So there was my family attentively waiting to see us off, my patient and ever supportive wife with a wave in the driveway as we went down our small gravel lane, turning into the village high street where my other two sons, Taylor and Lucas, stood ready with their cameras poised to record the moment we roared past with the cheerio wave. We were off. The Wellford House lay behind the open road ahead of us.
But in the back of my mind, a nagging feeling—an image wouldn’t leave me, an image of Taylor's camera on the kitchen table as I passed it on the way out. This sat uncomfortably with the image of Taylor holding a camera as I passed him in the High Street until I realised it was my camera, the only instrument required to record the whole journey. There then followed the necessary frantic gesticulations with me trying to relay this epiphany to my son Cameron, over the din of our motorcycles at 50 miles and hour. I lurched into a side road to head home, leaving my son totally confused. A heavily laden motorcycle has the momentum to carry on in a straight line without obligation to your mission to return home, so an abrupt turn is bound to be alarming to others.
Half parked on the road and half in the verge, my helmet blinkering me to the ferraw of angry motorists going about their sane, ordinary lives, I heard those immortal word cut through the mayhem: “Dad! Dad!”, Turning my stiff arthritic neck, there appeared my son, camera in hand having chased me down the road in his 1.2 Peugot, an easy match for the steely cart horse that was my ride.
But in the back of my mind, a nagging feeling—an image wouldn’t leave me, an image of Taylor's camera on the kitchen table as I passed it on the way out. This sat uncomfortably with the image of Taylor holding a camera as I passed him in the High Street until I realised it was my camera, the only instrument required to record the whole journey. There then followed the necessary frantic gesticulations with me trying to relay this epiphany to my son Cameron, over the din of our motorcycles at 50 miles and hour. I lurched into a side road to head home, leaving my son totally confused. A heavily laden motorcycle has the momentum to carry on in a straight line without obligation to your mission to return home, so an abrupt turn is bound to be alarming to others.
Half parked on the road and half in the verge, my helmet blinkering me to the ferraw of angry motorists going about their sane, ordinary lives, I heard those immortal word cut through the mayhem: “Dad! Dad!”, Turning my stiff arthritic neck, there appeared my son, camera in hand having chased me down the road in his 1.2 Peugot, an easy match for the steely cart horse that was my ride.
With the balance of my universe restored, I pulled onto the main road once more only to be overtaken by my wife in the family people-carrier, waving me down with another forgotten piece of equipment. I feel certain that this is a standard departure procedure for world travellers.
So now our friends on their bikes gave us a cheery wave as they turned back to allow us to continue our quest without their presence, but with their immense moral support. My son and I were left alone with the road and our machines, free to plot our uninterrupted journey to the ferry—interrupted only by regular stops to refill my son’s TS185 petrol tank, which carries him a wholesome 60 miles at a time, and to empty my biological tank, designed in these stressful moments only to carry me no more than 60 miles at a time. My frugal mount makes 90 miles to a gallon of petrol but has an irritating habit of burning a pint of oil to the same 90 miles. No matter, I shall pretend it is a two stroke machine and fill it accordingly.
Our first pit stop was only partially successful, as Tesco’s filling station replenished my son’s needs but early Sunday closing thwarted my own. Unrelieved, we entered the mayhem of the M25 on a Sunday evening with its regular speed restrictions down to 60 then 50, coincidentally matching our top speed and denying the other fleet-footed motorists their amusement in passing our two heavily laden motorcycles struggling to attain even the speed restrictions. Not that we didn’t benefit from the same wry smiles as we weaved through their stationary vehicles further down the road until the signs lit up again that unobtainable open speed limit.
Our first pit stop was only partially successful, as Tesco’s filling station replenished my son’s needs but early Sunday closing thwarted my own. Unrelieved, we entered the mayhem of the M25 on a Sunday evening with its regular speed restrictions down to 60 then 50, coincidentally matching our top speed and denying the other fleet-footed motorists their amusement in passing our two heavily laden motorcycles struggling to attain even the speed restrictions. Not that we didn’t benefit from the same wry smiles as we weaved through their stationary vehicles further down the road until the signs lit up again that unobtainable open speed limit.
It was a glorious first evening of spring, and though mostly overcast, it was a clear focused twilight with the sun casting a delightful warm rose red edge to the skies fading light. As we pressed on with the evening descending into night, it became apparent that my cosy headlight glimmer decided it would not flare into a piercing headlight to illuminate the way ahead but instead stay as a more relaxing sidelight, regardless of how frantically I toggled the switch. Fortunately, it was about the same point that I realised my son’s rear tail light had fused into that incandescent red glow, which can only be brought on by tail light and brake light stuck permanently in the on position.
We continued, with my son forging the path and with me holding on to the blinding glare of his taillight to act as my unfaltering red headlight. Unfaltering until he stomps on the brake, and the light goes out, plunging me into the inky black of the road and an unseen stationary motorcycle dead ahead. Or when he puts his indicators on, which has the effect of turning a taillight into a pulsating epileptic initiator. Even heavily laden motorcycles have their light quirks.
For now, I can close my eyes to rest for the first time in several weeks leaving me with that image of the day: an incandescent red glow. Even with the temporary blindspot burnt into my eyeballs, I can still see a whole world lying ahead, across the handlebars.
We continued, with my son forging the path and with me holding on to the blinding glare of his taillight to act as my unfaltering red headlight. Unfaltering until he stomps on the brake, and the light goes out, plunging me into the inky black of the road and an unseen stationary motorcycle dead ahead. Or when he puts his indicators on, which has the effect of turning a taillight into a pulsating epileptic initiator. Even heavily laden motorcycles have their light quirks.
For now, I can close my eyes to rest for the first time in several weeks leaving me with that image of the day: an incandescent red glow. Even with the temporary blindspot burnt into my eyeballs, I can still see a whole world lying ahead, across the handlebars.