Some weeks ago two friends invited me to stay the weekend in Bridgend, a journey of about 180 miles from where I live in London. I accepted gladly as I was tired of the big city and looked forward to a complete change of environment. The choice was a simple one, I suppose, either take the nice, warm, fast but expensive train or soldier on with my Honda CD185.
When my alarm sounded at 8am I looked gingerly out of the window - it both sounded and looked bloody awful. The trees were rocking crazily and the wind moaned. Just to round it off, the rain danced on the puddles. Perversely, I decided to use the bike; after all, I’d just paid my road tax, had a smart £25 throw-over bag and a big touring fairing. Piece of piss, I thought.
Twenty minutes later I had thrown together the necessary toothbrush, jumper, extra pair of shoes, etc. As I prepared to leave, the head teacher of the school where I work informed me that there were very strong winds.out west and all manner of traffic problems expected.
Undaunted, I set off. Initially, I was too preoccupied with the cut and thrust of South Circular traffic to contemplate the wisdom of the journey. At last, I was westward bound on the M4. The wind became worse, it drizzled, it rained, it absolutely pissed down. At this stage I felt rather smug. I have a moulded PVC oversuit, Derry boots and plastic over-gloves. The inside of my visor was smeared with anti-mist jelly. I had double wrapped my gear in plastic carrier bags. Mentally, I challenged the elements to do their worst.
There was a moment when I contemplated turning off, riding back home and catching the train - no-one would know what a lilly levered prat I had been. No, I would have none of it, I pressed on. Now, if the truth be known, doing that sort of distance on an undergutted commuter like a CD185 was positively masochistic. True, of course, I mused, but it has been known to go to Rome and back on a C50. The bike persevered with unfailing and monotonous regularity.
The negative aspect of the venture was gaining the upper hand. Cars roared by, mostly at highly illegal speeds. The heaters were on, the cassette players were blasting away, family conversation would be rippling and the kids might even be asleep on their padded seats. Sod them!
The wind shrieked from the left at 90° to the road direction. The effectiveness of the normally excellent fairing was greatly reduced. My left ear was attacked by chronic earache. My fingers were going numb. The speedo registered a plodding 55mph. Zoom, zoom, the cars swept by.
In 30 years of biking I had never seen skies like it. Baleful black, angry yellow. Even orange appeared. Then the sun broke out, fitfully smiled and then vanished behind impossibly dark clouds. The wind was hitting the eighties. Cars were beginning to litter the hard shoulder. Smirk, smirk! The CD was totally unmoved; literally, it was as steady as a rock, no deviation from a straight line at all, which was more than could be said for the high sided trucks ahead.
The CD’s 15hp was losing out to the ever increasing wind, I was down to 50mph. I pulled gratefully into a roadside cafe. To the bemusement of the four wheel brigade, I divested myself of layer upon layer of clothes as fast as my numb fingers allowed. Other bikers there were none, I hadn’t seen one on the whole journey. I murdered some hot chemical soup, a burger and a coffee. Then I was off again. Had I really only covered 70 miles? My only consolation was the thriftiness of the little Honda. Even so, I needed some fuel.
After filling the tank, I went to pay. There was an horrendous crash and the bike was over. Shit, I thought, as I ran over. Not another mashed plastic screen and mirror, please. I heaved the bike up, no harm done, I just had to re-tighten the mirror.
Next, the sky opened. This time it was hailstones coming in horizontally like tiny bullets. Everybody stopped for a while. Then lovely sunshine. Weird, weird. Now, there is silly, daft and bleeding mad. What would it make me if I tried to cross the Severn bridge? Would the boys in blue let me anyway?
There was a huge tailback, as Capital Radio like to call them. I moved to the front of the queue. Delays, delays. A caravan had overturned. When I finally ventured over I found out why - there was a screaming and spectacular gale from left to right. It made my neck ache and I had to lean the bike over like a trick cyclist to compensate. Amazingly, the bike maintained a dead straight line.
Well, to cut a long story short, I got there in the end, late and tired. The thought of good company and a civilised life at the end of the journey had sustained me. I checked later and found that the winds had gusted to over 100mph and the bridge had been closed not long after I’d crossed.
On the journey back the CD didn’t half fly with a ton plus up its arse. For the first, and I suspect the last, time in its life the little Honda gave a pretty good impression of a 400. Wild horses would not get me to do the same again under those conditions and on that bike; but if someone offered me a 750, well...
Mike Coleman