motorcyclemeditation.com

Fifty mile trip to Surrey, departure time approaching. Rain threatening but holding off, a significant consideration on a motorcycle, dry and you can free your mind, wet and it has no space for any thoughts but those of managing risk.

Luggage stowed and ready to go. Black clouds above and the smell of rain. To the west, the smudged grey of downpours, approaching. On the roadside, umbrellas buckling in the wind, skirts whipping against knees, cans rattling down the pavement. Occasional splats of rain.

On the motorcycle, heading east, clockwise round London, a steady sixty, outrunning the storm like a fugitive, the clouds like hounds chasing. Speedo rising to seventy, but much less buffeting than you’d usually get at that speed, sign of a following wind, the effect weirdly peaceful. The fields beside the road dappled beneath a lurid sky.

Turning south over the Dartford crossing, Thames at high tide, grey and turbulent. Wind now whumping crosswise, and the first whacks of rain. A glance above and knowledge that it’s no good running, you’re caught. Through the roadworks and the deluge arriving. Raindrops like ball bearings, arms and shoulders stung and bruised through the jacket padding.

Water sheeting off the road but the traffic mild. Grooves in the tyres sluicing the water away. Just once briefly the motorcycle aquaplaning, over before it’s fully registered, a brief recognition of just how stable it felt, another miracle of engineering.

Thinking, the storm moving at forty, the motorcycle moving straight into it at seventy, say five miles of storm, this won’t last long. The pounding rain duly thinning, then suddenly fresh clear skies. A world anew and the motorcycle ready for speed.