THE LIFE AND TIMES OF A BIKER AND A “BIKERETTE” Continued

8^th February 2012 : Performance Triumph Stratford Open Evening

This was another of those open evenings that seem to be becoming more popular with bike shops, especially it seems, with Triumph dealers.  The way it works is that the shop simply stays open for a few hours longer, puts on some food, marks up a few items with special prices and then invites along the local Triumph club. 

In all honesty, it cannot be denied that from a business point of view and as a marketing strategy, it “ticks all of the right boxes”.  On top of that, they’re generally a pleasant night out, you get a chance to meet up with folk who you may not have seen for a while and once in a while, you do drop onto a bargain.

I went down with Jon Everall and then having had a quick look around, eat some food, listened to the dealer “welcome”, spent the remainder of the evening chatting away to Clive Humphries about the “good old days” of biking and how we don’t understand these “modern motorcyclists”. 

It’s good to be nearly 52 as I can officially slip into my “grumpy old man” mode whenever and wherever my fancy takes me and on any subject whatsoever JJ ……..

10^th – 11^th February 2012 : Retro Moto Wieze

Two days later, saw me off on another quick trip across the Channel, this time for the classic bike show and autojumble at Wieze, which is about halfway between Gent and Brussels in Belgium.

The weather had remained bitingly cold throughout the week and although no further snowfalls of any substance had been forecast, the sub zero temperatures were set to continue.

After an early start in the office on the Friday, I was able to wrap up for the day, be back home and on my way, by just turned noon.  As it was school half term, the Chunnel had very few spaces available and the only crossing times I could get were 4.20pm or 7.40pm on the Friday.  I opted for the earlier one, but that did require a fast ride down to Folkestone in order to check in on time.

When I arrived at the terminal, the queues for checking in were unusually long.  A quick chat with one of the Chunnel staff and the reasons were clear – there had been a couple of breakdowns earlier in the day, which had led to a substantial backlog developing.

After a unsuccessful attempt as I always do, to simply ignore my allotted time and just ride around to board the next train (the first time I might add that this hasn’t worked), I took myself back to the terminal, “plonked” myself down in a corner and waited.

The terminal was full of families off on “half-term” ski-ing holidays.  It seemed that every family though was a “cloned” unit – a rather ridiculous looking dad, wearing a Barbour jacket, with an unfeasibly “loud” woollen jumper underneath, a “yummy-mummy”, sun-glasses perched on head and two/three annoyingly loud “brats” (sorry – children), whose every sentence appeared to begin with the words “I want ….”.  Outside of course, the car-park was full of cloned vehicles – 4 x 4 ‘s of all shapes and sizes.  These will for the first time in months, all be presumably experiencing the sort of weather conditions that they’re built to cope with but will spend most of their time parked up in the “devoid of snow” hotel carpark, having travelled down to the ski centres on roads “devoid of snow” ……         

See, I did tell you earlier that I was able to slip into “grumpy old man” mode at the drop of a hat !! J

After waiting around an hour and conscious of the fact that it had been a cold journey down, it was going to get colder once the sun had gone down and that I still had 100 miles to ride once on the other side of the tunnel, I decided to try again to bluff my way onto an earlier train.

This time it worked and within 15 minutes I was boarded (the last vehicle on) and 45 minutes later arrived in France.  Although it was still daylight, (albeit not for long), looking out of the window as we approached the terminal offered little in the way of encouragement that it was going to be anything other than a very cold ride to my hotel.

The scene that greeted me as the train arrived in France

This was one of those times, when you just had to “get on with it” and having kitted up left the relative warmth of the train and rode out into the French cold air.  Still it could be worse, I could have been one of those ridiculous looking dads …JJJ

Albeit that I was barely 30 miles away from England, the temperature on the continent was noticeably colder and as the light faded away, it dropped still further.  At least the roads were dry and with me being free from the problem of losing your licence if you’re caught speeding – it’s generally just a nasty fine abroad - I wound the Daytona up to a “respectable” cruising speed and crunched the 100 miles to Gent as quickly as possible.  It was simply a race to get there before both my fingers and face gave up the unequal struggle against the cold.

