A Soggy Ride.

After having the chain adjusted at FWR in Kennington (Free as promised on the phone, they're lovely, really go buy stuff from them) I pointed the bike Westwards towards Cornwall and opened the throttle. The weather was soggy but nothing major that got through any of my clothing. I negotiated the A4 out to the 316 and eventually onto the M3. My brother had told me how uncomfortable this weekend would be, 600 miles in a day and a half, he always takes the car if he's heading too far now.

This being the first "long" trip on this, and indeed any, bike I had printed out the route for the first leg to Kingsbridge in Devon (despite knowing the way) so I could plan petrol stations and breaks. I figured it would take a while to get out of town so the first one was at Fleet, just 40miles in, then another on the A303 for fuel, followed by another just after Exeter for more petrol.

As I hit the A316, my back started to Spasm, painfully; I thought that was it, turn around and go right home. I persevered and it went away after a few minutes; never to return again. It took just over an hour to get from Southwark to Fleet, pretty much as expected. Pulled up and had a stretch, then got right back on.

It started to drizzle a bit at this point, and this pretty much set the tone for the rest of the ride down. I was impressed with the bike on the M3, and made full use of the fairing, partly because I was tucking in to take the weight off my wrists, and it allowed me to stretch out my back; but also because it kept the worst of the weather off. Although without the airflow through the lower vents on the helmet, my visor and glasses soon began to mist up; though this was easily resolved by peeking over the top every now and again.

By this stage I had settled into the groove, the restricted engine seems to like a steady 6k rpm, which in 6th gear was between 85 and 90mph (indicated), this speed was also perfectly comfortable without too much windblast, even when sat up. I really do like having a screen.

I pulled off onto the A303, my favourite road, ever. It disappointed me this time though, instead of a steady stream of long sweeping curves and great vista it was full of Caravans and traffic heading South West for the weekend, and completely ground to a halt in places. I'd been worried because it's Glastonbury weekend and thought that all the middle class kids would be heading down there to rough it with the hippies, but I saw very little evidence of this. I suppose the moral is don't head South West on a Friday afternoon in the summer.

Pretty soon I decided to get out of this for a moment, and pulled into Solstice services, just past Stonehenge (as you'd probably already worked out). I rolled into the car park and put the stand down with the bike in gear. It cut out, as it's designed to do. However, it wouldn't start again. The starter button didn't do anything, it didn't even turn the engine over, just a loud silence. I checked the electrics, everything else worked, the horn was loud, all lights were fine. I checked the kill switch, I even double checked the immobiliser (having learnt my lesson last time). Still nothing. I began to worry at this stage. I'd had the foresight to bring my breakdown number this time, but really didn't want to have to use it. I began to form the idea that water had worked into the ignition system. A quick phone call to the lovely *spidermonkey* at BAT revealed the same opinion, so I went and bought some WD40 from the petrol station. On a whim I tried firing her up again before using the WD40, spluttered into life first time. I gave it a few squirts in anything that looked like a connection or switch anyway just to be on the safe side. I then rode back over to the petrol station to fill up. This had all taken about 45 minutes by this stage and I was losing time, I had a deadline to arrive in Kingsbridge to meet my Uncle for a drink. So headed off again.

The journey continued much as before, though the slower I was going the more stress it put on my poor wrists, so I was keen to get back up to speed, the 303 denied me this though, and it turned into a procession of vehicles, with the odd opportunity to blast by a few. The rain hadn't let up, though neither had my waterproofs, so the only real problem was vision. The Maxxis Rear Tyre was supreme, once it's up to temperature it'll cope with anything I chose to throw at it, even in the wet.

Another quick splash and dash and I was on the A30, which was much clearer and I made good time to Exeter. I'd decided to avoid the Exeter services, as I don't think I've ever actually passed them, I've always stopped, so I waited for the A38 at Kenwood before my final fuel stop. I was surprised at the economy, I was getting 60 - 70mpg at speed, presumably because it was low revs and constant, rather than the stop start usual to my daily ride in London.

