Back on it

So, recovery has been long and slow and painful. Still not back to racing snake Al, but starting to feel more positive.

Low motivation has meant that my race bikes are still in a thousand pieces, cast unloved to the many nooks and crannies of home, workshop and work. Last weekend I was reading posts from my mate TrackDayBob, he's at Brands hatch, which means the race season has started again. Holy Shit! All those short dark days of winter, when I was eating crisps and drinking beer, instead of training and bike building! Still, that time is gone so no point crying about it. But I need a motorcycle fix, and soon. Trials isn't going to cut it. Best dust off the road bike then.

Monday afternoon and I look at the long range forecast, I'm hatching a plan. It appears Saturday is best weather wise. I hoik the battery out of the R1 and whack it onto the Optimate, and fill the tank with the last of my super unleaded race fuel. Other than that she looks good to go, a little dirty maybe, but none the worse for that.

Thursday and the Optimate shows green, so I re-install the battery. The dash lights up, but no action on the button. Optimate insists the battery is OK, R1 thinks otherwise. I check the fuses, nothing obviously amiss. So I'm rushing down to Bristol Batteries, £88 later and I'm back in business. The R1 barks instantly into life, the bellow bouncing satisfyingly off the workshop walls. We're on. I dream of ice cream at the seaside.

Friday night I dig out my road leathers, a clear visor, some gloves. Boots are a toss up between my trials boots, or my "spare" race TCX boots. Neither are all day comfortable, but both pairs of my preferred Alpinestars are crashed to kingdom come, and would be on their way to recycling if I'd got my arse in gear and bought a new pair in the wasted winter. Too late to worry about that, comedy squeaky TCX's win over clunky trials boots.

Saturday morning and I'm rolling down pit lane  out to the ring road. Steady away, I tell myself. Try to stay below 150mph. The front feels light and flighty, due to standard road springs rather than mega stiff race suspension, and the over-inflated tyres the bike has stood on all winter whose pressures I didn't correct. The brakes feel dead, cold and glazed. Ho hum. First pass on the dual carriageway I glance at the speedo, 243 !?! I obviously haven't set the clocks back to MPH when I re-installed the battery. The 30 limits are going to be fun then. I work on deglazing the brake pads and getting some heat into the tyres, and the feeling is coming back to me. I'm riding well, anticipating numpties, not tipping into corners too early, not panicing when I need change line, just keep looking up and don't shut the throttle. Just like riding a bike really.

Out on the wrong side of Bath, deep in YPVS country. Back in those days, I knew every inch of these roads. Me and The Flying Banana, throttle to the stop everywhere. That was the better part of thirty years ago though, these days I'm a little more circumspect, and the R1 is easily twice as fast as that old Powervalve. I reminisce whilst surfing a creamy wave of 4th gear torque, destroying traffic as it appears. the cars drivers are being very helpful, moving over, indicating for me to overtake, not trying to kill me. I wave thank yous as I go, and to the other bikes that are starting to populate the dryish roads.

My faithful Hein Gericke leathers are just over eight years old, I still remember the day I got them from Tomfoolery at HG Stockwell. They're still excellent in every way, except I was at my tubbiest when I bought them, so they bag and billow in the tuck, and the bunching of the leather at the back of my knees is getting uncomfortable. It's a shame that I can't visit Tom and get a new set, and I blanch when I think of Cherry's face if I dare take them to her for alteration. If this becomes a regular thing, I'd better get shopping.

Before I know it I'm the quayside in Poole, and it's cold, WTF? Normally Dorset is warmer than Bristol, but the mist has taken the edge off the sun. No sea view, no ice cream, I get a bottle of water and stretch my legs out for a while, sat with Robert Baden-Powell. He may have been a bit of a facist, but I liked being a Scout so he's alright by me. An immaculate Lancia Delta Integrale prowls the quayside road, up and down in second gear. It looks and sounds meancing, but short of a forest rally stage I've got him beaten every day of the week and all day on Sunday. Where next?

I dig out the "map" from my pocket (It's a page nicked from my Filofax. Yes I still use a Filofax. Sue me). I decide to head for Swanage, I love it there. The "A" roads down here are lovely, wide open sweepers, fast, R1 country. I give a patch club going the other way a cheery wave. Not one wave back from the dozen or so bikes. Tossers. I explore around a bit, pass Corfe Castle which looks dramatic against the changing skyline, then the orange fuel light winks at me. I stop and fill up at Moonfleet Motors, having a nice craic with the guy behind the counter. What a great name for a service station.

Park up at the seafront and there's a good few bikes around. I get a nice smile from a lady on a K1200RT, and admire a rat bike XR400 in full Mad Max mode, it looks well used too. A plan forms. Still cold and misty, so I bundle into the first cafe open (it's reasonably busy, but a lot of the shops are still shut for the closed season) as it's too cold for ice cream. Coffee and carrot cake, but I don't linger as I'm surrounded by Daily Mail readers tutting at the Grockel (Grockle?) in their midst. Arseholes. Stroll along the seafront, I see a dead pigeon and not much else. Map consulted, let's hit the golden sands at Weymouth for that ice cream.

More exploring on the way, but the roads are wet from field wash, and gravelly on the racing line. I look for a Marshall to complain, but they must be hiding in the hedgerows or on a tea break or something. Pass the big guy on the white horse, the traffic slows on the approach to the beach. A lot of the big houses have had some serious bucks spent on them, so I indulge myself in a short bout of Grand Designs Bingo. Soon parking by the sand. Still misty and cold, I spy my chain, and it's dry as a bone. I forgo the ice cream and head towards Crossways to see if JB Motorcycles are open, and I'm in luck. Johnny kindly gives me a small can of chain lube that fits nicely under the seat of the R1. I chat and drool over a customers 2015 R1 trackbike, someday my pretty, you will be mine. Then it's a very short hop to meet Duncan at work, then off to the pub for lunch.

Except the stop serving food at 2PM. Duncan's starving, Dobbie's hungry, I could do with something to eat. Crisps and shandy will have to do. Still no ice cream. It's great to sit and yarn with the guys, I'm getting comfy, uh-oh. I don't want to be riding home in the dark so it's time to saddle up. Dunc gives me directions, the A35/A37 from his place to mine is one of my favourite roads, with stunning views on a clear day over the patchwork fields of Jurrasic England. But not today, I'm in V-Max mode and concentrating as much as my aching bladder will allow. Yeovil and Shepton Mallett disappear in a new world record time, a splash and dash at Temple Cloud and I'm home in time for tea. Chicken Kiev, followed by Apple Pie and Vanilla Ice Cream. A perfect day.