As a peripatetic swimming teacher I jumped at the chance of some Saturday work in Ripon an hour after I would finish in Richmond. Actually the hour would be more like 50 minutes because I would have to prise myself out of my motorcycle leathers into a shrinking wetsuit and have a look at the registers before greeting my pupils. Erm, the 50 minutes would be 45 minutes or a bit less; I was facing 4 hours in the water without a break so I would need some calories and fluid to preserve the tension in the wetsuit and stop me becoming crabby.
As it turned out I finished late in Richmond because one of the pool clocks was wrong so 10 minutes of my precious 45 minutes had evaporated before I had changed, climbed aboard my motorcycle and started the 27 mile journey, much of which was southbound on the A1 in the roadworks and 50mph limit.
Like a common criminal I didn't take any notice of the 50 limit, hoping that the SPECS cameras only look for a forward-facing numberplate, and nailed it South until I met a gaggle of cars doing 48mph next to a truck. The digital minutes clicked by silently but relentlessly. A biker with more balls than me might have ridden up the white line or used the hard shoulder but I didn't. Instead, as I settled into a legal bimble, it occurred to me that maybe one of the 3 drivers next to the truck might just be someone who dislikes being stuck behind a pair of overtaking trucks as the drivers decide whose speed limiter is marginally faster.
Between the A1 and Ripon I marshalled all the road knowledge of the A61 that I had accumulated over the past few years and flew past everything I safely could. I had never ridden this stretch of road under pressure before but conditions were good and the bike never seemed wanting of acceleration or grip. Up until then I'd never tested the conundrum that motorcyclists face when pressing on; the the faster you go, the further over you lean in a bend but the more you need height to look ahead and plan the next manoeuvre.
And so it was that Saturday lessons started on time, my winning smile marred only slightly by a bit of pork pie between my front teeth.
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The vanishing minutes new
The vanishing minutes new