dance the polka with Miss El Cajon at an Oktoberfest celebration in Santee, California, and the time I changed my mind about going to senior prom with a girl after she had already bought her dress.

OK, perhaps it won't be that bad. But, still, I really wish I were there.

Dirt Quake, for those of you who don't spend hours of your life searching motorcycle tags on Vimeo and Tumblr, is a ridiculous motorcycling event that takes place each year in eastern England. Perhaps it is best known for hosting flat track races for bikes that are woefully ill suited for flat track, such as choppers, scooters and well, whatever else is inappropriate for use on a dirt track. It is a weekend of hipster/chopper/flat-tracker/nuevo-rocker boneheadedness. 

How could you not want to see this?

If you haven't heard of it, don't feel bad: it is not all that well known. Well, not here, at least. You'll find no mention of it on Visor Down or MCN or any other major UK-based motorcycling website. People here aren't into that sort of thing. Or, that's the perception. I often wonder if things that Britons allegedly dislike are actually disliked or simply said to be disliked by the cynical, creatively lazy people in the UK who control the mainstream.

I digress. And certainly if you take a look at the cheerless, middle-aged, shaven-headed, bacon-sandwich-eating, rollie-smoking, worn-leather-onesie-wearing, let-me-tell-you-why-the-1998-Honda-Fireblade-was-the-best-bike-ever-talking numpties that are so prevalent at UK motorcycle shows, it's not hard to imagine that Dirt Quake wouldn't be up their street. That's doubly true of motorcyclists in Wales. Here in the Land of Song, the Suzuki Gladius is king. The Welsh love cheap mediocrity. They are like people of the Appalachia without the good music, interesting personalities, or innate ability to jerry-rig machinery.

It was my frustration with this situation that led to my discovering Dirt Quake. Why oh why, I lamented, did Britain not have things like Mama Tried or Born Free or Wheels and Waves or Deus or See See, etc.? Why, in the country that created the mods and rockers and cafe racers and the Triumphs ridden by Marlon Brando, Buddy Holly, Bob Dylan, Elvis, Steve McQueen and the Fonz, was there no modern "cool" motorcycling culture?

It turns out there is. It's just really hard to find. British subculture is a lot more sub. But with some digging I found out about things like Bike Shed and places like Krazy Horse and, eventually, Dirt Quake. And when I saw the video for Dirt Quake II, I made a vow to myself that I would be there when Dirt Quake III rolled around.

But, as I said above: I won't be there. Firstly, because the guys at Sideburn Magazine (who organise the event) chose to have the event take place on the same weekend that Jenn and I are celebrating our wedding anniversary. Really poor planning on their part, if you ask me.

I had considered trying to convince Jenn to come along, to convince her this would be a fun/funny way to spend our anniversary, and I think I probably could have succeeded (a), but we burned all our money on our recent trip to the United States.

I'm missing all the fun.

So, I won't be there. And I am heartbroken about it. Sure, it falls on an inconvenient weekend, at a time when I have no money, and it would require that I ride to the other side of the country and sleep in a field on a weekend for which thunderstorms are forecast. But that doesn't feel like a good enough excuse. Deep down in my gut, I feel this is something I will really regret missing.

The good news is that it seems likely there will be a Dirt Quake IV. This year's Dirt Quake is big enough to draw Guy Martin as a participant (who said of Dirt Quake: "There's nothing else like it... everything else is like a sea gull following a tractor"). He will be there racing a chopper on the flat track. 

The event has also drawn enough attention beyond the shores of Blighty that there are replica events elsewhere. Back in May, the first-ever Dirt Quake USA took place. (The video of that event makes me think that a pilgrimage to Washington state may one day be in order.) Hopefully, all this bodes well for the future of the event.

And hopefully, next time I will make it. 

____________________

(a) Just the other day, she expressed passing interest in getting a scooter. And she has said that when we move to the United States she might get a motorcycle since licensing is easier.

ADSENSE HERE

Part IV: The final day

An incredibly common sight in Wales.

It took me nearly an hour and a half to pack everything up and get it on my bike. And as had been the case in previous parts of my journey, I felt annoyed at the process taking longer than I had anticipated. 

Calming down, though, was easier than it had been the day before. I reminded myself that with Jenn staying that night at a friend's house in West Sussex there was no one for me to rush home to. Additionally, I was in Lancaster, which meant riding through the urban tangle between Liverpool and Manchester was inevitable; better to avoid tackling that during rush hour.

Because I had nowhere to be and motorways are boring and I felt good, I decided to increase my mileage for the day and meander home via the winding A roads of Wales rather than speed down the relative straight of English motorway. For those of you playing along in the United States, a motorway is the British equivalent of a freeway/interstate; an A road is an undivided highway where speed limits can range from 30-60 mph depending on whether you're in a built-up area. A roads have no U.S. equivalent because there are no public roads in America that are so narrow.

