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On Your Bike

The wind must be blowing from the North West. From my window, I can watch the sea running from left to right in a choppy agitated way; like an irregular, white-flecked conveyor belt.

It’s a fresh bright start to the day and perhaps and with luck, I’ll fly today, all depending on whether the wind is favouring the small grass runway. If it’s more than forty degrees off, then I can probably do without the added excitement of trying to squeeze an aircraft between the farm building and a field filled with nervous horses on the landing.

Later this morning, the BBC want me to do an interview on Spam legislation for the World Service. I'll have to use the tiny Radio Kent studio hidden in Margate Hospital. I wonder if the security guard will be able to find the keys?

Last night, I was feeling rather superior, tunnelling and weaving between the crawling M25 traffic on my way down to Kent. My unhappy surprise appeared on the M20 with the motorway signs telling me that the A249, the link between the M20 and the M2 was closed. Not quite as bad as finding myself in front of a closed M23 two weeks ago, this was still a problem and I was forced to carry on riding my motorcycle all the way to Ashford and then follow a winding country road in the pitch blackness, back towards the M2 at Faversham. Over two and a half hours for a normal ninety minute journey and by then, I was glad of my new BMW heated waistcoat, which kept a difficult journey from becoming a totally miserable experience.



Ironically, you can see Canterbury from above Ashford, it’s only fifteen minutes in the air but on the ground it’s not so easy and closing the artery between two motorways was bound to cause chaos. This seems to be an experience that is happening more frequently, more in the last twelve months than the last thirty years and I’m assuming that the sheer weight of traffic is leading to more fatal accidents, which in turn lead to main roads being closed until the Police incident team have finished their work.

Thinking back to congestion on the motorway, I have to wonder how people cope with their daily journeys these days. The stress must be appalling and an expensive car, to me, a passionate motorcyclist, appears as a tin prison and mostly a waste of time and money. There must come a point when everything in the South grinds to a grid-locked halt and if not this year, then one day soon I’m sure.

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