TRAVERSE 135
There are people who get twitchy if they don’ t have their morning coffee, and then there are those of us who develop full-blown withdrawal symptoms if we don’ t get our regular fix of adventure motorcycle travel. I, for one, am a certified expedition addict. My first delicious taste of dirt came courtesy of a humble Honda CR125, and over the years I graduated to all manner of burly adventure machines, finally clocking multiple continental crossings, yes, plural, on a little Vespa scooter that would have made any sensible person call a therapist.
These days, however, I am just shy of twelve years sightless, and my beloved adventure lifestyle has been reduced to the occasional cheeky pillion ride or a teasing day out in my sidecar when a mate can be coaxed into piloting me. I rarely get the chance to play pillion properly, and the grand overland expeditions of my sighted years are now soft-edged memories filed away somewhere behind the smell of chain lube and the sound of gravel pinging off a bash plate.
Yet the addiction doesn’ t go away. Oh no, it festers. I find myself on the school run or loitering in the supermarket car park, when suddenly I hear that familiar rumble in the distance. My head swivels instinctively, alright, so maybe it doesn’ t help much these days, but my ears perk up like a meerkat on espresso. Is it a KTM? A Ténéré 700? I imagine the rider, boots dusty, panniers scuffed, off to some glorious escapade while I cradle a loaf of bread and try not to get run over by a trolley.
It’ s a bit like a scuba diver who hasn’ t been in the water for years and ends up taking a shower in full dive gear just to remember the feeling. I haven’ t tried sitting in my sidecar in the garage wearing a helmet and adventure jacket while making vroom-vroom noises, but give me another month of withdrawal and I might.
Social media is both my saviour and my tormentor. On one hand, scrolling through other people’ s motorcycle adventures sparks the dreaming engine in my head. I can almost smell the petrol, hear the wind, and feel the rumble of the engine beneath me. On the other hand, it’ s a cruel tease. Pictures of riders crossing dusty
TRAVERSE 135