My final day at work was uneventful. Indeed, my 5 years in a car dealership in Ballymoney was uneventful. I wonder what the dominant memories of it will be as I get further away from it. Will I miss the almost daily procession of the James Mullan funeral cortege as it passes the showroom window each day? Sometimes I wondered if my face was more glum than the mourners who trailed the coffin. There were many days when I felt that if just one more person phoned and in their thick Antrim accent shouted 'stores' down the phone at me in the hope of me magically materialising a front strut for an MOT test due in an hour, I would of my own volition, climb into the cold deathly silent sanctuary of the passing coffin. The dark hordes of the general public had become far more fearsome to me than an army of Orcs would be to any given hobbit, probably.

One of my final acts at work was to be interviewed by a friend who also happened to be a journalist for the local Coleraine Chronicle newspaper. The Times this is not. It's generally filled with attention grabbing headlines like 'Man burgles garden nursery', or 'Man marries woman', or 'Man wins Annual Derry Banty Hen Meet'. That I was heading off on a trip like this is probably not as interesting as the missing Asparagus from Damhead nursery, or the matrimonial ecstacy of Jim and Sandra or even Robin's exceptional skills at breeding 'catwalk' birds, but any chance of it sounding in the remotest bit adventurous will be immediately undermined with the title Clare will be forced to adopt. My money is on 'Man gets on motorbike and rides somehwere'. Granted, 'away from here' isn't exactly a turbo/testosterone/adrenaline-charged rubric, but I'm not trying to pay salaries never mind make money off of it!

A day after I departed the car trade, I had to make another departure, from my parent's house. In fact, on thinking about it now, this journey is going to be about continual departures, but each departure will have, I hope, an equal and opposite arrival, for that is the way of travel. When those two acts cease to be in intimate relationship with each other, it's probably too late to worry about it!

Having had some restless sleep I was first up and did some final re-organising and securing of luggage. As per usual, I had the 'don't be doing anything stupid' instruction, which, I presume, doesn't cover mistakingly packing bike body polish and consequently giving my chain a liberal coat of it in Cambridge (because Motul don't help big picture people like me who go by the colour of the can and not the name on it), but rather encompasses more life-threatening occurences like base jumping with my bike attached to me, slapping up some Russian border official for the sheer craic of it, or asking a Siberian bear if he'd watch over my bike while I sleep etc. Sorry, that was a long sentence.

We had some good time together over breakfast, said a few prayers/blessings for safety etc, and awaited the arrival of a clutch of pikey's to accompany me to the docks in Belfast. After we all had coffee and a bit of banter, my now renowned laid-back approach to sailing schedules, flight times and general travel arrangements, had them pushing me out the door for fear of 'the away from here project' being stalled at the Stena port. We got on the road and it dawned on me that perhaps I needed to get a groove on. Unfortunately the headlights of the convoy disappeared from my rear-view mirror at around Cultra. I just made check in and had the bike lashed down in the vehicle deck when Jed (spikerjack) called to say they'd arrived and where was I for the obligatory farewell photo shoot. Sorry Jed, Mike and Andy, my bad, and thanks for seeing me off!

There were 3 other erstwhile bikers on the boat. One of which was very erstwhile, two slightly less erstwhile, and my being least erstwhile at this point. You're wondering what constitutes 'an erstwhile biker' now, be honest. Duncan and Liz were at the Isle of Man TT and toured Ireland after. They were now making their way to Newcastle to get back home to Holland. Yannick was a 20 year-old Swiss fella who'd been on the road for 2 months on his 650 Dakar. He'd begun off-roading in Tunisia and was now working his way around Europe with 2 months remaining. Duncan and Liz kindly donated one of those furry things with the sticky feet and instructed that if possible I bring him to Siberia. They called him 'Duncliz' and he now sits proudly on Pietro's binnacle.

I got off the boat into a beautiful Scottish day and began making my way through Scotland to the borders. Time was short as I had to meet Jon (everywherevirtually) at the Windmill near Manchester and then beat it down to Cambridge to watch the England vs USA match at a bit of a reunion with some old friends. Jon and I sat in the sun catching up, laughing, watching a wedding party and some sports bikers paw over my laden bike bemused that I'd be going so far. It was then time to saddle up and ride some of the roads Jon had planned to take me over. The highlight was obviously the Cat and the Fiddle road across the Pennines down into Buxton. The local authorities have seen fit to clamp down on the speed of this road resulting in 2 way facing average speed cameras to prevent further biker fatalaties. It is a nice road, but still isn't up to the pleasure of the north coast road of Ireland. It was good to be out with Jon again and to see the great job he's done on the substitute bike.

