To Dover

The best thing about e-mail is when your MotoGP tickets arrive! As soon as I'd printed them off (plus duplicates of course!) I gathered the rest of our documentation: travel insurance, passports, routes and the like and completed the age-old ceremony known as "the closing of the folder" - and I was a full two months ahead of time!


Of course, there was no logical reason for the ceremony of "the closing of the folder" as all the really important stuff was stored on two mobile phones, a laptop computer, a TomTom (turnaround) sat nav and a wifely pillion passenger who knew it all, anyway - so why worry? Just let the tingling excitement and the hand-rubbing and the gloating begin because we're going - and we're going soon!


As always, "soon" arrived sooner than expected and we were packed, checked, double-checked and on our way, seemingly, in less than a blink of an eye. For me, especially, there are very few feelings better than starting the bike, listening for a second or two, then mounting up and beginning a new journey - a new adventure!

We rolled down the high street, a single vehicle procession comprising a Honda Blackbird, fully-loaded with all of its lifebloods, panniers, top box - and carrying two very, very happy people.

We were on our way!


Once again, we made our way to Dover. At some time during the ride I found myself thinking that car drivers can't appreciate how a frequently repeated motorcycle journey can be so very different each time it's made. Always. Even if it's just the wind direction, or a new bump or pothole. Clouds, changing the light and changing the scenery. Birds. Hedges that have been cut recently, their scent still in the air and their leaves still on the ground. Diesel-perfumed rainbows on a wet road and the way you can always see the sky when you're on a bike - even when you're off and tumbling, you might still be looking. Looking. You know. We're always looking.