Dickens wrote about 'A far, far better thing…..' and while he meant it about an Anglo/French tragedy, I feel the sentiment is sound when referring to riding a motorcycle off-road, as opposed to on. And if he'd ever given it a try, then I'm sure he would have agreed!
I've been riding bikes for the thick end of thirty years and apart from a solitary off-road experiment (involving a six-cylinder Honda and a large sand-pit - not a happy union) I have never tried the pleasures of gettin' down an' dirty! This all changed a scant few days ago. And it really is 'A far, far better thing.' Although it's not all sunshine and roses, as I can attest, sat here as I am, nursing my swollen elbow and bruised gluteus maximus. Arnica really is good stuff!
It all began with the chance of a beer...
Neale, intrepid rider of all things knackered, became the 700th owner of a late forties Matchbox, Steve bought it and became the 701'st and quite correctly affixed a 'Guaranteed Not Phillip's Prepared' sticker on it which is only right and proper and I think mandatory in the club.
And so to the roads, or rather the green lanes. Neale can always be relied upon to misread a map properly and so it proved. There is a route called the Wayfarers that uses about 500 yards of roadway, and the rest, totally legal green-lanes. It all looked so simple on the map…
Oh dear god. I swear that first Sunday afternoon that I was praying for that blessed guillotine to fall - I would have gladly traded places with Charles Darney if he would have ridden the bloody thing and let me walk. Two hours it took us to get to Llandrillo. I was, it's fair to say, pooped.
But what an absolute riot. I think I was more knackered 'cos I'd spent so much time rolling around on the floor gasping for breath. Neale seriously expected us to traverse a lane, no wider than a horse's hind quarters, with an average gradient of one in four, stepped in slate slabs, running with water, and mud everywhere it wasn't actually a river, did he? Yes, he certainly did.
That was the third bit of lane we attacked. The first two had just lulled us into a false sense of security. Doddle this green laning lark, I collectively thought. The first two, looking back were as difficult a trial as a posh houses' gravelled drive - except there was the occasional puddle for that authentic off-roader look.
About half way up the Eiger, I paused. The incline looked bloody near vertical, upfront there was a sissy Matchbox slithering backwards towards me with its engine roaring, and wheel spinning, a manic collection of limbs appeared to be riding it - badly. I laughed so much it hurt.
Then I couldn't re-start the bloody thing - come back little button, I miss you so. At least I wasn't alone in that.
Neale pushed and pulled the gates, and I supported the bikes while we tried to start the bloody things, shouted encouragement to each other, egging us on to greater efforts (not that I had a lot of choice - it was just as daunting to try and go back), and finally, by sheer will-power, perseverance, and perspiration, we got to the top - and collapsed.
I hated Neale at that moment, with a passion that even Dickens couldn't have portrayed.
Eventually two little old blokes staggered into the Pub. Diner had never tasted so good. Or been so needed. Dehydration can be very dangerous you know and I for one had a tiny micro-climate inside my jacket. Was it a rain forest? It certainly smelt like it.
BUT I HAD DONE IT!
