Night Riders

Apologies for not writing anything for a while. It's been pretty stressful and exhausting being back at work these past two weeks, and have not really had the energy to sit down and write (plus I was wary of ending up writing about work - that is one thing I absolutely do not want to do).

I find it really hard to switch off from work in the evenings or on days off, especially if I know there's an event going on as I worry about what could go wrong, and what problems will be waiting for me on my desk when I get back. I can't tell you how many sleepless nights I've had mulling over all the things I've got going on. Sometimes writing a 'to do' list helps to settle things in my head, but there are times when I do manage to completely cut off from work and just enjoy the present moment, and that is when I'm on the back of the motorbike. One of the best holidays I ever had was our two week trip around France last summer, and that was partly because I was so uncontactable (you can't exactly answer a phone when you're riding pillion), that I really felt I could just let go and enjoy being just the two of us, wherever we were.

Anyway, last night my boyfriend Tom suggested we go for a night ride up the Horseshoe Pass to the Ponderosa Cafe (a well known biker haven) to go and watch the stars. We'd thought of going a few weeks ago during the meteor showers but never got further than the Old Hill Fort in Oswestry (which was still awesome), and since it was an uncommonly warm and clear October evening it seemed like the perfect time to go. It felt so weird getting suited up in the house and starting to feel all hot and clammy - it felt like we were back in the South of France last August - but it soon cooled down once we got going.

It was still quite early in the evening when we left (maybe 9ish) so the roads weren't as empty as I would have liked. One of my favourite rides was a couple of years ago, before we got together, when we just drove around Oswestry and the surrounding areas in the middle of the night with the road to ourselves. I remember that night that we stopped and pulled over by a pit stop cafe that had long ago shut for the evening, and I asked if there was a problem (I'd not long ago had my first ever bike ride so was still quite uncertain of how things worked). Tom replied that there was nothing wrong, but every now and then he just felt like stopping and turning off the engine and sitting in the darkness a little while, just listening to the night. There's something really peaceful, but also kind of thrilling about being the only ones on the road at that time of night. I guess maybe part of the thrill comes from being on the bike itself, but whatever it is, I highly recommend it if you ever get the opportunity.

Anyway, last night there were still quite a few cars and the odd lorry on the road, but it was still really pleasant. I keep my visor up while we're in town, enjoying the feeling of the wind in my face and the warm air rippling over my legs and shoulders. When we're going slowly, I like to sit with my hands resting on my knees rather than around Tom's waist, or holding the grab rail behind me. It's strange but sitting like that, with my back straight and hands resting on my knees, it makes me feel calm and wise, like a monk of some sort, quietly contemplating my surroundings, and just being aware of my body and how it feels and moves along the road and through the air. As we move out of town and start picking up speed I reach behind with my left hand and twist my fingers underneath the grab rail. With my right hand I flip the visor down so it's open just a crack and instantly the noise of the wind changes to a louder rushing sound. I know that if I close the visor completely the quality of the sound will change again, and it will also start to steam up from my breathing, and my face will feel warm and slightly damp from the extra moisture inside the helmet. That's one of the many things I like about motorbikes, it's the small details, the sounds, sensations, and smells, the environmental things you pick up on that you don't get in a car.

We head on out of Oswestry and towards Gobowen and Weston Rhyn, past the Lion Quay's resort. I sneak a glance at it, and think about the people who might have got married there today, and think about Tom's sister and her fiance who are thinking about getting married there in a couple of years. But I feel Tom click into a lower gear and we zoom past a lorry and head on up to North Wales, past the blinking neon lights of the Shell garage and carry on along the A5 over the Ceiriog Viaduct.

A5 Ceiriog Viaduct: http://www.geograph.org.uk/photo/2408523

 In the day time the viaduct offers one of my favourite local views. It feels really high up and the river winds below, with sheep and other farm animals grazing on the land by the banks, surrounded on both river banks by tall trees. I can't see the river below at this time of night but I know it's there in the darkness. There have been a few bad accidents on that bridge, and I usually keep my eye out for the wind sock to see what it's doing. I sometimes have the irrational fear that whatever vehicle I'm in is suddenly going to get blown right off the bridge and fall, in slow motion, all the way to the bottom. Again there's something thrilling about that, even though it's just a bridge and the barriers are fine, and the chances of just getting blown off the edge are pretty much impossible. I guess it's my over-active mind, imagining what a fall like that would feel like.

