Ready for departure

How easy everything seems once it all falls into place. The weeks of fretting over the various visa processes were all for nothing, as promised they were obtained and my passport arrived with days to spare. With a bank holiday weekend facing me there was little chance I would get the relevant documents through until Tuesday morning at the earliest. Much as I’d like to have them safe and sound, the false hope of receiving them earlier was sure to be dashed if I gave it any credence. Better was to concentrate on the BMW, finish fitting the tank and get the damned thing ridden, acquaint myself with the new bike before setting off. I may well have ridden it for a short period before the tank conversion was started, but I’d hardly even settled into a comfortable rhythm with it. Three weeks after buying it I’d begun stripping it to fit the large tank. So, unfamiliar with the feel of it, I began to feel apprehensive, dreading the weight and handling of the heavily encumbered beast. In fact severe doubts plagued my tired little mind, with almost nothing yet sorted I didn’t have the confidence to commit to any particular ferry. That would have to wait until everything was finalised.

Only a week before departure the sprayer had to rub down and chemically scrub clean one half of the tank, oil contamination in the plastic had totally ruined the plasticising coat. Frustration mounted and only by a herculean effort did I keep my cool; there wasn’t anything I could do about it, nothing I had any control over. And as it lashed down with rain morning after morning, the chances of preparing the bike looked slimmer with each passing day. Miraculously, afternoons saw bluer skies, as soon as the howling wind blew away the heavily laden clouds; so all was not quite lost. More important, I got a phone call from Jamie the Sprayer, the tank would be ready for collection Friday 27th, giving me a mere five days to fit it, check everything thoroughly and acclimatize myself to a completely different machine. Bearing in mind the absence of necessary paperwork, it could be said I was stressing out for no reason, but it was the only course of action available to me.

Friday came, and with it my fresh painted tank, and boy didn’t it look lovely! It sorely tested my patience, the paint was so fresh it hadn’t hardened up properly, taking the last of my meagre reserves. I like being master of my own destiny, but I haven’t felt like it recently, more like a victim to the whims of all and sundry. If there were lessons in perseverance to be learnt, that was the chore set for me in these last weeks of preparation. And I learnt them, never giving up hope, never succumbing to abject despair and never veering from my chosen path. How virtuous of me, surely a case for canonisation: St Leslie, Patron saint of dreams turned nightmare. In case I need to push the point, life isn’t a bed of roses, every cloud does not have a silver lining, and nothing can be taken for granted. You can lose everything you hold dear at the drop of a hat, with neither rhyme nor reason. But let’s not labour that particular point at the moment, suffice to say, treasure that which is important because nothing lasts forever.

With effortless ease things can fall into place, they can’t always go wrong, the world requires some measure of balance. Whoever fate shafted last Saturday, they have my heartfelt thanks, it wasn’t me, I was on the perfumed end of the shitty stick. My passport arrived Special Delivery by mid-morning, chockablock full of visas; the only one missing was Tajikistan, we ran out of time. I think that was the first expression of unadulterated joy to brighten my demeanour. I was on a roll, my green card insurance documents arrived too, it even gave me the chance to take out the BMW and pick it up from Anglesey. So in a matter of hours, a dismal picture of organisational ineptitude changed to relief and, dare I admit it, excitement. A break in the weather saw a swift completion of the tank conversion, and a full compliment of paperwork filled my document case. There were only four days left, physically everything needed for the trip was in my possession, so why did I feel so apprehensive?

Having bought the BMW six weeks before, it spent more time being worked on than ridden, and not once had it sported more than the scantiest of its mountains of luggage. Compared to the Kawasaki it felt heavier, though more stable and relaxed to ride. I desperately needed to stop comparing the two, the choice had been made and I was cutting it fine to accept my choice. Yet still my worries dogged my every thought, the petty paranoia posed my most immediate threat. I was as nervous straddling the finished BMW as I’d been riding the Kawasaki for the first time after my accident. It wasn’t just my imagination, it felt very different, the enlarged tank made it feel enormous and I was terrified of putting the tiniest scratch on the new paintjob. A day’s riding hardly detracted from this inexplicable fear, I almost expected to drop the bloody bike whenever I came to a standstill. Another day changed little, except I loaded more weight onto it. The third day and I actually filled the tank to capacity, a monstrous 39 litres of fuel, and much more weight.

