Where's all the time gone?

I,m not sure if I'm talking into space sometimes, but nevertheless this blog is a means to recount my biking activity whether anybody is 'listening' or not but it is cathartic if nothing else, allowing stuff bouncing around in my head to be purged to make way for more plus also an outlet for previous scribbles and allowing me space to write stuff that my day today activity on http://www.ukbike.com/ does not.

It's been a while if you have been 'listening' The memory of the razor sharp ZX6R is fading and I'm hungry for more miles under my belt on something new, The ZX9 felt flat and as sloppy as an old armchair since the 6. With any luck I've lined up a 1098 Duke, and a ZZR1400 for the near future, it's just finding time and a clear coupla days to give them a good squeezing, they are both privately owned machines and I owe it to the owners to exercise due care and attention to their present condition out of courtesy and respect, but soon, soon, I feel like a junkie in need of the next fix.

I was part of the Brightona organization which has received most excellent feedback from all and sundry receiving comments as 'the best bike show in the south by far' which is a great accolade and a fat slap on the back for all the hard work myself and particularly others have put into the event. Bear in mind this event is always described in the same breath as the Rockers Reunion Ace Cafe run, so thanx to everyone who came, participated, paid, donated and enjoyed the day.

I'm an old stick in the mud. I like my sports bikes. Bikes are for thrills, for getting the heart racing, for introducing an element of danger into ones sometimes hum drum life, call me jaded with reality but bikes give me that sense of satisfaction and exhileration that is hard to find elsewhere especially when a clear roundabout presents itself the right gear is selected and (despite the fact that it probably doesn't in reality) the feeling that the rear tyre is slipping due to my (perceived but mistaken belief) trackgod prowess. Its a buzz!

having just said all that Some of the chops, lowriders and custom machines on display at Brightona were fantastic and oh God be kind, bring me some disposable income to have one, I promise I would ride it sensibly, I would park it next to my KTM supermono, ZX-10C and Zed 1000 in my fantasy garage, and lavish equal attention upon it. (At least dreams are free).

Anyway time to finish what I started 8 chapters ago. The TL road trip must recommence until finality. I can then stuff it in my fat and largely discarded files of memorable experiences and move onto another. So here you are...............

Chapter 9 - The strokers are so close I can smell 'em.

One last fill up before we were going to find a roof for the night. We stopped in an Agip filling station, swarming with bikes like angry and discordant bee's, the air resonated and each pump had a 'groovy' gas pumping attendant dude with a cash bag lashed round their waist. I motioned to the nearest one to fill up the sweating TLR, holding the bike upright to ensure a proper brim full load. (I thought that I would need every drop available in the parsimonious tank, tomorrow there would be shit loads of bikes swarming around in packs, availability of juice may be hard to find).

We were within sniffing distance of Mugello which was only about 50 miles away, The strokers were so close you could almost smell them. I could see them in my minds eye scudding around in the practice sessions already, those hideously peaky stink wheel 500cc two stroke missiles guided by their diminutive pilotes fighting for the chequers. Of 60,000 people ululating praise and appreciation upon the victor announcing his entry into that particular hall of fame.

I was drawn out of my reverie by a grubby hand and an alien voice whose balls hadn't dropped pointing at the gas pump's LED display, which showed me a numeric at least 400 charachters long. It rocked me back on my heels for some reason, lucky I was sitting down. Common sense and a grasp of present reality quickly kicked in once more of course they had about 4,000 Lire to the pound (thank fuck for the Euro). Time to get rid of a kilo weight of eytie money. I handed over the sheaf of notes and 'pump groover' said 'no change'. I said 'You what' again rocking back on my heels astride the mighty TL he said again 'no change' this time with a flicker of a sneer on his thin lips. I worked out that the impudent pump pimp groover fellow owed me close to 800.

I had lapsed into incredulous disbelief momentarily once again. Common sense then kicked in. 'Fuck it it's only twenty pence and the coinage required to furnish me with change would be like swimming with lead weights. You may think it's weird asking for 20p change, when in the great scheme of things I was wasting rubber and the ozone layer at an alarming rate, the cost of which on my return to blighty would severely hamper my beer drinking opportunities for many months, but Johnny Lire was a tricky bugger to get your head round. Oh Yes!

We all pulled back into the autostrada super highway and shortly thereafter took a slip road into some low hills adjacent to the motorway hoping to find a snug little B&B or something.

Twenty miles further down the road we rejoined the main artery having had no luck and pulled in eventually at a hotel sign pointing to a little place entitled Voglia Del Plans. The hotel was just up the road opposite a ramshackle garage, quite a grand old looking building faded somewhat but it had a suitable gentrified air about it, family ran, no glitz or neon just old style comfort and faded velvet. We landed and streched our fly spattered leather limbs. There were some other bikers in residence which was a good sign, Germans by the look of their plates, their rear tyres had been given a workout. Fair play to the Hun.

The first thing I noticed as we trouped into the lobby was a prominent sign saying 'No credit cards' in five different languages. We'd just done the last of our cash filling up with juice up the road, because the majority of gas stations didn't accept credit cards either. Basically on the strength of that notice we wouldn't be able to pay for the room and beers the next morning. Still that was tomorrow and we needed a place to stay, we'd work it out tomorrow, if they got the strop with us at least we'd be washed, probably slightly hungover and rested. We stayed mum and the aged crone was eager for the business as far as we could work out. A quick dumping of our sparse baggage, into crumpled civvies and to the bar for painfully small glasses of yellow beer. Refreshing to know we had made it. Tomorrow was the day!