In Wales, A roads are generally the least efficient means of getting from point A to point B. Unfortunately, they are also often the only means. My joke is that no one trusts the Welsh with explosives; so, rather than being able to cut through the country's multitudinous promontories, road builders had to go around them. The end result, though, is that if you are on a motorcycle on a sunny day with no particular time schedule, Wales is an incredibly good place to be.

According to my ledger, I bought tea at the Chester motorway services at 10:58 a.m. that day, so I suppose I was making better time than I remember. The services are roughly 70 miles from the Holiday Inn where I had started out and they mark one's arrival in Wales and departure from motorway efficiency. Whilst there, I encountered a large contingent of Welsh-speaking blokes riding raked-out, loud-piped, custom-painted, shiny Harley-Davidsons. I thought of the Dr. Simon Brooks claim that the Welsh are just Americans who couldn't afford the boat ride to the New World. Certainly I've not seen such ornate bikes anywhere else this side of the Atlantic.

So I had, on multiple levels, the sense that I was back home. Firstly in that I was arriving in a part of the country with which I've become pretty damn familiar over the past 8 years; secondly, I had stumbled upon a gaggle of Harley riders; and thirdly, I was able to speak with said riders in Welsh. Speaking Welsh is on par with a Masonic handshake. More so, actually. If you know it, you're in, son.

The riders were on their way to Hull, then onto a Belgium-bound ferry en route to some festival they seemed to think I already knew about because none of them explained it. Eventually they all mounted up to head out, with one of them saying to me in Welsh: "All these people around us are giving us dirty looks for speaking Welsh; this will really piss them off!" 

They roared away, the sound of their pipes setting off car alarms and causing people to hold their hands to their ears.

More sheep.

A Honda, of course, is a much quieter machine. Which is really what you want as you glide along the curves of Welsh roads. Soon, I was dancing through UKIP country. Full of racist, immigrant-hating homophobes, sure, but certainly a very pretty part of the world. This was just before the recent European elections and I was disturbed by just how many UKIP signs I saw posted in front of houses. I thought back to Scotland and the fact that in a few months it will be deciding via referendum whether to declare its independence from the United Kingdom.

"It's a topic that's a bit like religion," one Scotsman had told me over pints. "We don't talk about it in polite company."

But when the Scottish do talk about the referendum I imagine it can be difficult to find strong emotional arguments for staying together when you have so many people south of the border voting UKIP –– a party whose leader once referred to the Scottish as "yobbo scum."

All this went through my head as I wandered southward. As mentioned in Part I of this adventure, this trip gave me a lot of time to think –– about my life and my place and what I want to be. That's a self discussion that throws up a lot of problems, because certain really important things come into conflict with other really important things. 

I let these things slip to the back of my mind as I pushed down the beautifully winding section of the A483 that runs from Newtown to Llandrindod Wells. It is 25 miles of curve after curve after curve with good sight lines on most turns. In the United States they'd give this road a scary name and sell T-shirts. In Wales it's just a way to get from one place to another.

I had run this section on my road trip to Pennant several months before, and back then certain turns had given me The Fear. Now, though, I was comfortable keeping a slightly-faster-than-the-cars-wanted-to-go pace throughout. Credit the Michelin Pilot Road 4 tires, credit the way the weight of my Viking Bags panniers seemed to help the bike hold a line, but probably also credit the extra experience. It is fun and interesting to see yourself "grow" as a rider –– developing and improving. I still have a lot to learn and very much want to take a BikeSafe course soon, but it is nice to know I'm developing some skills on my own.

By the time I got to Llandrindod Wells, though, all I could focus on was my empty stomach. I parked my bike in the town centre and set off on foot to try to find a place that wasn't the warmed-in-a-microwave fare I had been eating too much of on this trip. Eventually I came upon a place that served local lamb burgers and home-made strawberry milkshakes. 

From there it was exactly 80 miles to Casa del Cope. But the hundreds of miles from this trip were starting to have their effect, so I stopped halfway to take a deep breath and gather focus for the traffic of the valleys and Cardiff. Still, I arrived home far sooner than I would have imagined that morning. There was time to unload the bike, wash it thoroughly of all the bugs and road grime that had accumulated over the past week or so, and let it dry in the early evening sun before tucking it away.

In total, I had covered more than 1,000 miles, through three countries and all kinds of weather. Sitting at my table that night, drinking beer and staring out the window, one thought kept coming back to me: Where will I go next?

ADSENSE HERE