Virtual Car Broker

Husband was chuckling over Jeremy Clarkson’s wise words about motorbikes at the weekend. If you didn’t read it, you can probably guess: motorbikes are horrible, scooters are horrible, and anyone who rides one will get killed. It was a pretty funny read, and I agreed with 90 per cent of what he wrote, mainly because he was writing about scooters, which, generally speaking, I don’t like.

Jeremy Clarkson should stick to tanks. Bikes require effort

The point is this: if your biking experience consists of dribbling round a car park in south London in freezing conditions on a 50cc moped, and then wobbling out onto a busy road for an hour, where you will be munched by cars, lorries, pizza-delivery boys, cyclists, pedestrians, old people etc, you probably are going to hate it, and think that it’s uncomfortable, stupid and dangerous. So of course Clarkson wouldn’t get it.

Get a year’s riding under your belt however, find a big sexy bike that suits you and some warm weather and open roads, and you are in motoring heaven. But you’ve got to persist to get to that stage, and along the way you’ll probably fall off/crash/drop your bike/be cold/wet/too hot, or all the above. If you give up before you get there, you’ll never reach the blessed foothills of motorcycling nirvana, and therein lies gold.

The last weekend in October always finds me slaving over a recalcitrant printer in an attempt to produce an album of RBR photos, and repeatedly adding up the columns on my RBR claim sheet until I reach the same total more than once. 

Organised souls probably do this as they go along. Organised souls probably don’t therefore spend Sunday afternoon in a dark mood having realised they’re only 45.5 points short of the threshold for the next award up. I could have made the most of my extra hour in the day by shooting off down to the South Coast in search of a Roman fingerpost and a few other points, but friends were on their way round for a game of wii bowling and my experimental carrot and ginger soup, so I decided to accept my doom. After a consistent string of Gold finishes, this year my claim form goes back to Dave-the-Disorganiser with a plea for a humble Bronze.

I have lots of excuses but only one real reason, and that’s that 2008 has been rougher than the road to Ardnamurchan, and I finish it a very long way away from where I began. Looking back through 8 months of photos to pick out the landmarks brought back all the light and shade: the day spent riding in tears under the bright, broad sky of Caithness (not recommended: really plays havoc with being able to see through the visor); the enforced pause of 25 minutes sitting on a tiny lane somewhere north of Kettlewell, waiting for a cow jam to clear; the relief of the warmest of welcomes in the middle of the darkest of forests; and the joys of pie, chips, beer and banter in the pouring rain at Hayfield.

Every photo seems to have been taken under a blue sky and warm sunshine. Which just goes to prove that the camera certainly does lie – most egregiously over the Easter weekend, when I rode through blizzards to bag the LMs in East Anglia, but as soon as my wheels stopped turning the flakes stopped falling. Maybe I only believe myself to be a free agent riding the length and breadth of the UK, but am in fact one half of a pair of weather indicators in a celestial barometer. In which case, can I swap next year, please, and be the figurine that comes out when pressure is high?

The helmet-camera footage of my pillion ride with John Reynolds at Brands Hatch should go up on the site on Friday, just to let you know.

How is everyone? So sorry I’ve been so quiet – too much time on four wheels and not enough time on two. Hoping for a nice ride home tonight though. The roads in Sicily last week for the Ferrari California launch were so unbelievably slippery – I have no idea how anyone on a motorbike stays on.

Volvo is “the most hated car on the road” according to bikers questioned by Bennetts.  Almost a third of motorcyclists dread an encounter with a Volvo, followed by a BMW. Hmm, so that’s goodbye to the perception of Volvo drivers as slow and considerate. Perhaps it’s all those mothers in their XC90s ploughing along the roads at school time. Or maybe it’s the police in their V70s….

I haven’t owned my own car since 1997. I sold it because I went to work by public transport, and for any non-work journey (and quite a few work ones), given the choice, I’d always rather ride than drive. In a display of post-feminist empowerment, when I need a car I ask my partner if I can borrow his.

How can I go from biker girl to business woman?

My sister has just joined me in the ranks of the car-free – in her case, propelled therein at the hands of an elderly gentleman attempting to reverse by ear. (Members of the insurance industry might like to advise on how she should go about seeking to replace a functioning, if beauty-disadvantaged, VW Golf for its assessed value of slightly under £300.) So it’s two-wheel travel for her too, a challenge she isn’t particularly relishing as the clocks go back and the gritters roll out. 

She’s also worried about making the right impression on colleagues and contacts – for despite the DfT’s best promises to “mainstream” motorcycling, in my experience turning up to meetings and events on a bike is still a source of comment. I don’t usually mind – I have a thick skin and no tact. People may very well be shooting me odd looks as I sit in my meetings in Gialis and East German Army boots, but they are too polite (or scared) to say anything.

I confess to a bad attack of the green-eyed monster. And no, I haven’t had a loan of Erin’s Kawasaki, nor am I referring to her adventures with Mr Reynolds. I was in North Yorkshire for the weekend, with the sun beating down, time dedicated in the diary for R & R ….and no motorcycle.

I apologise for my sin of omission. My excuse is that the journey from home to the Ingle…