I have in my hand a piece of paper…

Awful things are happening in the news but in my small world it has been a good day. Hortense has passed her MOT. For the last few weeks I have been trying to prepare all the things that I can do – we started with an oil and filter change, new plugs, grease on all the kingpins and checking the brake pads. These were all good.

She needed a new headlamp bulb and the handbrake has never quite recovered after I drove for several miles down the A66 with it on. I have form for this. In my defence, when your car makes a cacophony of unusual clicks and groans at anything above walking pace, it’s easy to miss the giveaway squeal.

So I ordered a box of bulbs and replacement handbrake pads from the lovely people at Der Franzose and set about it. The headlamp bulb was very easy. The handbrake pads were very hard. The Haynes BOL doesn’t actually tell you how to replace pads, just how to adjust them. But somewhere on the internet there’s a picture of how to push them out using a butter knife. So I took the air filter off, and undid the eccentrics, and pushed the old ones out, and the 2ps which you can stick behind them as shims, and then reached an impasse.

The new pads, from Ferodo, would not go in.

I asked Mark McArthur Christie, who is one of my 2CV gurus. They go in fairly easily once you’ve got the springs sorted, he said.

Are you sure you’ve got the right ones?

It says 2CV on the box. Though this might be an aspiration rather than a description.

The North Briton came for the weekend. He tried to stuff them in with screwdriver and plumbers grips. They went in a bit and got stuck. No problem, he said, before whipping the calipers off the discs for a full strip and rebuild.

The handbrake pads would not go in because they were 2mm too big.

I am annoyed about this, because when I can’t do something on the car I tend to assume it’s my fault. That women should stick to fondling puppies, and wearing pink, and baking cupcakes, not lying on the drive in the mud and the grease and the gunk while bemused neighbours wonder why I don't just pay someone else to do it.

He filed them down round the edges, I cleaned the calipers. We bled the brakes and adjusted the eccentrics. By the time we finished there wasn't enough day left to get to the BMF show, but we did have a lovely time at Duxford instead.

The fog light didn’t come on when I pulled the switch, so I spent an evening feeling proud of myself cleaning all the rust off the contacts to make it a good earth, checking that the unit worked if wired direct to the battery, and making sure it wasn’t just a duff bulb. Then I discovered that it only comes on if the headlights are on too. So I felt a bit of a muppet.

And then I tried to fit the new windscreen wipers and broke the teeny-weeny plastic clip that holds the wiper blade to the arm. Big MOT hugs to Cambridge Discount Autoparts, who dug in their Tub of Obsolete Wiper Bits to find me a replacement one for no charge.

This morning Mr McLeod the MOT tester found the front wheels to be wobbly and the back brake to be essentially ornamental, but since this is normal for 2CVs we have passed. Hopefully this means that I will sleep tonight, for the first time in a week. And then, since timing is everything, I shall try and fix the points.

“Let’s go scare some sheep.”

** Guest post for Keep Britain Biking **

I have no power socket on my Triumph so I have no satnav. I have no luggage rack, so I am riding with a tankbag and a tailpack. I have no money in my bank account so I shall be camping. None of these things would matter if I weren’t heading for Wales to do a navigation challenge – the Welsh National Rally, run annually by the Clive MCC –against a forecast of gale force winds and heavy rain.

Why am I taking the Triumph when I have a perfectly good Africa Twin? It seemed like a good idea at the time. This is what they are going to write on my gravestone. I bought the Triumph new in 2000, then bought two other bikes and relegated him to a corner of the garage. Spiders moved into his rev counter. I know that bikes are just collections of moving machinery but too many episodes of Bagpuss in my childhood leave me with the firm belief that when no-one is looking he weeps quietly at being left out of my adventures. Motorcycles may just be machines but they are machines with souls, and their soul’s purpose is to move.

So this year I have resolved to go back to basics. Also the Africa Twin needs an oil change and the brakes bleeding and I spent too much time recently crawling underneath things and getting covered in grease. I am due a break. So is the Triumph. We tack north west on the M54, interrupted only by a brief pause on the hard shoulder to strap the luggage back on.

A finish in the Welsh National Rally requires a route that covers at least one manned control and visits five other checkpoints. Hardy types, such as Grim Rider Robert Roalfe, go for a Platinum Award, which requires 3 manned controls, 15 unmanned controls, and the Dragon Award. Lovers of Plastic Pigs and sidecars can aim for a Belenger award for three-wheelers. Hazards include getting lost, getting stuck on single-track roads when two cars enter a Mexican stand-off about who is giving way to whom, and being flagged down to help in emergencies. Greater love hath no man than he lay down his Platinum to go and get help for a competitor with a puncture and no mobile phone signal.

This is my first year as a competitor – the rally has always fallen on the same weekend as the Thundersprint, where Frank Melling has always kindly invited me to ride in the Cavalcade. This year the Thundersprint moved from Northwich to Ynys Mon, and also changed weekends. I like to believe Frank did this specially for me.

Because I am both lazy and gregarious, I am aiming for a Social Silver. This will be gained by the simple expedient of following Biker Paul, who has done all the actual work of route planning and satnav loading, with regular stops for tea. I am hoping to spot Twitter bikers @ledwardio and @niksix00, and I know that we will bump into friends from the Round Britain Rally, for whenever there is a challenge that involved navigating to obscure places while being rained on, the RBR will be represented.

