nud1e
Registered user
my first mistake was to get up at 4 am on Saturday morning 23rd May - no that's not correct, my first mistake was to say OK last September when SWMBO say she was going to Florence with the girls.
This presented the opportunity.
So last Saturday, I dropped her off at 5am to get the minibus with the girls to Dublin airport.
I now had 4 unsupervised days - this was another mistake, one leads to another.
In hindsight, I suppose in strict chronological sequence, really the numero uno mistake was to decide to do the Photo Rally - again.
So at 7am, I fed a stray/feral cat that we have called Thug,
set the alarm - we were burgled 4 weeks before- locked up the house, tossed a change of underwear into the panniers and went off on the 1150GS.
I left behind a clean hankie, sticking plasters, an allen key that helps tighten the mirrors and a roll of PVC tape.
I did take a sharp knife.
I left Murroe, Limerick and head towards Dublin - out for the first longish ride on the 1150, and the first run in months.
Near Portlaoise, the GPS directed me off the M7, and I believe it - another mistake.
When will I learn that the GPS knows shite diddly squat about Irish roads.
Some time later, I arrived at 09 Dublin/Kildare.
Photo taken, and back on the road to 07 L'Ford/W'meath.
The brightness and warmth of the early morning had started to disappear as I got to 08 Louth/Meath.
Two hours or so would take me home, after I filled up.
I would be home by 13h30, 14h00 at the latest.
Instead, I took the road north and into the rain through the maternal ancestral homelands between Kingscourt and Carrickmacross.
I resisted the chance to visit with the aunts, one of my few wise decisions of the weekend.
The rain stopped just before I stopped for lunch in Castleblaney, and started again just as I left.
Again the GPS took me by less travelled interesting ways towards Cookstown - when will I learn that the GPS knows shite diddly squat about Irish roads.
In Cookstown, Martin on a GSX750 with his daughter Aoife spotted my GPS and asked if I could direct him to 06 Ferman/Tyrone.
They had been up and down the roads without locating the big stone.
We rode past it without seeing it.
I spotted it on the way back, but Martin couldn't accept that this was the waypoint.
He is a Photo Rally virgin with 4 scooters.
The rain had stopped as they followed me towards 02 Derry.
The GPS directed us by less travelled interesting scenic ways across the Sperrins - when will I learn that the GPS knows shite diddly squat about Irish roads, but does take you to some nice roads as some sort of compensation.
The wind had picked up as we left 02 Derry, pity that I didn't blow away the eyesore of the caravan parks below on Magilligan strand.
The GPS took me astray in Ballymena which was unfortunate as I heartily, and unreasonably, dislike Ballymena.
As we filled up, a drunken youth shouted some sectarian abuse at my registration plate, before running away - why?
It was 18h30, when we got to 03 Antrim.
Back on home ground, I ignored the GPS and took the M2, then over Craigantlet into Newtownards and on to 04 Down/Armagh.
It was 19h30, when I left Martin and Aoife and rode back into the setting sun as I went back home to a bed in my parents house for the first time in nearly 28 years.
I done about 400 miles.
I was too tired to talk, eat, or drink and so went to bed at 21h30.
It is 200 miles, or about 4 hours from my parents house to my home.
Sunday 24/5/09
I was back on the next morning at 09h30.
At the end of the M1, I stopped to get some water, and also bought a nuts and raisins toffee bar.
The GPS was directing me to 01 Donegal - when will I learn.
The brightness and warmth had gone as I went West, so I stopped in Dromore to put on some over trousers and decided to have some toffee.
I had to take the sharp knife to the toffee.
The knife slipped and sliced my left index finger.
I hadn't a clean hankie, or any sticking plasters.
I had a pack of moist toilet tissues, which were useless in stopping the flow of blood.
The GPS to found me the nearest filling station, and the young girl at the till put a plaster on the diced finger.
The pack of plasters and a roll of kitchen towel went into the tankbag.
I should have bought a roll of PVC tape, but didn't.
It has been 20 odd years since last I went to Glencolumkille.
Then, just after Killybegs, the rider and pillion ahead of me went down on a bend and his bike slide into a car.
The bike survived, the pillion broke her arm, the car collapsed.
The front chassis was riddled with rust from sitting on the quays while the owner was away fishing.
I think the driver was the most shocked, by the state of his car.
I lost my Vango Force 10 in the aftermath of the accident - I still miss that tent.
I heartily, and possibly unreasonably, dislike Donegal, probably more so than Ballymena, but it is bigger.
It is not a happy place, a harsh land and without the charm of Mayo or Sligo or Derry.
The locals have Belfast accents.
I'm from Belfast, why can't they get an accent of their own, what do they want with mine.
Wll they pay VRT on it and will they register it to make it their own - will they fcuk?
There was wind and there was rain and there was mist.
Lots of wind, lots of rain, lots of mist.
There may have been a communications mast on the mountain behind Glencolumkille, but I couldn't even see the mountain in the mist and rain.
The accursed GPS lead me on and up boreens, before telling me that I had gone too far, something that had occurred to me an hour earlier.
As I manouvre a U turn, a blast of wind pushes the bike and I sideways.
