12 horses

I usually don’t mind riding in the rain, but this morning was a bummer.

My FZ1 was due her 12,000 mile service, which meant riding twice my usual commute. I was wearing my guaranteed 100% waterproof trousers, my usual double-shelled 100% waterproof jacket, thick winter waterproof gloves, and the usual waterproof stompers.

On paper I was wet-proof.

But this is Scotland. I don’t think there’s rain gear anywhere on the planet that can withstand the freaky meteorological chaos of this miserable, sodden land. The rain doesn’t come down, it comes horizontally, and sometimes even up. Staying dry – even at sane speeds – is an unattainable fantasy.

This morning I made about thirty good miles before the seeping started. This is not a nice moment. You feel that slow ice water trickle, and it doesn’t matter what you’re doing – if the front wheel is off the ground or you’re scraping the pegs – you feel it acutely, and know that the ride can now only descend into unpleasantness. Ingress has been established. There’s no way back. Come, the trickle says, come join with me and dampen what we can. Dampen until all sense of comfort has been claimed.

This time it started in the heel of my left boot, spreading out through my toes. I knew it was over. Through all the defences there was found a breach. The little fingers on my right hand were next, spreading fast. Cold, so cold – the discomfort deepens into a full-on ache.

Seeping is not just unpleasant but distracting too. I picture my destination, miles away, with the knowledge that once I’ve dropped off the bike I’ll have to get on the loaner (if I’m lucky) and then wrestle these nasty wet gloves back onto my frozen hands, and then just head back up the road, more miserable than ever. Gritting of teeth. Shaking of fist. Futile revving of engine. Out. Of. My. Way.

I made it to the dealership just seconds after crotch-seep. My day is now officially ruined. I picture walking about the office displaying my freshly-peed pants. A nice look.

There’s really only one thing I like about my Yamaha dealership: it’s the two girls than run the store upstairs. The blond – who I’ve seen in leather – greets me warmly. My boots are squelching as I walk. A puddle forms where I stop to talk to her. She laughs. I tell her how I feel. I think I even swore. She commiserates – she rode in too – but somehow she looks dry. I felt better though. She knew about seepage, and that was nice. But then I had to go downstairs and set up the gig.

Downstairs is like metal bits in your oil. The parts men moan; the mechanics scold.

The basement is an inevitable and depressing part of service. The only plus is that they have a few classic bikes sitting there unused and unloved. A 1974 Honda CB650: beautiful – I’d like one in my living room. And the 1980 six-cylinder CBX – I’d like to ride it, hard. But I don’t want to be there. The parts man is frowning. He answers the phone and addresses the unseen caller as “friend”. It smells of burnt oil and dirt and unwashedness. Close overhead the neon bleaches everything. I feel awkward too, at a disadvantage, because I know that no matter how friendly I am, I will still be quietly judged. They don’t like me much there. Mostly because I don’t wash my bike enough.

When I finally get back upstairs I ask the blond if I can borrow a bike for the day. She’s happy to see me again (how long does it take to just hand over the keys?) and tells me: “Of course!”.

All that I am hoping for at this point is a Yamaha Diversion 400 like they gave me last time. But then the dark one comes along – usually just as accommodating as the blond – but this time she’s arctic. She looks at the blond and then back at me. “Nope. We have a test on Wednesday, so everything’s out. Well, unless you want a YBR?” The blond has left quietly. But everything’s still OK – I’ve been offered a bike and I have many miles to go.

She tells me it’s a 125. I say sure, that sounds like fun. Little did I know. I sign some papers. I’m given the keys by the new guy, and he’s telling me how to press the different buttons, which are exactly the same as every other bike on the planet. I’ve just stepped off a 150hp motorcycle and here he is telling me this wee shiny beauty only has 12.

12 horses! Was he serious? How was I going to get to work on this?

I decided against the motorway. I quickly planned a route that would bypass the M8, leaving me playing in city traffic with not much more than a motorized bicycle. Through lovely Paisley (a shit-hole, as most Scots describe it, and so far I’ve seen nothing to the contrary) and on to my destination.

I donned my helmet and lovely sodden gloves and pulled into traffic. I immediately realized what a different game I was now playing. This was not a beast I was driving, it was a vole. A blind, fragile thing that I knew nothing about and that I could not trust. I couldn’t even pass a bus.

When I finally got to work I had a new admiration for all the poor suckers who have to go through graduated licensing. I also had a headache, due to the unique engineering of the suspension.  That thing was dangerous in traffic. No acceleration, no brakes, no traction. Yet I also had a feeling that I just didn’t know how to ride it yet.

Fuck, I said to myself, not for the first time that morning. I was now at my desk, trying discretely to pull off two layers of sodden socks. I spent the day barefoot in my office slip-ons. I hoped no-one would notice, but at the same time I didn’t care. It’s hard feeling torn all the time.

At day’s end I was still cold and it was still raining, but the ride back to the dealership wasn’t so bad. My work day was over and I would soon be riding my proper machine home to warm socks and cold beer. I was starting to get the hang of the 12 horses – you basically just keep the throttle wide open and change gears like a trucker. When you need to slow down, you don’t: instead just find your way past all the traffic without losing momentum. That bike was stupid on the trunk roads – I struggled to reach her top speed of 57mph – but once in 30mph traffic she was a blast. I was zipping and deking and dodging and just wringing that little bike’s neck. I was loving it. I brought her back to the dark-haired one with a grin. “Man, I like motorcycles”, I said. She was surprised, but I think pleased that I liked it.

After a load of abuse from the dour crew downstairs, I was back on my own bike, that monster that does 85mph in in first gear. It was nice to be back, and although she felt a little unwieldy, I was amazed by her stability. I drove slowly at first, relishing the easy power, but I was soon spinning that engine up to the erogenous zone. The 12 horses were an interesting diversion, but I do believe I’ll stick with my 150. Even in the rain.