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The Pretenders sang, ‘It’s a thin line between love and hate’, and that’s a line I regularly cross, or at least skate along, on an almost daily basis. I am sure it is the same for all motorcyclists.
The mornings when I scrape the ice off my seat, narrowly avoid the chump who pulls out on me, or have another mechanical failure (which once again is the case) are the days I hate. Then there are the flawless days, open roads, seamless traffic weaving, or simply a rare journey full of green lights that takes half the normal time. These are the days I love.

It is true to say however, that I have never crossed the line more times in a 24hr period than I did on a very windy Sunday on the side of a Welsh mountain.
I had signed on for the "Son Of Dawn To Dusk" 6hr enduro, and faced a ten-mile lap through muddy bogs, slippery uphills, soggy downhills and bone shakingly rocky straights. Love it.
On the start line my DT125 is out of action. Hate it. So the other half of my two-man team starts the race and is off for lap number 1. It takes Alfie two laps before I draw the conclusion that the bike ain’t gonna work and I blag a Gas Gas Pampera 250 off marshal and Digest legend Woff.

Two cans of Rockstar energy drink later and I am wired. Alfie pits and off I go. First little obstacle and I am out of the seat and kissing the front mudguard but somehow manage to save it and stay on the bike.
Shaken not stirred I control the energy boost-induced twitching and begin to bury myself in ruts and water splashes. Jesus, this is hard work, only 8 more miles of the lap to go! But I feel good.
On a track of that length you lose all sense of time and distance and don’t really have a clue where you are until you pop up the side of the hill to be greeted by the glorious sight of a pit area and you know its not far to go.
A warm sensation floats me along the last mile and back into the pit where I am greeted with another energy drink, a pat on the back and a pointed finger.
I am being told to get straight back out for another lap. The drink surges through and kicks in and I am straight up on the pegs and round the motocross section. I try to put the next ten miles to the back of my mind and live life one rock and slippery stone at a time, but this becomes increasingly difficult when every stone spins your wheels, every hill has you sprawling on the floor picking your bike up; and just 2 miles in I am on the floor in blinding agony, both thighs cramped solid.
I immediately empty 2lt of water into me to ease the pain and a stretch later I am away again. But I am drained, physically and emotionally. I am just a passenger as my bike crawls round the circuit.
Continual cramp and the conflicting urges to both stop and carry on more quickly, reduce me to tears. I’m a wreck: frustrated at myself for stopping every five minutes, but unwilling to quit. This is it. The worst I have felt on a motorbike. Drop after drop I creep up the final hill. There it is. The end. The flag. The finishers medal. Somehow I have done it, and I am clutching a small piece of metal to show for my efforts.
My favourite piece of metal! Absolute love and vile hate in such a short space of time. I am high on endorphins, two stroke and taurine.
A million thanks to everyone who got me through the weekend. Now I begin preparations for the big race in August: The Dawn To Dusk. 12 hours, 20-mile lap. Double the pain. I can’t wait!
two wheel passion
www.theridersdigest.co.uk

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