Thanks to the large quantity of random factors that constitute my relationship with a girl named El, yesterday evening at 11:30 was mutually deemed to be a good time for us to spend some time together. Duly (and to the confusion of housemates) I set off on the old Sheffield to Worcester trek on the motorcycle.

By Chesterfield I was annoyed, unhappy, depressed? My voyage now seamed to be the most ridiculous notion. I was cold, I was wet, I was bored, it was dark, it was raining exactly the sort of light drizzle that renders my goggles opaque. What did I expect? It was a November night after all, and here I was rattling along duel carriageways at an uncertain 45mph, with lorries thundering past me and a headlamp that keeps switching itself off. Who tries to go long distance on a vehicle that only goes 45mph? That's just stupid. Any sensible person would have retired this bike months ago -- It felt like it was going to die at any moment too. Do my tappets sound too loud? Is that a crankshaft barring making all that noise? Is my clutch slipping again? What's causing that wobble? Why is my throttle so swampy? What's more, something I hadn't considered until leaving -- I was going to miss the trip Bob was planning over to Manchester, complete with cakeybiscuites and 80s music. At every roundabout the temptation to turn round and head straight back to Sheffield and end this ridiculous crusade was overwhelming -- but then I would have had to have called El and tell her that actually I wasn't on my way at all. I felt that setting off might have been the wrong decision. I can't remember the last time I thought I had made a wrong decision.

Is this what my bike felt like to ride? Did I ride it like this the whole way across Europe and back? I don't remember it feeling like this. I remember I used to get an amazing feeling from this bike when I was away: having a full tank of fuel between my knees and exactly what I needed to deal with any foreseeable situation -- tools, spares, oil, food, water, tent, etc -- strapped behind me, and no plans, range, ties, needs, limits or destination to worry about. Fantastic, but what happened to that? Is selective memory kicking in all ready? It this what it really felt like? Are my motorcycling days coming to and end?

As I passed Derby, suddenly everything changed, and my spirits lifted. The bike still wobbled, squeaked, rattled, and clattered, but now everything was in tune and in sequence with each other. Did this settling of the bike improve my mood, or did my improved mood calm some mental exaggeration of my bike's symptoms? Either way, running was all of a sudden good, and the bike I love, the bike that took me to Romania and Croatia was back. The speedometer still registered 45ish, but the miles seamed to be passing slightly quicker. I found a slow lorry I could slip-stream behind for a while, and this let me dry my face off. There's still some long distances left in this bike, it seams. There's still some long distance motorcycling left in me, too.

I arrived at Worcester at 3:15 am.