Bikers are tribal creatures and I think David Attenborough has missed a trick by failing to devote a mini-series to our diverse plumages and pack behaviours. To fit in on a track day, you need knee-sliders, this year’s leathers and a very small camera attached to your bike. To fit in here, you need waterproof gear. Fashion gives way to function; glamour gives way to Goretex. And high-viz. I need sunglasses to look at the signing-on queue. Unfortunately that’s the last time I’ll need them all day…

The Big Gnarly Bike is the weapon of choice for sensible rallyists. As Paul and I plunge off into the sheep tracks I envy them. The Africa Twin would skip over the potholes and laugh at the thick crust of mud and grass on the apex of each corner. The Triumph crashes into each ridge and pit, setting my bingo wings flapping. We spend large parts of the day in first gear. But we don’t fall off the road and down the mountainside, and any day that doesn’t happen is a win.

The heavens open about five minutes after the start. I did have a fantastic set of BMW waterproofs. I left them on the ferry home from the Simmer Dim. I have a jacket-and-trousers combo for this weekend but after the first hour in the rain I remember why, for all their problems when it comes to lady loo breaks, onesies are better – no trouser seams can cope with the puddle of water that runs off the jacket and collects on the seat. Five hours of sitting with damp pants provide a cautionary reminder of the evils of drink.

But Wales would not be Wales without rainwater, suicide sheep, narrow lanes filled with unhurried buses, comedy place names - Pantperthog? Really? – and amazing views. Our 250 mile loop took us from the Aberystwyth mountain road to Cardigan Bay, via Happy Valley, and back to Castle Caereinon to be rewarded by a small trophy, a big curry and some great company.

Empty Road, Evening Sun

I am going an A Big Adventure soon. I am excited about it but I am worried as well, because I will have to keep up with people who ride motorcycles for a living, and that has not always been my strength. I can keep up with couriers in the city, but dodging the sheep on tiny countryside twisties gives me The Fear.

Fears are for facing and overcoming, as far as possible. There seems little point in panicking about things it is in my power to improve.

So for the first time in a long time I went out on my bike to practice.

I live in the Flatlands where the roads tend to be straight and level, with the occasional 90 degree corner to keep you awake. But there are about three bends a few miles from my house, and I went out to ride them in a low gear and kick the habit of looking at the corner and braking into it.

It seemed very easy until my mind wandered off into practicing a conversation I needed to have today. Then the bends went to pot. So I conclude that it isn't only men that can't multitask. And I also conclude that the challenge might not be riding. It might be concentrating.

If all you have is a hammer, everything looks like a nail.

I have been gardening. Gardening is difficult territory for me. I used to love it and be good at it. Then I moved from a house to a flat and gave my tools to my sister, who had a house with a garden. When, after some bad life choices, I moved back into a house with only my clothes, (most of which I was too fat to fit into), my books and an armchair, she did not return the favour. I know that gifts are not given with bungee cords attached, but I felt let down nonetheless.

The bad life choice also loved gardening but he was very bad at it. He believed that if you wanted to transplant seedlings, you could pull them all up and leave them to dry in the sun while you wandered off and did something else, before putting them back into the good earth. He wondered why nothing grew in our garden. Any attempt by me to explain how things could be done differently was just proof that women were uppity creatures who should know their place. It took me far too long to realise that my place was without him.

I have been in my own house for nearly three years. Because of those bad life choices I have not been financially able to go to a garden centre and re-equip myself. So, slowly over this time I have accumulated garden tools from Emmaus. You do not walk into Emmaus with a shopping list. You go and see what treasures are there on any given Saturday.

My new, old tools are substantial, and rusty, and cost less than a fiver each. I now have a hoe, a rake, a spade, a shovel and a hefty fork. The weeds know their time is short.

I like their continuity. Some days I think it would be lovely to have been able to go out with a shopping list and a trolley, and come back and fill my shed with New. But, when I venture with fear into the garden to dig up the weeds, I like that my tools were held in someone else's hand first.

Gardening is important to me, though you would not believe it if you looked over the fence. I am not used to freedom. I am good at digging up what should not be there, but the idea that I can positively choose what to grow in what space is, on some days, terrifying. Putting plants in the ground is going to be my first step towards making my own choices.

In her memoir, Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal, Jeanette Winterson writes about her recovery from a suicide attempt.

"What made it possible was the sanity of the book in the mornings and the steadiness of gardening in the spring and summer evenings. Planting cabbages and beans is good for you. Creative work is good for you."

I am not writing the book yet. That will come.

But this is a post about gardening lurking in what is supposed to be a blog about motorcycling. So I will add that for the first time since passing my test, I rode this week in jeans and jacket bought off-the-peg from the women's half of the room. (Actually, I didn't buy the jacket. It has been donated for an adventure yet to come.) The right tools for the job make life more comfortable.

Starting out

Is that a motorcycle jacket, asked the young lady teacher standing beside me in the dinner queue this evening.

Yes, I said.

Does your bike have...gears? she asked.

Well, yes, I said. I have an Africa Twin and a Triumph. They both have gears.

This was a much more interesting conversation than the one I had been having about whether the Welsh Government's decision to retain the AS level would help or hinder Welsh students.

We picked up our self-service trays and turned to the important questions. Yes, I have come off. Yes, riding in strong cross winds is terrifying and sometimes turning round and going home is absolutely the best thing to do. Yes, riding a motorbike is the best thing ever.

I get very enthusiastic when I meet young lady riders who are starting out for the first time on this great highway. This particular new rider was about to make the leap from a twist-and-go to a Chinese-import 125. Maybe I was a bit over enthusiastic. But I think about when I started riding and didn't know any other riders, and how many questions I had that needed answers. And I think that these days I am an old woman and I have grey hair, though it is temporarily in disguise as pink hair, and maybe my job now is to say yes, we do all fall off, and those of us who are lucky get back on again and carry on.