As the cold bit into every part of my body, I was reminded of a description someone once wrote of what being cold is like when you’re on a bike :

“There is cold, and there is cold on a motorcycle. Cold on a motorcycle is like being beaten with cold hammers while being kicked with cold boots, a bone bruising cold. The wind's big hands squeeze the heat out of my body and whisk it away; caught in a cold October rain, the drops don't even feel like water. They feel like shards of bone fallen from the skies of Hell to pock my face. I expect to arrive with my cheeks and forehead streaked with blood, but that's just an illusion, just the misery of nerves not designed for highway speeds.”

The one thing that the Daytona is good at though is gobbling up the miles and even with 100,000 miles on the clock, can still cover ground with indecent haste.  Within the hour - yes, an hour J - I turned off the motorway and rode the last few miles to the Gent Ibis hotel, my usual first night stopover point, whenever I’m heading North or North-East into mainland Europe.

It was still very cold, but from what I had seen in the dark, at least the lying snow had petered out somewhere around the Ostend area.

For now though, a warm shower, a change of clothes and some food – in that order – was all that I was concerned with.

The Wieze show is only around 30 miles further on from Gent and so I lay in the warmth of my bed the following morning, for a lot longer than I would usually.  I must admit, having peered out of the window at a rather frosty Gent, there was some considerable reluctance on my part to think about climbing back on the bike for another days ride.  At least it was sunny though and I attempted to make myself believe (albeit failing miserably) that sun would mean warmth.

I was due to meet a Dutch friend, Martin, at the show and as I arrived, he was waiting for me.  He cheerfully informed me that his outside air temperature in his car was reading minus 12 as he pulled into the car park.  Although I never saw the gauge myself, the lack of feeling in any of my fingers more or less confirmed this ……. L

Martin from the Netherlands.  He only live 100 kms away, but he’d come in his car

So as for the show itself ?  Well like so many shows these days there’s generally very little new to see.  E-bay has very much destroyed auto-jumbling (although the odd gem does still turn up from time to time) and the Internet in general plays its part as a “spoiler” to remove any surprises that shows might have in store.  In my opinion, shows have become much more of a social experience these days and offer the opportunity to meet up with friends that you haven’t seen for a while.  Of course, the fact that a show exists, also provides a reason for a ride …….

As if to re-enforce the above point, of the couple of hours I spent at the show, the vast majority of the time, I was sitting down drinking coffee and putting the world to rights with Martin.  Now, I know that to a non-biker, to ride some 400 miles, be at a show for a couple of hours and then ride back home another 400 miles may seem like nothing short of madness, but it’s something that you do understand or don’t understand.  If you’re in the latter group of people, there’s simply not enough paper and ink in the world for me to successfully explain it to you JJ

As I left the show, the temperature gauges on the overhead gantries on the E40 still read minus 5 and it was a chilly, albeit sunny, dash back to Calais to catch my 2.00pm crossing.

Again and unsurprisingly, I was the only bike at the terminal and although I have many pictures of various of my bikes sitting awaiting boarding at Calais in my photograph collection, a picture of one in the snow was a notable omission – not any more …..

There’s cold and there’s “Motorcycle Cold”

Once back in the UK, the tedium of the 221.3 miles (yes, I’ve done this journey so many times that I know the exact distance) from the Chunnel to home was all that separated me from a nice warm bath.  At least the temperature was again noticeably different from the French side of the Channel and as I sped along, I basked in this relative warmth.

After a refuel and a coffee break at Oxford, I rolled up back at home just before 6.00pm.  The next trip abroad would be in a couple of weeks time to the big bike show at Utrecht in the Netherlands, but between now and then, I’d be helping to man the TR3OC stand at the Bristol Classic Bike Show in 7 days time