Soon I was on the twisty, high hedged B roads of South Devon for the last 15 miles into Kingsbridge. The sun came out and it was instantly how riding was meant to be. Fun, fast, grippy and exhilarating.

I arrived just before 7, a total of five and a half hours after setting out, not great time for 213 miles on fast roads. No real discomfort despite the heavy backpack and hunched up position, I did need to stretch the knee out quite often, much to the probable bemusement of other motorists as a bike passed them with the rider apparently cocking his leg.

The next morning saw me up at 6 and ready to head off further west, first to Saltash, then on to Liskeard. Again, awesome fun between Kingsbridge and the A38, then onto the fast flowing Devon Expressway all the way to Plymouth and the Tamar Bridge. I wish I could have stopped and had a closer look at Brunell's railway bridge alongside, but I had a meeting with the Mayor of Saltash at 9, and I wasn't going to be late. Saltash is immediately the otherside of the river to Plymouth and I was soon parked up at my destination.

An hour or so later and it was raining. Hard. I pulled the gear back on, heart a bit heavy. I knew that however wet I got now was likely to last all the way until I got back to London in the evening. As I hit the A38 again for the short hop to Liskeard it became torrential, rivers running across the road and my right Frank Thomas Aquasprint (guaranteed bone dry) full of water. The left one was ok though, i'll change them. It got so bad that I couldn't see anything, I had no choice but to pull over, but with no shelter for miles around it just made me wetter. At least I wasn't riding blind anymore. A brief respite in the deluge and I was back on the bike, desperate to cover the last three miles before it started again.

Upon arrival I was drenched, but not inside the gear too much. I can't praise Richa Monsoon trousers enough, even my cheap Spada jacket held up, and only let in a little water through the zip. My wallet in the pocket was not so fortunate though, and everything had to hit the radiators for a while. I was very disappointed with the boots though. The right one must be faulty, as the left held up fine. My crap summer gloves are still wet.

I spent a few hours in Liskeard before heading back down the A38 towards Kingsbridge. It rained solidly, again until the turn off for Kingsbridge, which has it's own weather. It's on a peninsula hanging off the bottom of Devon so is often missed by the main weather systems and bright and sunny when all else is drenched.

When I got to my uncle's couldn't face riding straight off, so I mooched for an hour or so before heading off at Quarter to Six.

When I left it was glorious sunshine and I stopped at a place called California Cross for a fill up. I then hit the road, determined not to pull over until the bike was in need of more fuel.

This riding was great, the roads were dry and riding towards London on a Saturday afternoon is a much better idea than heading South West on a Friday afternoon, there was barely any other traffic.

As the bike went further and further on the one tank I whooped inside the helmet - at the first sign with London less than 100 miles away; as I passed Stonehenge, all little milestones that the bike just ate up, frugally sipping at it's go go juice.

2 hours later and I was nearing the M3. I'd averaged 70mph, including the 20 minutes of slow twisty roads to get out of Kingsbridge and the villages along the A303. The fuel light still hadn't come on. I'd done 145miles on the tank and began to worry that the light wasn't working. I was also desperate for a pee and a stretch after two solid hours in the saddle. When I filled up, the bike only took 12 litres to full, I had enough for at least another 40 miles. My bladder had let me down before the petrol ran out. I'd managed 65mpg, running on magic seemingly, from hard and fast riding, and home was only 70 miles away now. I was looking at the possibility of being home within 4 hours of setting off. I'd not ached during this whole part of the trip, bar the knee which is a special case and always aches. I seemed to lose the groove on the second part, and the aches set in, a niggle here, an ouchie there; nothing serious though.

It started to rain when I hit the M3, but as before, just some light drizzle, before I knew it I was on the M25. Riding along in puzzlement as each of the flashing overheard signs lit up to display "Animals in Road -Slow", all the way from Junction 13 to Junction 6. I didn't see a herd of wild Boars or even a horse, so I guess they were faulty. I was soon on the also-traffic-free A25 heading to Westerham, Biggin Hill and home. It had only taken me three and three quarter hours to cover the 220 miles.