How nice it would have been to slowly add more luggage, and go through a gradual transition of manhandling more and more weight. It was done in stages, but only two and not until the morning I left Wales. I’m beside myself at how badly organised I’ve been with this trip, it isn’t like me, or so I claim. So it was a huge relief when I first loaded up the bike with the tank panniers and rear saddlebags, I could feel little difference. It lifted upright with negligible extra effort, it rode sure and steady, as quick off the mark and as sharp round the bends. After only a short test ride the remaining bags were strapped on; my tank bag, folding chair, top box and camping roll. It still feels great on the move, only slightly unsteady at walking speed, but I’m still terrified of dropping it, almost holding my breath when I come to a standstill. No doubt once it’s been dropped once or twice that won’t be a problem anymore. And let’s face it, I’ve plenty of time to get used to the way it feels!

The green, green grass of home

Almost every day since pulling my new BMW apart a deluge has descended from an otherwise clear blue sky. it hasn't been like this constantly, a number of days the clouds themselves have descended, obscuring any view of anything. And so I sit staring impatiently through my kitchen window, muttering quiet obscenities about the awful weather. My bike sits under wraps, we both wait, with bated breath, for a break in the weather. There are only ten days left before my planned departure, and not a single aspect of my planning has been completed. Talk about cutting it fine, this is getting a little too close for comfort.

The list of things yet to do are being ticked off slowly, too slowly, many distractions scream for immediate attention. A foul day's weather allows time to devote my book, it is in its final edit by me. Soon, not soon enough for me, it can go to the proofreader. Yet as the torrent of rain slams against the window pane I can't sit still. I know discipline is called for, I should apply myself to the task in hand. But I can't sit still, it takes all my willpower not to bounce off the walls. Faced with such boundless restlessness I had to get out, I wasn't going to hide indoors, it was the perfect time to test my combination of waterproofs. Would they keep out the rain or were there any irritating leaks? I'll ride all day in the rain, as long as I remain dry. I don't even mind getting wet hands too much, it's almost impossible to keep them dry, only when becoming wet and cold does it prove unbearable. Wet and cold feet are miserable too, in fact wet and cold are miserable, whatever you're doing. Even SCUBA diving is hard to enjoy once you're cold. So I made the most of a perfect opportunity and had a ball in the bargain.

Vicious weather had hurled itself at the cottage all afternoon, it was relentless. It could be said a moment of insanity came upon me, I'd prefer to call it inspiration. Howling winds raged across open space, swirling hectically round rock and through trees, chopping and changing in force and direction it proved completely unpredictable. Where it would come from next was pure guesswork, there was no chance to prepare, each fresh gust could buffet us any which way. Riding open, straight roads with heavy winds is relatively easy assess, gusty or no, it generally comes from a predictable direction at least. Leaning the bike into the wind keeps it in a straight line, being buffeted by gusts makes it a bit more exciting, but it's all part of the fun in riding. A windy road amongst broken landscape produces a turbulent maelstrom, pushing you first one way then another, lifting you across the road, then slamming you down at the tarmac. Having to negotiate bends means changing your profile to the wind, made worse by the violent, unpredictable outbursts. In this latter case, the bike must maintain the ability to steer accurately round the bends, it calls for different tactics. Rather than leaning the bike into the wind, I find myself hanging off the bike, keeping it upright while using my body as a windbreak. There is always an optimum speed, too low and you become the wind's plaything, pushed whichever way it desires. Too fast and stability becomes decidedly dicey, yet you must maintain enough speed to slice through the wind, a precarious balance must be found. Any change in direction or strength of the wind can easily blow you clean across the road. All in all, this wild and unpredictable experience holds enormous potential for top class grin factor. A bit of caution must be used, though driving hard into the wind is the way to make progress, getting the angle of lean right in such adverse conditions is precarious to say the least. In all fairness I haven't had so much fun on a bike in a long time. Many a month has passed since riding has had me hollering and whooping with joy.