My right foot searches for the ground and finds it as the bike rolls onto its side and then a little further over.
Some time passes.
I had switched off the engine and rolled the bike onto its side.
More time passes, as my 60 year old body and 18 year old mind are in conflicit about are next course of action.
I put down the sidestand, take hold of the handlebar and lift.
Some time later.
The bike is upright and my thoughts are with the person who had chosen this location.
They are dark thoughts, but I could only blame myself, and him.
Later, he tells me that he found this point on a Serow.
I collected the bits of the right front indicator, but I had no PVC tape to put it together.
I didn't have the right allen key to tighten the right mirror, but used a key as a substitute.
A charming lady stopped as she thought that I had had an accident.
I assured her that I had not, and got directions that would take me up the hidden misty mountain, and down the rushy glen.
I climbed through the mist, higher then higher.
They were darker dark thoughts for the person who had chosen this location.
Darker than before, much much darker.
Lost in the mist, visor and glasses soaked with rain, myopically I picked my way upwards.
My belief in the very existance of the tower was failing.
I went on, now only searching for a place to turn.
And there was the tower, in the mist.
It was now 13h50.
I rode away, not wishing to look back.
The wind had eased, the rain stopped and the mist slowly lifted.
I was stopped in Kilcar by a set of traffic lights (road works) and decided to ease my aching ass.
The local shop didn't know if they had PVC tape, but I found some and taped together my indicator.
I was 200 miles and 5 hours from home.
There were 3 other photos that I could collect on the way home.
I went to 21 Sligo.
We shall speak no more of the GPS.
It was now 15h40, and home beckoned as my ass cried "No more".
I went home, in stages.
A stop in Boyle, petrol in Roscommon, a McDonald's in Athlone and 90 minutes to home.
On roads that I knew, the GPS went unused, its misdirections ignored.
A well travelled white 1100 joined me briefly in Ballynahown / Ballinahown, where we went how separate ways.
Ferbane, Cloghan, Borrisokane, the Nenagh bypass. Each village / speed restriction was spent out of the seat, on the pegs.
I had done another 350 miles when I got home just before 20h00.
The 1150 was locked in the garage to be washed and cleaned another day.
I phoned my parents to tell them that I was home, read a email that told me my wife was well in Florence and fell asleep in the chair.
Just another 4 to do, including Achill.
Why do I do this to myself.
This weekend has been magnificent, 28C as I have strimmed, pruned and cut grass. A few fluffy clouds accentunate the blueness of the sky as I lounge in the garden, cold beers nearby.
Perhaps Achill will be next weekend - an early start and I could get Achill and another with just 6 hours in the saddle.
Perhaps.
This presented the opportunity.
So last Saturday, I dropped her off at 5am to get the minibus with the girls to Dublin airport.
I now had 4 unsupervised days - this was another mistake, one leads to another.
In hindsight, I suppose in strict chronological sequence, really the numero uno mistake was to decide to do the Photo Rally - again.
So at 7am, I fed a stray/feral cat that we have called Thug,
set the alarm - we were burgled 4 weeks before- locked up the house, tossed a change of underwear into the panniers and went off on the 1150GS.
I left behind a clean hankie, sticking plasters, an allen key that helps tighten the mirrors and a roll of PVC tape.
I did take a sharp knife.
I left Murroe, Limerick and head towards Dublin - out for the first longish ride on the 1150, and the first run in months.
Near Portlaoise, the GPS directed me off the M7, and I believe it - another mistake.
When will I learn that the GPS knows shite diddly squat about Irish roads.
Some time later, I arrived at 09 Dublin/Kildare.
Photo taken, and back on the road to 07 L'Ford/W'meath.
The brightness and warmth of the early morning had started to disappear as I got to 08 Louth/Meath.
Two hours or so would take me home, after I filled up.
I would be home by 13h30, 14h00 at the latest.
Instead, I took the road north and into the rain through the maternal ancestral homelands between Kingscourt and Carrickmacross.
I resisted the chance to visit with the aunts, one of my few wise decisions of the weekend.
The rain stopped just before I stopped for lunch in Castleblaney, and started again just as I left.
Again the GPS took me by less travelled interesting ways towards Cookstown - when will I learn that the GPS knows shite diddly squat about Irish roads.
In Cookstown, Martin on a GSX750 with his daughter Aoife spotted my GPS and asked if I could direct him to 06 Ferman/Tyrone.
They had been up and down the roads without locating the big stone.
We rode past it without seeing it.
I spotted it on the way back, but Martin couldn't accept that this was the waypoint.
He is a Photo Rally virgin with 4 scooters.
The rain had stopped as they followed me towards 02 Derry.
The GPS directed us by less travelled interesting scenic ways across the Sperrins - when will I learn that the GPS knows shite diddly squat about Irish roads, but does take you to some nice roads as some sort of compensation.
The wind had picked up as we left 02 Derry, pity that I didn't blow away the eyesore of the caravan parks below on Magilligan strand.
The GPS took me astray in Ballymena which was unfortunate as I heartily, and unreasonably, dislike Ballymena.
As we filled up, a drunken youth shouted some sectarian abuse at my registration plate, before running away - why?
