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I had to travel to Southwell of Southwell Minster fame (uk), yesterday. The journey is about 75 miles from my home so the weather forcast being reasonable and the roads being dry and free from salt, I decided to take the bike. The sun was just beginning to show itself, the sky was showing a little bit of patchy cloud, but nothing to be concerned about. It looked a promising day. Lots of layers, it is January after all - pyjama trousers worn as long-johns under motorcycle jeans, thermal vest, shirt, jersey, body-warmer, scarf and finally, brand spanking new Frank Thomas jacket. Fully armoured, fleece lined, three layers of protection.

Flippin 'eck! Was it cold! The numbness in my hands and feet was such that it could not be attributed to the usual tingling that comes from riding a large (and not very well set up) twin- cylinder engined motorbike. Instead it was the sickening ache that accompanies riding through fog and frost. When I stopped for a little warm-up in a layby, it was a case of peeling myself off the bike, and trying to straighten out legs that seemed even more uncooperative than usual. Still, I made it there and thawed out with three cups of steaming hot coffee, did what I had to do which included a splended buffet lunch, and then, late afternoon a repeat performance, the journey home.

This time though, as well as being cold, it was dark. Visor down equals misting up and halo glares from the oncoming headlamps. Visor up equals cold blast of air, eyes watering and consequently; halo glares from oncoming headlamps! Not terribly pleasant and the reduced visibility necessitated a longer journey time. Obviously I arrived otherwise I wouldn't be writing this, and the chill has just about worn off.

Why do it? I could have jumped in the car in light clothes, heater on all the way and arrive comfortable and warm at my destination.

There is something about riding a motorcycle that has an undefineable addictive quality. The sense of freedom, the immediacy of the environment perhaps. The thing is riding a mororcycle is not just going from one place to another. It is an involvement and an engagement with the world that unsheilded by a tin box makes even the shortest journey's real. No heated isolation here, but every bend, every smell, every breath of wind, every car over-taken adds an ingredient to the journey that results in a feeling of satisfaction that driving in the car cannot emulate. And even the cold, that chilling numbness creeping over fingers and toes is a reminder of what it means to be alive!

Learn more about this author, Edward Flynn.
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