Winter heroics
I’m raising a glass to salute all the road-salt romantics who choose to ride bikes through winter. My daily commute involves 40 miles of M25’s pre-dawn/post-dusk, treacle-thick traffic. I’ve become expert at threading the old girl (Cbf1000/panniers/bar muffins) through the moving man-trap’s jaws, yet every morning my heart is cheered by two insaniacs who come hooning by, immortal in their contempt for all four-wheeled sheeple. But I realise I’ve begun applying these filtering expectations to A and B-roads. You name it, if it’s holding me up I’m squeezing past. And if those cars are doing under a ton they’re my dismissed bitches. Yet I’m a regular Clark Kent for the rest of my day. Maybe I’ve unloaded my pentupness getting to and from. My point is, in this tame grey world, where can you find that precious moment when you’re fully awake and alive? Motorcycles, innit? You’re focused, aware, your brain’s constantly computing speed, lean and the distance between. Get it wrong just once and you’ll hurt and maybe die, but hey! You’ll never dribble your days away, alone in a home, demented. Oh, and an apology’s in order. I was recently in a Plymouth multiplex, late for the main feature. I ripped off my helmet, inadvertently firing my right earplug into the Pick & Mix. Would you start rummaging through all that candy? To anyone chewing the same weird gummy bear for 90 minutes, I’m truly sorry. Chris Cranstoun, email