It was 18h30, when we got to 03 Antrim.
Back on home ground, I ignored the GPS and took the M2, then over Craigantlet into Newtownards and on to 04 Down/Armagh.
It was 19h30, when I left Martin and Aoife and rode back into the setting sun as I went back home to a bed in my parents house for the first time in nearly 28 years.
I done about 400 miles.
I was too tired to talk, eat, or drink and so went to bed at 21h30.
It is 200 miles, or about 4 hours from my parents house to my home.
Sunday 24/5/09
I was back on the next morning at 09h30.
At the end of the M1, I stopped to get some water, and also bought a nuts and raisins toffee bar.
The GPS was directing me to 01 Donegal - when will I learn.
The brightness and warmth had gone as I went West, so I stopped in Dromore to put on some over trousers and decided to have some toffee.
I had to take the sharp knife to the toffee.
The knife slipped and sliced my left index finger.
I hadn't a clean hankie, or any sticking plasters.
I had a pack of moist toilet tissues, which were useless in stopping the flow of blood.
The GPS to found me the nearest filling station, and the young girl at the till put a plaster on the diced finger.
The pack of plasters and a roll of kitchen towel went into the tankbag.
I should have bought a roll of PVC tape, but didn't.
It has been 20 odd years since last I went to Glencolumkille.
Then, just after Killybegs, the rider and pillion ahead of me went down on a bend and his bike slide into a car.
The bike survived, the pillion broke her arm, the car collapsed.
The front chassis was riddled with rust from sitting on the quays while the owner was away fishing.
I think the driver was the most shocked, by the state of his car.
I lost my Vango Force 10 in the aftermath of the accident - I still miss that tent.
I heartily, and possibly unreasonably, dislike Donegal, probably more so than Ballymena, but it is bigger.
It is not a happy place, a harsh land and without the charm of Mayo or Sligo or Derry.
The locals have Belfast accents.
I'm from Belfast, why can't they get an accent of their own, what do they want with mine.
Wll they pay VRT on it and will they register it to make it their own - will they fcuk?
There was wind and there was rain and there was mist.
Lots of wind, lots of rain, lots of mist.
There may have been a communications mast on the mountain behind Glencolumkille, but I couldn't even see the mountain in the mist and rain.
The accursed GPS lead me on and up boreens, before telling me that I had gone too far, something that had occurred to me an hour earlier.
As I manouvre a U turn, a blast of wind pushes the bike and I sideways.
My right foot searches for the ground and finds it as the bike rolls onto its side and then a little further over.
Some time passes.
I had switched off the engine and rolled the bike onto its side.
More time passes, as my 60 year old body and 18 year old mind are in conflicit about are next course of action.
I put down the sidestand, take hold of the handlebar and lift.
Some time later.
The bike is upright and my thoughts are with the person who had chosen this location.
They are dark thoughts, but I could only blame myself, and him.
Later, he tells me that he found this point on a Serow.
I collected the bits of the right front indicator, but I had no PVC tape to put it together.
I didn't have the right allen key to tighten the right mirror, but used a key as a substitute.
A charming lady stopped as she thought that I had had an accident.
I assured her that I had not, and got directions that would take me up the hidden misty mountain, and down the rushy glen.
I climbed through the mist, higher then higher.
They were darker dark thoughts for the person who had chosen this location.
Darker than before, much much darker.
Lost in the mist, visor and glasses soaked with rain, myopically I picked my way upwards.
My belief in the very existance of the tower was failing.
I went on, now only searching for a place to turn.
And there was the tower, in the mist.
It was now 13h50.
I rode away, not wishing to look back.
The wind had eased, the rain stopped and the mist slowly lifted.
I was stopped in Kilcar by a set of traffic lights (road works) and decided to ease my aching ass.
The local shop didn't know if they had PVC tape, but I found some and taped together my indicator.
I was 200 miles and 5 hours from home.
There were 3 other photos that I could collect on the way home.
I went to 21 Sligo.
We shall speak no more of the GPS.
It was now 15h40, and home beckoned as my ass cried "No more".
I went home, in stages.
A stop in Boyle, petrol in Roscommon, a McDonald's in Athlone and 90 minutes to home.
On roads that I knew, the GPS went unused, its misdirections ignored.
A well travelled white 1100 joined me briefly in Ballynahown / Ballinahown, where we went how separate ways.
Ferbane, Cloghan, Borrisokane, the Nenagh bypass. Each village / speed restriction was spent out of the seat, on the pegs.
I had done another 350 miles when I got home just before 20h00.
The 1150 was locked in the garage to be washed and cleaned another day.
I phoned my parents to tell them that I was home, read a email that told me my wife was well in Florence and fell asleep in the chair.
Just another 4 to do, including Achill.
Why do I do this to myself.
This weekend has been magnificent, 28C as I have strimmed, pruned and cut grass. A few fluffy clouds accentunate the blueness of the sky as I lounge in the garden, cold beers nearby.
Perhaps Achill will be next weekend - an early start and I could get Achill and another with just 6 hours in the saddle.
Perhaps.
Crackin write up - wonder would my wife like a few days away with her mates
