Fact; Young or old, riding a motorbike makes you come alive. Thanks to the icy weather and this infernal winter cold and cough which appears to be doing the rounds, I have ridden only a handful of times since December. It’s been three weeks since I caught the “bug” and I don’t mean motorcycling! Whilst the sneezing has ceased the niggling cough remains though it has eased considerably during the last few days. The weather is still cold, as it should be this time of year but at least it affords us drier periods without the frost and ice of late, so more “biking” on the cards.

Having a few chores to do I decided rather than drive to the post office and shops I would instead venture out on my naked “street-fighter” style GSXR750. The road looked dry, patches of bright blue sky and the hint of sunshine were an invitation which would be impolite if not criminal to decline. There was a chill in the air but hey, fresh air and the smell of the countryside beckoned. Pulling the bike out from the garage I could see it was in need of a wash and some TLC, this I could do tomorrow I decided so, choke-on and a quick “stab” on the starter button and she immediately “fired-into life”, thoughts of my neighbours discontent flickered in my head for a moment, though if I’m honest soon dispersed as the crackle of the engine filled the air. Eeasing off the choke and blipping the throttle, the “quartet” of cylinders filled the neighbourhood with the deep sound of pistons pumping and fuel flowing, “music” to all petrol heads in the vicinity. Togged up I sat on the bike, lifting the side stand and clicking into first gear I eased the bike up the driveway, having checked the brakes were working I rode out of the street and headed for my local garage.

Pumping air into the tyres, chore  number one, on the GSXR750 isn’t easy, the angled valve adapator I usually carry in the arm pocket of my jacket wasn’t there, loaned to a mate no doubt and forgot to ask for it back! Memory isn’t always what it used to be. Bending the pumps airline to reach the straight tyre valve on the wheels is awkward to say the least. Why manufacturers don’t fit angled valves as standard is ridiculous, but having battled with the air line for a while I succeeded with pumping the much needed “life” into the tyres which always lose a few pounds when the bike has been left standing for any length of time. Chore number two; I popped into the post office, posted the letters and almost ran out to my bike, eager to have “a blast”.

Heading out of Wombourne on the Bridgnorth road I decided to turn right on to the “rabbit run”. As I turned I overtook the pickup truck that was dawdling and having pulled back to the near side I accelerated through the gears to third just as my back wheel hit the first crest in the road, I twisted the throttle a little more; the front wheel lifted a few inches before I touced it back down, lining up for the left hander then the first sweeping right hand bend before the road straightens out. With clear vision ahead and nothing behind me I positioned for the next left before a short series of tighter bends. Exiting the right hand bend near the farm shop on my left I saw a car on my side which I was fast approaching. A road junction situated to the left which runs alongside the main road, tall grass and hedges obscuring my vision made me hold back but once I could see the junction was clear and the vehicle approaching was a safe distance away I moved over to the opposite carriageway and accelerated swiftly passed the car and back onto the near side, it felt good, I mean “really good”. The air held a chill but with the blood coursing through me, the adrenalin pumping as I rode, it didn’t seem to matter. Looking well ahead, planning my position, gear and speed I felt “great“. My mind was transported back to my teenage years, the feeling of freedom, the excitement of speed and agility only a bike can bring filled my head and my heart. I felt “together” with my bike, the surface of the road, each undelation and bump transmitted to my body through the bikes suspension and bars enabling me to control the bike on its throttle, ever so slight adjustments making the ride just that more pleasurable. Leaning into the twisties, moving my body position over the bike, pushing gently on the bars to ease the bike around the left and right hand bends, head lifted looking to where I would plant the bike next, this all contributing to making me “feel alive, truly alive”. I had a big beaming smile on my face, I found myself “laughing”as I rode. Only a biker can really relate to this feeling of total euphoria. Today I felt “better” today I knew “I had come-back” from a dark period that had engulfed me these past few weeks.

Dark clouds were descending as I headed home, gone were the patches of blue sky, the sun never having made a full appearance. I decided to head back through the village of Seisdon and Bratch Locks. The lane was narrow and from the amount of mud collecting in the middle of the lane, evidence that this road was used by local farm tractors. Signs were posted “road prone to flooding”, presumably from excess water draining off the adjacent fields. There were sections of road that were just wet, others with a film of slimy mud where large vehicles had straddled the mound of mud that had built-up along the middle section of the road. These were tricky conditions which made the narrow road difficult to navigate safely. Despite it being a “national” you would have to be an idiot to ride it at 60-mph in these conditions. The road was a “twistie” too and the level of mud in the centre, cutting the already narrow road into two made it impossible in places to use the full width of it to improve forward vision. Only thing to do was to choose my position with care and drop my speed considerably. Eventually a “T” junction appeared and the road heading toward Bratch Locks was dry, still narrow but as I was now able to use the full section of road I could increase my pace as I was able to see well ahead and once again the “music” from the engine filled the air as I “danced a tune through the gearbox” amplified eloquently by the 4:1 exhaust system.

Arriving home in Wombourbe the street where I live is very peaceful and quiet, I love living here. Usually the only sounds are from the children playing on the school field which is located to the rear of our house and street. Until that is when I returned; the exhaust sound as addictive as it is I can’t resist, when I pull up onto my drive just one last “little blip” of the throttle, before killing the engine. The air suddenly goes quiet, all that can be heard now is the spinning noise from the fan as it cools the radiator and the periodic “clinking” noise from the engine as it cools and as it does the melody previously loud and tuneful simply softens and fades.