What makes a Motorcyclist?
Well, the cold, wet weather has arrived and suddenly, motorbicyclist fairweatherium, to give the species its incorrect Latin name, appears to have hibernated for the winter. And who can blame him (or her)? I mulled this over as I carefully picked my way along the mud-strewn roads of Leicestershire on the way to Jack Wiley House the other day. Peering through the deteriorating visibility offered by my visor – now coated in a drying film of crud-laden mist (left there because I know a wipe with my glove will make it impossible to see anything at all), skating over glass-smooth overbanding, buttocks clenched, feathering the brakes and keeping a light hand on the throttle. The return trip was even worse, adding the approach of darkness to this heady mixture of two-wheeled ballet. Of course, the run started off by looking as if it would be OK. Bright, sunny morning, not too cold, roads damp but drying out, definitely a 40-mile run through the back roads today I thought, no motorway boredom