We keep going until the roundabout with the late night McDonalds, and turn left towards Llangollen. We've crossed over the border into Wales again, and you start to really feel it as the roads get more windy, and slope up and down. There are alternately stone walls and worn white metal railing on the side of the road and as we head out towards Froncysyllte I'm aware that there are more amazing views out there, hidden from sight this time by the darkness. I try to distinguish the Aquaduct (Pontcysyllte in Welsh) over the River Dee, but it's not lit, so again, I know it's out there somewhere among the black and the valley lights on my right hand side, stretching from one side of the valley to the other, but I'm not sure whether I've passed it already or whether it still to come. I have to stop myself from craning my neck too much as the road is starting to bend quite a lot, and I know that if my weight is too much on one side of the bike that it makes it harder for Tom to keep us balanced and get us through corners. I think again that I'd like one day to walk across the Aqueduct (I'm sure my Dad has done it before), but then we pass the Aqueduct Inn and out through the street lit area and back onto the dark road. After a couple more sharp turns we pass the Vale of Llangollen Golf Club, and I know we're about 2/3rds of the way there.

http://www.oldukphotos.com/denbighshirellangollen.htm: Pontcysyllte Aqueduct

 Into Llangollen and we slow to 30, and we flip our visors up again. I think about how lovely the streets look bathed in the orange glow of street lights on this warm October night; there are people outside the pubs enjoying their Saturday night, and I think about how it might be nice to stop for a drink one night at either the Star Inn, or the Sun Inn (I find it funny that I've never noticed their names before, that one should be of the night time, and one of the day, two pubs right next door to each other). Then come the restaurants and curry houses. We come to the Samirah Tandoori on the left, and I think briefly about a uni friend called Samira, and then I notice the family stood outside. There's a woman, and a man with a young child in his arms. He's wearing long shorts and I think 'fair play to him'. He has two prosthetic legs (from mid calf I think) and the street lights make the metal gleam above his trainers. He's lifting the child up in the air above his head and he looks happy. I wonder what might have happened to him, if perhaps he was in the army, or maybe if he just had an accident, but by then we've gone passed and we turn right down towards Llangollen bridge. There are even more people down this part of town, and there's a festive feel to the night, like the Royal Wedding bank holiday, or perhaps World-Cup time of year there are so many people out and about on the streets outside the pubs.

Llangollen Bridge at nightfall: http://www.llangollenlets.co.uk/

We cross the beautiful old bridge with it's victorian style street lamps and head left out of town towards Llantysilio and the Horseshoe Pass. A few months ago we came for a walk along the Shropshire Union Canal, to the Horseshoe Falls, and up around the countryside around Llangollen, and we pass a lot of the same landmarks that we followed down by the canal back then. Railway carriages sleeping quietly on the left and beautiful old black and white timbered town houses with bay windows on the right. There's a relatively new group of modern, white homes on the right (the sign for the Marketing suite is still up, so they must not have sold all of them yet), and I notice with some disappointment that the 'Tic Tac Car' isn't there this time. When we came for that walk last time, there had been a bright lime green car which had reminded me of those green and orange tic tacs. The road gets thinner and trees line it on both sides. The giant silver harp outside the International Eisteddfod Pavilion shines almost mystically in the street lights as we amble past, making me think of Bernard Cornwell's books about King Arthur and Merlin. I spot the sign for the Motor Museum on the left and then the road curves upwards and to the right. I remember that this is way that we walked back to Llangollen to get the car at the end of our walk a few months ago. I was worried about getting a parking ticket so we'd decided to take the road even though there were no pavements so it was a bit hairy at times!

Now we're really out of Llangollen the countryside gets wilder, and the hills grow higher and steeper on our left. They're covered in bracken and gorse and other course and spiky plants. The ground starts to slope downwards on the right as we pass the campsite and Valle Crucis Abbey in Llantysilio, again somewhere in the darkness but invisible to travellers at this time of night.

Valle Crucis Abbey: http://www.aboutbritain.com/ValleCrucisAbbey.htm

I think how cool it would be to go back and wonder around there at night, but something about the place is also quite creepy, as it reminds me of the ruined abbey in the 3rd Omen film with Sam Neill. We are not far away from the Horseshoe Pass now. The buildings become less and less frequent. One, the Britannia pub, is announced by a bright white triangle of neon lights above the porch and winking Christmas lights around the sign at edge of the driveway. You see it coming from quite a distance and then suddenly it disappears behind us as we take a sharp right and climb a 20% incline where it's black again. We're climbing higher and higher now, and this is when I start to get a bit nervous and hope Tom keeps his secret about going carefully. This road scares me. The bends are really sharp and the drop off the edge is massive, even in the dark you can tell from the tiny lights at the bottom of the valley below. The white reflective posts on the right edge map out the curves of the road for us, which is in someway reassuring, but in other moments, where the reflections disappear from sight around a sharp bend, it reminds you of quite how bendy the road is.

Copyright Stepehn McKay, http://www.geograph.org.uk/photo/2302781

My fingers are tightly gripped around the grab rail and I'm more conscious of holding myself still with my core muscles to avoid shifting weight forwards or backwards, or from one side of the bike to another.

The Road West around the Horseshoe Pass, Copyright Tom Pennington: http://www.geograph.org.uk/photo/835886

 Comparing this physical tension and concentration to my earlier peacefulness, with my zen-like calm, I'm reminded of a book review I read for "Teach us to sit still" by Tim Parks (I had to check the title today if I'm honest). In the book the author has a health problem that has been giving him some grief, and in his desperation to try anything that might bring him some relief he attempts meditation techniques at a monastery of some sort. I remember him describing how surprisingly uncomfortable and unnatural just sitting still for hours can feel, but that once you've got the hang of it it can bring huge benefits, not just physically but mentally and spiritually as well.