From here I pressed on at pace to Cambridge and ran out of fuel 10 miles from my destination, with an alleged 15 miles left in the reserve. Deja vu to my European trip 2 years ago. Now, for some 16 months this has never happened. After my trip around Europe where I ran out at least 4 times owing to a faulty fuel gauge reader, it was replaced and when the computer said '4 miles left' it meant 'there are four miles left'. A week before I was due to leave, Hurst Motorrad informed me that there was a recall to be done which would see them drop a more accurate fuel reader into the bike. More accurate it is not. Luckily I had a couple of spare litres in the tool tubes and so was quickly able to get back on the road and catch the last 15 mins of what was apparently a fairly dull footballing encounter.

The following evening I left Cambridge and headed down the M11 for London. As dusk was approaching I thought I'd ride through the centre and get a shot of Westminster and the London Eye with the bike in the foreground. I lived in this neck of the woods for many years, so the photos here are more for the benediction of the readers than the writer.

Yesterday morning I made for the Kazakhstan consulate to request a visa. I needed more passport photos. So I rode on up Brompton, parked the bike in a 'motorcycle's only' bay, went into Snappy Snaps and had some photos taken. While that was being done I filled out the visa form, and returned 15 mins later to a kind message from the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea to pay a 120 note fine or 60 if paid within 14 days. Cue some anger. I noticed that it had been issued 2 mins before I got to the bike, so I ran around looking for the attendant in question. Clearly, out of shame he/she had disappeared because there wasn't one to be seen. Anyway, I made it back to the embassy and submitted my application. It's a 3 day turnaround and they wouldn't do it quicker. So if the Mongolian embassy have the same inflexibility, I'll have to buy my visa for there at the Russia/Mongolian border.

On returning back to Pete and Becca's close to Peckham Rye, I was almost outside their house when 1 min before I arrived, armageddon was unravelling before my eyes. Some black guy had, it would transpire, stolen a big old Merc and driven it down Peckham Rye on the wrong side of the road at a speed in excess of 100mph. Now back in the sticks where I've been living, this wouldn't offer much collateral risk, other than maybe to a few sheep at the side of the road. In congested London, this is like dropping your foot on an ant trail. He buried the front of the Mercedes into a car which then hit 3 others and spun them off into walls. Somehow he managed to get out of the Merc and tried to make an escape. Being dazed from the airbag explosion and the force of the collision, he was easy to stop, so I saw a couple of civilians throw him down on the ground until a couple of police arrived. Ambulances, fire trucks, dozens of police and air ambulances then began to arrive. Cars were cut in half to get the occupants out and this blood stained idiot was lying on the road trying to resist arrest. In the end it took 4 police and 2 civilians to get the cuffs on. I was tempted to go and make their job easier by introducing his face to my motocross boot, but they're white and I didn't want criminal blood on them. On top of that, while the police might have chosen to ignore my momentary act of assistance had I've actioned it, if they didn't, trouble with two London boroughs in a day might have contravened the afore mentioned 'don't do anything stupid' instruction. While in Cambridge, my friend Anthony, who, incidentally, has a reputed and unparalleled speed of wit (seriously, Stephen Fry or David Mitchell are tardy in comparison) cocked his head, looked at me and said 'so you're going to Mongolia on a motorbike.' pause, 'And why?' I think my answer now would be along the lines of 'given if I'd appeared at this scene barely a minute earlier I'd be picking a three pointed star out of my arse, the open steppes of Mongolia are a lot less hazardous than the streets of London town.'

Today I'm having a quieter one which will be spent sorting out this little netbook (PC's are a curse) for the trip, trying to procure chain lube safe in the knowledge that polish isn't a worthy replacement for a continent hopping journey, writing, scrawling a letter to the Borough of Kensington and Chelsea pleading ignorance, for I genuinely had no idea that a bike in a bay like this was subject to the 'permit holders only' statute. Added to that, the only other bike in the bay must have had some kind of sophisticated cloaking device making it either invisible or immune to the pestulent predatory parking attendants of said borough FOR IT DEFINITELY DIDN'T HAVE A PERMIT! If they don't offer me discretionary mercy, they can send in the bailiffs. I'll be the one in the green tent at 145 degrees long and 80 lat!

It has been wonderful to get up and bask in the freedom of not having to tend to tedious administration, or appraise cars...that groundhog has been well and truly exercised. On top of that, I've been able to catch up with people who helped make life so good here back in the day, but I'm switched into 'trip mode'. Giving my devoted attention to the endless unfurling of tarmac is my job for the next weeks. Sitting still in a city feels a little like I've stalled. Pietro is locked up out the back (I hope!) and I imagine him to be unimpressed with this temporary interruption to proceedings. And so unless there's anything worthy of posting, this'll be me until I hit the road to cross to Europe at the weekend.

Best,
S

















Away From Here

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