I know we've already had one account of this, and there's no way I can match that one, but hey work is slow and I'm bored, got to keep myself entertained somehow!

So here's a story of heading South to Yorkshire...

Laura

PS It's too long for one post, so I've split it into instalments...

On the HU Edinburgh Community’s trip to Applecross I found my niche. For the first time ever riding in a group, my N-reg GPZ wasn’t the oldest bike there. It didn’t feel like the poor relation in a sleek coterie of buff sportsbikes. Admittedly, it’s not best suited to touring either. But it does the job more than adequately, and in my anthropomorphic way I like to think that it’s happier wandering around with me, in spite of bumps and scratches, than it was in its previous cosseted garage life. So, mechanical issues notwithstanding, there was never much doubt we’d be heading for the unknown wilds of Tan Hill…

I’ve agreed to travel down with Alex, even though that means waiting till he’s finished work and riding in the dark. So I have ample time to pack, make the necessary fluid and tyre checks, and watch the trees blow around ever more violently. After moving to Scotland, I learned very quickly that rain and cold can be dealt with. The real enemy is wind. “There’s no such thing as bad weather, only the wrong clothes,” said Billy Connolly. Which may be true, but I wish he’d elaborated a bit more about what garments he had in mind to keep you upright and in full control of your direction in a gale.

About mid-morning I hear a crashing noise. And an alarm going off. My alarm. The local kids have a habit of kicking the disk lock to set off its alarm, but something tells me that mid-morning on a weekday there’s a reasonable chance they’ll be in school – annoying though they might be at times, they’re not as rebellious as they like to pretend. Quick peek out of the window. The bike is lying on its side, cover billowing, apparently…underneath the front of my neighbour’s car. I know the neighbour is in, as he doesn’t seem to have mastered the art of civilised conversation, and frequently converses with his mate in the building opposite by simply opening the window and hollering. I grab some shoes, and a jacket, all the while waiting for the knock on the door and, depending on his mood, either a tirade of abuse or an offer of help. Given he’s often drunk by this time of day, neither would be hugely welcome.

I manage to make it outside undetected, and pull back the cover. Turns out that the only part of the bike to hit the car was the screen, which bent as it came into contact with the bumper, snapping part of the fairing but leaving the neighbour’s car unscathed. Whilst undeniably relieved that I don’t have to deal with damage to someone else’s property, I can’t help thinking it would have been nice to find the bike fine and the bumper smashed – the only reason he’s parked so close is because he’s engaged in a parking war with our other neighbour (who owns a van, a minibus, a Jeep, a caravan, a small trailer, a boat and a bike. I can see why this could annoy, but surely sheer strength of numbers means he’s won by default?).

Although not hugely heavy, the GPZ still takes a fair effort for me to lift. Following the fall, it’s lying seat side to the car, with about enough gap between the two for me to perch there on tiptoes. I’m going to have to drag it out. Bugger. Luckily, part of the cover is still trapped underneath, and should provide some protection. Slight tug. The bike moves just enough for me to squeeze in and crouch down between it and the car. After a few attempts, I finally heave it upright again. (I’m not going to go into details on this, as when I mentioned the incident in the pub that night it led to lengthy discussions involving mats. I’m always grateful for advice, but have come to the conclusion that explaining one method’s merits over another with mats is not going to either enlighten or convince me either way.)

Time to inspect the damage. The screen itself is OK, just slightly scratched. The right indicator has popped out, but it does that quite often. Easy fix. There’s a random bit of metal on the ground. Looks important. There’s often a lot of crap on the ground outside our flats, but gut instinct tells me this one is mine. Ah. Off the bottom of the footpeg. Not actually sure what it does, so we’ll ignore that one. Everything else looks in order except… Yep. The hours of work fiddling with the throttle/heated grip combo so that the one didn’t interfere with the other has all been undone. The bar end has been pushed in towards the grip, and it catches on the rubber. Oh well, guess now I’ve got something to keep me busy till I leave!

The problem with keeping your bike outside and having to do anything to it is that you realise very quickly just how cold it is. Everything cosmetic is abandoned, as is anything that would require me to remove my gloves. The bar end is simply moved back out with a washer made of gaffer tape. Tyres, oil, done.

Back to hanging around. I have this thing about nerves and waiting. I don’t know what causes it, and it has nothing to do with any perceived risk relating to the activity in question. If I’m meeting someone for coffee at 3 and have nothing to do after 1, I’ll get the bus early in case it breaks down. If I’m getting a plane, the very fact that I didn’t have to rush means it will crash. And if I’m heading off on the bike, in gale force winds, in the dark and the cold, to an unknown location in the middle of Yorkshire, to camp, then God only knows. My stomach ties itself in knots. I can’t even load the bike up, cos it’s afternoon now so the kids are back, and there’s no way they’ll leave the panniers alone. So I pace, and move things around, and write myself directions – which don’t actually follow the most direct route to Tan Hill, as I’m utterly convinced I’ll miss the white road off the A66.

Finally, the time comes to load up and ride down to Cameron Toll to meet Alex. Suddenly the nerves are gone. The bike didn’t sustain any critical but undetected damage from the fall, and the wind isn’t too bad (possibly because, while my street is a wind tunnel, the main road down is fairly sheltered. But we’ll ignore that.).

Pull into Cameron Toll (early, of course) and fill up. There’s another biker there, with something small and battered.
“Are you any good with these things?” she asks, waving an air hose around. “I think it’s just let all the air out of my tyre!”
I’m not, but try and help nonetheless. It seems the connector on the hose is actually too big for the bike’s valves. She knows this, but apparently there’s a knack, only she doesn’t seem to have it any more. In the absence of usefulness on my part, we chat for a bit. I tell her where we’re going.
“You’re going to Yorkshire? Tonight? In this? To camp?”
Err…yes.
“Someone else picked the weekend.” I’m slightly on the defensive, partly because this isn’t actually the maddest thing I’ve ever done (swimming off the West coast of Brittany in November springs to mind for that one), and partly because, if I’m honest, trying to pump up your bike’s tyres with a pump you know is liable to deflate them instead strikes me as rather more daft, in the grand scheme of things.
Then Alex turns up.
“How would you feel about a bit of off-roading?”
Err…maybe?
“I’ve got a satellite image, and the road we want does this, but there’s a farm track that cuts the corner, it’s much more direct.”
He has a point. And I have, after all, ridden the GPZ through inch-deep gravel in a rut over a tiny humpback bridge to get to a campsite before now. The only difference here would be choosing to do that, when there is a perfectly viable, tarmac alternative.
“Err… Why don’t we see when we get there? I’m not sure how easily we’ll be able to find a dirt track in the dark in a gale.”
“OK! Did you get fuel? How far is it?”
“Yeah, it’s about 150 miles, with a full tank I’ll easily do it in one.”
“Hmm, I’ve used about 50 from my tank, should be enough left as long as we don’t get lost.” Pause. “I’ll get some fuel.”