Two weeks till lift off!

The preparations for this trip have been rough going, and I've not even set off yet. Many times I've dithered, and many times I've changed my mind. Generally things have gone well, but so often I've been on the verge of calling it all off. This just isn't me, at least it isn't the person I've grown accustomed to. There's no doubt about it, the planning to ride such a distance can be fraught with stress and uncertainty, but I"ve never been put off by simple hurdles before. In a nutshell, I ain't the man I used to be. Having declared this openly I can drop the bullshit and say it as it is. For a short period I struggled to with routine mechanics, not getting my head into gear, making silly mistakes. My arms don't crank a spanner the way they used to, the result being a number of bolts winding back out and getting lost whilst riding. Luckily no vital parts have dropped off, and the spring that broke into the crank case seems to have flushed out now.

I've been worried, about my state of mind and my physical ability, am I actually strong enough to make the trip? What a question to ask, never before has this even entered my mind. On a couple of occasions my apprehension has almost got the better of me, when did I suddenly lose faith in myself? But of course it isn't sudden! On a psychological level, I lost faith in life and my relevance in the scheme of things when Cai died.I could still rely on my physical capabilities though, since my own accident that has changed drastically. No longer have I felt comfortable about how much strain my body can take. For sure I can walk pretty well now, running is even relatively OK, so long as I do neither over rough ground. When I sit on my bike the world is a different place. I'm not wobbly, my demeanour is calm, in control. In fact I'm more stable on the bike than my own two feet.


Starting as a touch nervous when I first rode again , once sufficiently recovered from my metal Mickey transplants, it took a while to settle down into a comfortable level of riding. Small country roads made me slightly nervous, I was a bit hesitant around blind bends. I'm not surprised after the ordeal with the Tractor. I am scared of hurting myself that bad again, to scared to face those demons, My head will remain buried deep in the sand, if it ever happens I'll deal with it then. So my riding style was a bit hit and miss for a while. On smaller windy roads I was definitely a bit sheepish, whilst being loud and a bit obnoxious riding more open roads. In fits and starts I've alternated between a considerate, precise, controlled riding style and a rather rude, irresponsible one. Gradually the two have amalgamated and formed a much improved behaviour on the road. I had to ride out my frustration, discard my anger, there was an awful lot of anger fermenting away inside, it would have been much quicker to have gone and dragged the farmer out his house and kicked the crap out of him. And in all honesty, I actually think he deserves no less, not for the lies and deceit he covered his arse with, because the only person it hurt was me.

So while working off my frustration the KLR650 decided to make a play for some attention of its own. A string of minor problems occurred, nothing drastic, and nothing I couldn't put right myself, though I did consider paying a mechanic to do job on the clutch. I did myself, after a little deliberation. The outcome was the confidence that I can do any job on that bike that needs doing, combined with the realisation that I will probably need to do plenty of little jobs to coax it all the way over to, and through, China. With only six weeks left before departure I went out and bought a BMW f650 GS Dakar. Not new, a similar age and similar mileage as the Kawasaki. But the BMW is much more long lived, more reliable, more economic, and a more comfortable ride. When it comes to excitement the kawasaki wins hands down every time, it begs to be ridden hard, crys out for thrills. There's no two ways about it though, the BMW is the superior machine, at least better equipped for what I had in mind. Of course, once bought I had to prepare it to suit me, my particular journey. So now, with only two weeks left it sits semi-stripped awaiting a fuel tan conversion. I've done the work, the new tank is in for a paint job. the bike merely awaits the final fitment. And if the rain ever stops it might actually get done in time.