JogLe 2

It's blowing a hooly up north

Latest Kneews (sorry)

It's been just over three weeks since my total knee replacement, and the hard work of rehabilitation is well underway. As you know, the nearest I'm going to get to a motorbike in the next few months is the Lego model I'm assembling on the kitchen table – a 1:5 scale BMW M1000 RR. That's 1,920 pieces to put together, assuming the kittens haven't hidden any behind the sofa.

This is the engine and gearbox – it’s taken me hours to get this far

It's short-term pain for long-term gain. My goal is to be back on my motorbike by next spring. To achieve this, I need to be stronger, improve my knee's flexibility, and have confidence that my bionic joint can handle the weight of my 250kg Honda NT1100.

But I've also been considering Plan B, just in case my current bike proves too big and heavy. I might even go back to where it all began – a Vespa scooter. Surely I can swing my leg over one of those? Though long-distance touring on a diminutive Italian two-wheeler is a different kettle of fish altogether. That's certainly an incentive to keep plugging away at the rehab!

JogLe - 'Toon to Auld Reekie

Kevin and I were hunkered down in a Gosforth hotel, escaping Storm Kathleen during our motorbike road trip from John O'Groats to Lands End.

Staggering into my room after a large pizza and several pints of Guinness, I turned on the telly for the evening weather forecast. Sara Blizzard (a perfect example of an aptronym) was talking about "explosive cyclogenesis" off the coast of Portugal. Apparently, this wasn't the side effect of a dodgy curry but an area of very low pressure set to get even lower. In short, warm but incredibly windy – like 90 mph windy.

I did the maths. Our plan to outrun the storm by reversing our route (LeJog → JogLe) was starting to look shaky. Even at the national speed limit, Storm Kathleen would be gaining on us at 20 mph. Neither of us fancied risking our licenses by going any faster. If we carried on, we'd have to battle it out.

I found Kevin still in the bar. "Right then, Kev," I said. "Looks like we've got three options."

Kevin, his cheeks still flushed from the ride and a few pints of Guinness, leaned back in his chair. "Three options, is it? Lay 'em on me, then."

"One: we try to make a run for John O'Groats tomorrow. Might be a bit hairy with this weather, though."

Kevin let out a low whistle. "Jaysus, that's a fair old trek in this wind. We'd be blown to the moon and back!"

"Two," I continued, "we hunker down here in the hotel and wait for the storm to pass. Could be days, though."

Kevin shuddered. "Stuck in this place with all these wedding parties? I'd rather face the bloody storm!"

"Which leaves us with option three," I said, taking a long swig of my beer. "We abandon the bikes here and head home by train."

Kevin's eyes widened in horror. "Leave the bikes? Are you mad? Sure, they'd be stripped bare by the time we got back! And imagine the shame of goin' home with our tails between our legs, defeated by a bit of wind!" He puffed out his chest. "No way, lad. I'm Irish. We don't surrender to a bit of a breeze!"

I chuckled. "Alright, alright, no need to get into a paddy about it. I was just exploring the options."

Kevin grinned. "Options are for those who can't make up their minds! Now, where's that barmaid? Another pint, I think, and then we'll plan our attack!"

The next morning dawned bright and clear. We were amazed to find the bikes still standing where we'd parked them. The wind had dropped, and it was starting to feel like a lot of fuss about nothing. Over black pudding and bacon, we congratulated ourselves on having the cojones to press on regardless.

Preparing to do battle with the isobars

Back on the A1, we soon discovered that overnight gremlins had been tinkering with our intercoms, and we were once again reduced to hand signals. It gave my eardrums a break, as Kevin has the gift of the gab or cabaire, as they say in Connemara. Suddenly, his right arm jabbed out, and he pointed vigorously towards a brown signpost: 'Bamburgh Castle'. It hadn't occurred to me that he'd want to go there, especially with John O'Groats still a challenging distance away. He flashed his indicator and veered off down the narrow B road, leaving me struggling in his wake.

We pulled up by the castle grounds. It stood majestically atop a sheer, almost black, volcanic crag, dominating the landscape. The breeze whipped at its walls, carrying the scent of the sea and the cries of gulls.

Imposing. The castle is too.

"Next time you decide to go 'off-piste', Kevin," I said, trying to maintain a stern tone despite the amusement twitching at the corners of my mouth, "a bit of advance warning wouldn't go amiss."

Kevin, ever the charmer, flashed a mischievous grin. "Ah, but where's the fun in that, lad? Spontaneity is the spice of life, wouldn't you agree?" He gestured towards the imposing structure looming over us.

Kevin chuckled, patting his chest. "No worries, lad. I'll give you a shout before I take us on any more detours. Though I can't promise anything when there's a castle involved, mind you. They have a way of callin' to me, these ancient stones." He winked. "Must be the Irish in me blood."

We hadn't been back on the A1 long when his arm shot out again, this time towards Lindisfarne. There's a causeway to Holy Island, and the tide tables showed we had barely enough time to make the crossing and back before being submerged. Kevin is irresistibly drawn to islands – I wonder why.

We slithered on the green slime covering the narrow causeway, waded gingerly through drifts of sand covering the tarmac beyond the waves, and mooched into the village.

"We're at a crossroads, Kev," I said, studying the map spread out on a picnic table. "If we stay here a minute longer, we're stuck for hours, and there's no way we'll make it to John O'Groats tonight." I tapped the map. "But if we go now, we've still got a fighting chance."

Kevin, ever the optimist, drained his glass with a flourish. "Right then," he declared, a glint in his eye. "Let's get a move on! I'll do my King Canute act and hold back the tide!"

I raised an eyebrow. "King Canute? The fella who famously demonstrated that even a king couldn't command the sea?"

Kevin grinned. "Exactly! Except I've got a secret weapon he didn't have..." He patted the tank of his Triumph Tiger. "This beauty here! We'll outrun the waves, just you wait and see."

I chuckled at his enthusiasm. "Alright, King Canute," I said, grabbing my helmet. "Lead the way! But if we end up soaked to the bone and blown off the causeway, I'm holding you personally responsible."

Kevin threw his head back and laughed. "Ah, don't you worry your wee head about that, lad! We'll make it. Now, come on! Adventure awaits!"

And it did.