The bike was filthy, the exhaust encrusted in a layer of grime so thick that you could see it around the end of the pipe; and the rear tyre was squared off from 600 miles of hard riding. I just couldn't be bothered to wash it though. I was sore and tired; I resolved to find a jet wash in the morning and treat it to a full rub down and spa treatment.

I've covered 1200 miles in 2 weeks since buying the bike. I might have to back off some so I don't have to fork out for new tyres every month. The Chain and Sprockets already need doing! My brothers warning about the discomfort was unfounded. The SV didn't give me sore buttocks or anything making me wish I as somewhere else the whole weekend, his TT must have seat made of steel. I'd rather have been on the bike, though maybe in the dry.

South on the '23

Sunday morning greeted me with glorious sunshine and a plan. I was going to fight through my hangover and ride to Burgess Hill to visit an old school friend, JW, at her house. Having not seen her for a few years I was a little nervous, understandably.

I left home at about 10:30 and took the South Circular around to the start of the A23, pointed the bike south and basked in the the weather.

The journey was about a 90 mile round trip, and the first 10 miles passed in minutes, over the dreaded Purley Way flyover with barely another car on the road. As I passed Croydon airport that all changed, the traffic was solid, not merely moving slowly, but not moving at all. I filtered past seemingly endless miles of this until I got to the front of the hold up at Russell Hill. There was a police car blocking the road. I asked the officer how long would be shut for, and why it was shut and just as I was getting the usual non-commital answer I heard his radio chirp into life, the road was being reopened. I jumped back on to the SV, hit the starter and. Nothing. It was cranking over but not catching. I turned the lights and other electrics off and tried again. Still nothing. The PC stopped the traffic for me to push to the side of the road, where I stood baffled. A new battery went into it a week before, it was certainly warmed up. What was going on? I grabbed my mobile phone and began to think of options. I didn't have the breakdown service's number, it was at home, but FlatMate was away for the weekend. Scrub option one. I could call directory enquiries, but they never have the right number. Scrub option two. I could phone a friend with the internet and ask them to look. Viable, but it was early on a Sunday morning. Scrub option three. Then it hit me.

The fucking immobiliser.

Oh yes, it self arms after 20 seconds. I wasted 10 minutes because I forgot about it. Fires up first time and I sheepishly continue my journey, cursing myself obscenely.

It's glorious now, the tyres are gripping, the bike's on form, the sun is blazing and before long I'm at the start of the M23, the short motorway, seemingly built just to go round Gatwick Airport. I work up through the gears and sit the bike at a nice steady 85mph or so. It likes this territory on the speedo, a bit more pull if needed, not too windy and some good comfort. I pull over at Pease Pottage services to strap the tankbag strap around the headstock, just in case, as I'm still a little paranoid that it'll fly off the bike at speed taking my mobile, my wallet, my life with it.

All too soon is was pulling off onto the Burgess Hill road and arrived at my friend's a short distance from the motorway.

I stayed for a few hours, had a fantastic time catching up with the last few year, had a delightful lunch in a village pub and reminisced over some old photos, until it got late in the day and I had to bid a very fond farewell.

On the way back I decided to avoid the nightmare of the A23 and took the M23 up to the M25, then followed it one junction to the A22 at Junction 6, a quiet little road that takes me most of the way home, up to Purley, through South Croydon up to Shirley, then Elmer's End and up the hill to Crystal Palace, down Gipsy Hill admiring the simply stunning view of London it offers; and home.

The bike was looking pretty grubby after yesterday's rain session so she got the works, wash, scrub and a rub down till she was gleaming like new again. I really need to invest in a paddock stand soon, the chain is in need of a scrub and relube, after 600 miles it really should be done soon. I'll pop it on the wish list.