Oh for the open road!

A quick peek out of the curtains confirmed that the ray of sunshine on the wall was coming from the great yellow ball in the sky and not some maniac with a searchlight at the bottom of the garden. The sky was blue as far as the eye could see so the decision was made. I would head north.

I donned leathers, fired up the trusty V-twin and headed into the wild blue yonder – well, the M6. The first stop was Knutsford services, where stereotyped businessmen shout into their mobile phones alongside stereotyped kids, shouting into their mobile phones. Time for a cup of steaming something and a visit to the exclusively-ppointed amenities.

It was still sunny and warm as I left, but there was a distinctly dark edge to the blue horizon and most of it was directly ahead.

The further I went, the blacker the sky became, and it was now clear that today may not be quite as I expected. Being on a motorway, I started playing the game of ‘Waterproofs at this junction or the next?’ As ever, I got it wrong and was only just past the last junction when the first drops of rain fell on my visor. Within five minutes I might as well have been sitting in the shower fully clothed. The sky was jet black and it was getting cold. For another 10 minutes the rain hammered down and the spray made visibility beyond a few yards nothing more than a memory. I was frozen and wet, and it was time for action.

Casting aside my natural desire to remain within the law, I pulled over under a bridge and donned waterproofs. Not easy, as my leathers had soaked up a few gallons of rain and were swollen to twice their normal size. After what seemed like an age mimicking a demented contortionist, I was ready and off again.

Five minutes later the black sky disappeared instantaneously and the sun was out. The temperature shot up into the eighties and the copious amounts of water inside my waterproofs began to heat up. I was now experiencing the feeling that a piece of stewing steak must get when left in a slow cooker. Five miles from the next junction, I was moving from medium to well done and my head was spinning. Time for action again.

Once more on to the hard shoulder and another mad contortionist act. The waterproofs were totally dry on the outside but soaked on the inside – I stuffed them into the panniers. Back on the bike, the warm wind and hot sun soon took effect on my leathers, which did what all good second-rate leather does and dried to a nice stiff consistency.

It was like sitting inside a suit of armour, with every move chafing my arms and legs in just the wrong places. At the next junction I pulled off and found somewhere to stretch my legs and try to soften up my jacket and trousers. This was achieved by rolling around on the grass, much to the amusement of a couple who were out walking.

I’d now been going three hours and traffic was running freely, so the next half-hour returned me to the euphoric state that had started the day. The soggy horror show was just a memory and I was back on course, leaving the motorway to hit the country roads on to the moors and into the twisties. The big, heavy bike got into its stride, and I was soon rolling around the bends thoroughly enjoying myself and rising to the challenge of getting round without losing too much chrome off the exhausts.

One bend, two bends, three bends, Oh Sh!!… literally. The local farmer had obviously just come

out of the adjacent field with his muck spreader on full chat, forgetting to turn off the valve. The road was covered with the stuff and, as I rounded the bend on full lean, it was touch and go whether I could avoid a slide, let alone take any avoidance measures. I managed to keep upright by heading straight down the middle of the road and, within seconds, I resembled the aftermath of an explosion in a chocolate factory, except it wasn’t chocolate… I reflected on the disadvantages of open-face helmets. At least my shades kept the stuff out of my eyes.

A few miles later I arrived at my destination. A bike show in a pub car park set amongst mountains and moorland. The sun had baked the latest addition on to my leathers and they were, once more, rather stiff. More rolling about on the grass was called for and then I grabbed a couple of burgers and some liquid refreshment.

Looking round the bikes, I wondered why people kept their distance, whilst holding their noses and making strange retching noises… I just ate my burgers and drank my beer.

After too short a time I had to head for home and it was back down the same road, this time carefully weaving through the ‘affected area’ to avoid further contamination. Back on the motorway I made good time until I noticed the black cloud. Yes, the same section with 20 miles to the next junction and the same black cloud led to the same bloody rain. I reverted quickly to my impression of a sponge and once more it was time for action.

Under the next bridge I once more struggled into waterproofs as quickly as possible. Funny – they slid on easier than usual. ‘Must be because they are still wet inside’.’ I was away in double-quick time.

In a repeat performance of the morning, I passed through spray and a torrential downpour and back into sunlight and, as before, I began to heat up inside the wet-weather gear. Since getting back on the motorway, I’d totally forgotten about the state of my leathers but now the slow cooker effect added an additional aroma that started to drift out of the top of the waterproofs and up inside my visor. I had to stop for air three times.

Motorists stopping for a break seemed eager to give me lots of space as I parked up. The bike had changed from its usual sparkling green and chrome to a ratty sort of matt green and brown. The same colour had applied itself to my leathers and most of my face and, as I removed the waterproofs and absent-mindedly stuffed them into the panniers, I realised that I was not a pretty sight (or smell). It did seem a bit unfair that they wouldn’t serve me in the café and I was genuinely upset when security came and asked me to leave the building, but I guess they weren’t happy that people were throwing up in the queue behind me.

When I finally arrived home it was too late to start cleaning the bike, so I just put it in the garage and shut the door. My wife came to the door and promptly banned me from the house until I had removed all my clothes. Thinking I was about to get lucky, I shed the lot, dumped them on the garage floor and rushed in, only to be ushered to the shower and told not to come out until I had passed scrutiny – and not the type of scrutiny I had hoped for either.

The following day when I opened the garage door, I realised the true impact of the day’s events. After trying in vain to clean up my leather trousers, I eventually gave in and junked them. The jacket fared a little better, but it took three weeks of saddle soaping to get rid of the smell. As for the waterproofs, even after scrubbing them out every night, they were never quite the same again and eventually went the same way as the trousers. The bike had to be cleaned five times before it resembled its former self and the panniers needed fumigating before we dared carry anything important. I even had to wash my helmet twice.

Would I do it again? What do you think?

Ain’t biking great!

Bluesboy