Yesterday I hopped on my NTV at 9:15am and called in "Blue 22, empty NW1". The first job comes swiftly and all day I'm running around London. Knightsbridge to N1 on a double rush, West End to Ealing, City to Twickenham, normal stuff... nothing spectacular so far.
Then around 5:30pm my mind is already on going home when I hear the controller talking on the radio about a "long one".
"Blue 22, I'll take the long one."
"Are you sure, it's to Bournemouth."
Yes I am sure, I'm young and I need the money. Turns out it's actually two... go collect them in EC1 and SE1 and I'm off.
Well past 6pm now, going down the Embankment with two packages on board, one going to Hampshire down a long way on the M3, the other going to Sandbanks, Poole, Dorset. Fill up the petrol and stuff in the earplugs.
Scream out of the city and filter stop and go traffic on the M25 for a while. Overtake some lame ass motorcyclist filtering too slow by switching to the inside gap between the 1st and 2nd lane and then eventually moving back to the gap between the 2nd and fast lane. Tee hee hee. Now hustling down the M3, hunched over on the tank and staring at the GPS in disbelief.. Go straight, 30 miles, ETA: 20:27.
Wonder what the hell it is with SUV's and hugging the fast lane. Left lane, middle lane all empty, yet here they are in the right most one like they own it, the fu--ers. Silently mourn the absence of German-style lane discipline. Invent a policy of "reasonable time". Which means I'll wait a reasonable time for you to move over before I pass your ass on the left.
Exit the M3 and fly down country lanes for another 20, 30 miles... My satnav senses the sun just went down and switches the colors to "night mode". A blue arrow moves on black background past farms, hedges, sheep, blind bends. Eventually, a quiet sleepy little village. Quite pretty. I so don't fit in here with my fired up mind and dirty motorcycle. "Turn Left and Arrive at Destination on Left in One Hundred Metres."
Hmmm... all the houses have no numbers... but names. Perhaps this is due to a deeper need on being seen as an individual, not as just a number, out here in the deep country, but it makes the bloody houses hard to find. Look at the envelope, "Cheldwyn House, East Road..".. grreat. Knock on a door and ask a nice pensioner, who points me in the right direction. Make the drop. Get a signature from some little old lady who can't believe they sent this poor motorcyclist all the way from London. And that tonight he'll be going further still. I notice the smell of burning peat in the air and put the next postcode in my GPS.
"Calculating... calculating... ETA: 22:00 Turn Left..."
Wringing it through the gears against the dying of the light.. country lanes, A roads, M27, A31... rows of red lights snaking over the hills towards the horizon. Eventually, Poole. Empty roads through town with wicked roller coaster bends. Wondering why all the locals are going so slow, flicking my bike around and passing them at 50mph.
Eventually, I arrive at the seafront. I can't see it, but I can smell it. Must be nice here during the day. Wake up half the street pointing my searchlight at houses looking for the address. Arrive at destination, get signature from some Polish dude named "Dawid" (yes they're everywhere, even out here), and tell the satnav I wanna "Go Home".
"Calculating... calculating... ETA: 00:00".
Going through Poole with my knee out on a nice sweeping left rollercoaster bend.. nearly lose the back as I overcooked it a little but just drift with the rear tire slightly.. Man and machine are one now, riding through the night like a ninja well into the 13th hour of riding on this day... Back on the motorway, fill another tank at the motorway services and drink coffee at 11pm. M27 becomes M3 becomes M25 becomes M4. Curse my bike for only going 110mph. Arrive at home at 00:15. Put the bike on the chain and think about the money I made today. Two and a half tanks of petrol should make about 400 miles at 170 miles a tank. I'm cold, stiff, achy, and still buzzing from the rush of the trip, but this is the best job in the world.
