Lake district – column

In response to a number of comments about England.

The Lake district is overwhelming.

And can be very wet. The sidecar combination slid over a cattle grid into a blind bend. A motorcyclist was standing after the blind bend. Recovery: a motorcyclist. A muddy, crumpled, angry-looking copy. With wet, wispy blonde hair. She made an emphatic stop gesture.

“I hit a calf, my bike is down there.” The calf exhaled bloody foam. Fortunately, Ural sidecar drivers always have everything with them. From a one and a half ton jack, a bolt cutter, a spare wheel, an extra cardan, an alternator, points, a capacitor, strawberry jam, a Leatherman and of course a Buck knife.

The calf was put out of its misery. The motorcyclist, meanwhile, sat with her head between her knees. She looked up and grinned palely. “Please put the knife away before helping me.”

Somewhat shallow breathing and with a rather hasty pulse. Clammy sweat on the forehead. Judging by her biker gear, she had rolled quite a distance down the muddy road until she landed on the wet shoulder. Loose cattle destroy more than you would like.

From an experiential point of view, she would be black and blue tonight and stiff tomorrow. But her clothes seemed to have absorbed the blow just fine. That's what good motorcycle clothing has learned for. Complete with mild shock symptoms, Shay was put in the sidecar. At a B&B ten miles back, voluptuous landlady Maggie took loving care of her like a mother hen. Unpacked her. Store the dirty, damaged motorcycle clothing in the pantry. Wash with iodine and plasters. Bathed her. Caressed and cherished. With Kenneth, the master of the house, the crashed DRBig was picked up. Once sheltered, Shay had called her friends at the campground. They arrived.

The boys club went to the Suzuki in the shed. Straightening things out and stuff. The damage was not too bad. Shay's friends arrived. It became cozy. It was also getting later. Maggie checked her watch more and more. Kenneth got so excited about all the beautiful ladies that Maggie made a scene about it. Brits do have emotions. The argument started to get out of hand. The cavalry decided to call off. The DR was tied transversely to the back of the Ural combi. You can never have enough rope and straps with you. Shay went back to jail with starting stiffness.

It was too dark to set up tents at the motorcycle girls' campsite. In times of need you get to know each other. “Sliding and thickening” was the solution to all problems. It was late, dark, wet and cozy. A long past midnight supper was improvised. There were peanuts, there was beer and gin. A three-quarter bottle of supermarket wine. Dried sausage, a can of peaches and some typical Dutch smoking material came out of the sidecar.

Ural riders also always carry medicinal alcohol with them. That disinfects, relaxes and warms. With the five of us, the bottle of whiskey was turned into a whiskey bottle. That was a nice dessert and saved making coffee again. There were still cookies. A very happy Ural rider fell asleep contentedly between an R80GS pilot and Shay, the DR rider. One snored slightly. The other groaned painfully as she rolled onto her bruised side in her sleep. When I woke up it was the most beautiful weather in the world. The girls called and arranged for Shays - whose real name was 'Cheyenne' - to be repatriated. Goodbyes were said.

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