Petrol in the blood?

Here I am looking at an horizon of opportunity; riding a bike home from New Zealand via Australia, India, Pakistan, Iran, Turkey and Europe. What is it about boys and their toys?

The writer John Eldridge in his book Wild at Heart describes how the Godly characteristics of a man include the need for three things. A battle to fight, an adventure to live and a beauty to capture. I highly recommend it to men and women who want to understand the heart of a man. Amongst its wisdom it validates the male inclination towards acceleration, speed and adrenaline. It is in the spirit and the genes.

I can attest to that. I was 2 years old when my brother was born. I remember persuading my mum to take me in to see him sleeping when really I wanted to get my hands on his first present, a purple Matchbox mini with a huge engine sticking out the bonnet.

At about the same time, I remember that all I wanted for Christmas was the PlayMobil police motorcycle. Mum said “We’ll see”. I was filled with uncertainty. Of course she meant yes, she had already bought it and didn’t want to ruin the surprise. I look well pleased.


A few years later I accompanied my dad to the motorcycle exhibition at Earl’s Court. He was looking for a Moto Morini 250cc but I had seen the mini motorbikes. “Please dad, I really need one.” We had nowhere to ride them of course. His reply was “We’ll see”. Perhaps he’d already bought it and didn’t want to ruin the surprise. I was filled with hope. It took me a few more years to realise his ‘We’ll see’ was ‘No’ in disguise. Bikes were never going to be a reality and my hankering began to disolve.


It wasn’t until I was 16 when I first flirted with the idea of a bike in the language block carpark when Neil Grant wanted to sell me his Yamaha DT50. I sat on and felt the surging power of the 4hp engine. He asked me if I knew what I was doing.
“Of course” I said with bravado. How hard could it be?
I let the clutch out and the kangarood a few feet across the paving slabs and half into a bush, quickly disqualifying myself from the purchase. I hadn’t realised it was so complicated and the experience put me off. Besides at 16 you can only ride 50cc and if I was going to bother with all the kit and paraphernalia, I wanted to go faster than 27mph. Anyway, mum would be upset.

The following year I gained my freedom with my driving test and never considered a bike again, not when I had the diverting alternative of a Fiat Panda with a double soft sunroof, followed by a Mk1 Golf which was good for handbrake turns and doughnuts on the Vale at Birmingham Uni. Then followed the status symbol of the Alfa 33 with arches sprayed badly in a different green by my dad. According to Kate Hall I often used the chat up line “Do you want a ride in my Alfa Romeo”. I can’t remember that at all. She must be remembering someone else.

My first job after uni was in the city centre. Driving was out of the question and Bristol buses quickly turned me into a transport snob. I was driven to find a solution. I had to get on two wheels.

I was 21. I found a Honda CM125 in Portishead. I got a lift out with Ben Silvey, paid the money and got taught how to make the thing go and stop. I hadn’t progressed much in the intervening years since the experience with the DT 50 and the hedge in the language block car park. But I made it home, escorted by the previous owner who probably didn’t want it on his conscience if I didn’t make it back across the Clifton Suspension Bridge.

I still lived at home so I hid it at a friend’s house until I was ready to tell my mum. In my cowardice, I left the helmet lying around. I knew she’d be upset. But I did not anticipate how much.

She found the helmet. I found her in tears. The shock, the betrayal, the not entirely irrational fears that motorcycling could end my life. My dad had had two near misses in police motorcycle accidents. Her father had one leg shorter than the other due to a bike crash. She had good reason to be upset.

I cried with her when I saw the depth of the pain I had caused. I wanted to back out but I couldn’t.
“Don’t get a bike, Daniel, please.”
“It’s too late, I already bought it”
“Where is it?” She looked so downcast
“I’ve hidden it at Kate’s house.”

As I recall she didn’t put her foot down. I even think we had a conversation about how she realised she had to let go, that I was an adult now and so on. My mum has always been like that. She gave me freedom, with trust. Therefore I never really rebelled. It was a liberating upbringing where I could do what I wanted as long as I chose sensibly. I rose to the responsibility.

With the 125 Honda I was captured by motorcycling. David J had the same bike so we became biking buddies, taking girls for rides to the sea wall at Severn Beach. I soon took my full test, and fifteen days after passing had bought a new Yamaha Diversion on low rate finance. I was rarely seen out of leathers; church, parties, drinks at the pub. Dan the motorbike guy.

It became part of my identity. It made me different. Perhaps it made me cool. It made me free. And to a certain degree it worked with the girls. Far better than the Alfa Romeo for sure.

The 'Why' of motorcycling is summed up in chapter one of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. Seeing the world through a car windscreen is just like more TV, but a bike makes you feel connected to a 360 degree vibrant reality, with the wind in your face and tarmac rushing inches beneath your feet.

I would never have foreseen wanting to do a central Asian trip. But I am standing on the edge of a life changing experience. This sort of adventure makes you come alive. Riding through central Asia will certainly be a vibrant reality. I have to do it. After all, it is in the genes.