My lunchtime departure approaches, bags are packed and deposited in the Village People Carrier and the route is prepared. There’s a road I like the look of through Winchester, which crosses the M3 and dips southeast to Fareham before meandering into Portsmouth. On the French side I’m going for another cross-country ride with plenty of opportunities to get lost, navigating the old way, with a map and compass. Both routes have been chosen with directness and speed, or lack of it, in mind.
I’m trembling with nervous anticipation but once I’d ordered split links for the Black Bullet’s drive chains the pre-trip tension that was destroying my sleep subsided. Unless something major like the engine or gearbox goes I reckon I can expect to make it. Oh, I mustn’t forget to stop at Halfords for a can of puncture remedy, a combination of compressed air and gunge, good enough to get me to a tyre shop.
One of the Village People has offered me a mobile (I only have a work one), so I can let them know if I’m stuck or in need any of the spares they’re carrying for me. Otherwise I’m on my own, which is what I asked for, so I can’t complain. I have to report a strange and confusing mix of fear, anticipation, pride, anxiety and sheer excitement. It’s like being a teenager again.
At my age? What the hell do I think I'm doing?