Now, on the bike, I think how useful it would be for me to learn to calm down and just sit still. I am a terrible fidgeter, always tapping my feet, or drumming my fingers nails on something, or picking at my split ends in my hair (I know, gross), but on the bike fidgetting is a big no-no. I try to centre myself so that I'm not actively shifting my weight as the bike leans from one side to the other, but rather that the bikes moves me, as if there's a stiff metal rod that runs vertically through me and into the bike, if that makes sense. It's actually quite hard for me to let myself be moved, and it's something that took quite a lot of practice to get used to, but I know that it makes it so much harder for Tom to handle the bike if I'm moving around unpredictably behind him.

Eventually we reach the part of the road where it flattens out on the left and we see the lights of the Ponderosa Cafe up ahead. Although it looks deserted, the lights are a bit of a disappointment as it means the stars will be less clearly visible. I dismount and Tom turns off the engine. Neither of us speaks for a while. We sit on the car park looking out over the valley, listening to the engine ticking in the quietness and just looking up at the stars. With the helmet off, I can smell the mountain air mixed with the bike. I'm not sure if it's the exhaust, the tyres, or just the general hot engine smell, but I like it. It's very quiet in the gaps between passing cars. Looking behind us it looks like there's a satellite moving above the top of the mountain, but the movement is jerky and the light gets brighter and then suddenly fades and disappears completely. We both lie back on the concrete and just sit quietly for a while. After a while (I don't know if it was half an hour, 45 minutes, or longer), we both start to feel that the lights from the cafe complex are a bit annoying, and the cars seem to be coming quite frequently. We can also hear voices from the bushes on the mountain top behind us, and the jerky light has reappeared, closer this time. I figure that what we had thought was a satellite is actually just late night walkers, and that pretty soon they'll reach us. I know it's a free country, but I'd really liked the idea of being completely alone up on the mountain top, and don't relish the idea of being joined by strangers. In the end we decide it's getting a bit cold to be sitting on the ground and decide to head home, but with the promise that we'll try Lake Vyrnwy next time as it's likely to be darker and not have as much passing traffic.

Ponderosa Cafe in daytime: http://www.northwestbikers.net/forum/index.php?/topic/115-meeting-places/

The journey home is indeed much colder and I try to keep my arms as close to my body as possible and shrink down behind Tom to get out of the way of the chilling wind. I use my teeth to pull up the neck protector over my mouth, and hunch my shoulders up to my helmet to try to keep the wind out. I feel like a turtle, and there is something in this, something in the fabric in my mouth that makes me feel like a little child, but I can't put my finger on it. I start for no reason to suck on the fabric between my teeth, and stop almost immediately as it reminds of a stable vice called wind-sucking that horses do. This thought instantly reminds me of work, and I realise I'd almost completely forgotten about work during the course of the evening.

We head down the 20% slope and towards the sharp bends of the Horseshoe Pass, this time with the red reflective posts and treacherous drop on our left side, i.e. closer to us. The rest of the journey home is uneventful and Tom does indeed take it slowly, except on one left bend it's not quite slow enough for my liking. I feel the bike lean lower and lower to the ground on the left and the wheels drift nearer and nearer to the other side of the road until we're on the white centre line. I'm thankful that there's almost no one else on the road at this time of night. I'm reminded of an evening bike ride we took in France last year in the Cevennes. The dusty, windy mountain roads were familiar to me as I'd been on holiday to that region for several years running, but France being France, they didn't have much in the way of safety barriers. This in spite of the fact that accidents weren't uncommon, and I'd actually met a man who had gone off the edge and was lucky enough to come out of it with just one eye missing. On that occasion last year, we were heading upwards and like last night we took a right bend a little too quickly and Tom had to lean the bike so far down to avoid us drifting right off the left side of the road that I felt the foot peg scrape and bounce off the ground beneath our feet. I've never forgotten that feeling, which is why roads like the Horseshoe Pass in North Wales scare me a little. You have to be a little scared I guess, so as not to lose respect for it.

When we eventually get to the outskirts of Oswestry I'm relaxed again, and I start to take in more about the feeling of being on a bike. I look down and to my left, at my knee, and the road zipping away underneath it, as if we were sitting still and someone was pulling the road like a rug out from underneath or wheels. I'd never looked at my legs in that way before, and it's kind of mesmerising, seeing the line on the edge the road drifting closer and then further away from your knee. At the last roundabout before we get to town we take the right exit and I see and feel my body being lowered towards the ground and it's an amazing feeling. After the exit the road bends immediately left, and you feel your whole body lift upwards and then down again to the left, and again I watch my left knee inching nearer to the ground.

As we get off the last country road and into the street lights I notice the shadows on our left hand side. With each approaching street lamp I see a clear, black silhouette of two heads and the handlebars of the bike appear from behind and follow us on the left. As we drift past the lamps, the shadow stretches forwards in front and underneath us, fading and stretching until the two heads and bike merge into one pale disappearing image, until we move into the next pool of light and a new dark shadow is born. I'm fascinated by this cycle, the birth and death of shadows, all the way back to our house, and wish there was someway I could capture this visually for other people to see. I guess it'll have to stay in my head for now.

Until next time. x