Ilearned a lot driving to Hinckley in Leicestershire. I had some work there. That’s showbiz, folks. I didn’t do the journey as I’d normally do it – eyeballs out, gripping the steering wheel, fixating on the satnav ETA, on some motorway or other. If I’d done it that way, it would have taken less than two hours. For a change, I decided to take my time. And this change was as good as a rest. You’re unlikely to find London to Hinckley in any coffee table book about the World’s Best Road Trips, but this little odyssey lifted my spirits no end.
It helped that I was on my motorbike. Wherever I’m going, I find motorcycling the shortest route to serenity. I think it’s partly an ADHD thing, with the relief that total absorption affords me. On a motorbike you have to be absorbed – hyper-focused, in fact – because your life is on the line. And while there’s road noise in your ears, there’s none of the other brain-wrecking cacophony of modern life. No phone, no internet, no news, no radio, no nothing. In its own way, it’s as peaceful as lying in a meadow by a babbling brook miles from anywhere.
There’s another magical aspect to it, which I can only really explain by quoting a guy I once interviewed called Ara Gureghian, who, with his rescue dog Spirit alongside him in a sidecar, had covered around 300,000 miles riding around the US for nearly 10 years. I asked Ara, what with the dog and all, if it mightn’t have been easier to do it in a car. “The difference between riding a motorbike and driving a car,” he said, “is like the difference between sailing and using a speedboat.” That’s not a perfect analogy, but I’ve never come up with anything better.
So there I was, sailing along the A41 bearing north-west towards Aylesbury, passing Berkhamsted, Cow Roast, Aston Clinton. Wasn’t Berkhamsted something to do with Graham Greene? What on earth went on in Cow Roast? Surely Aston Clinton is a bloke, not a place? These questions asked themselves, but there was no Googling for me, and on I went. Aylesbury materialised, but the Through Traffic signage was so insistent I took the hint and swerved the middle of town.
Where now then? I spied a sign to Buckingham. That would do nicely. Weedon, Hardwick and Oving showed themselves. I was thoroughly enjoying the A413. The mere place names provided some enchantment. It felt a mite shaming, even rather rude, not to have seen or heard of any of these places before. I took a break in Winslow, somewhere else I had never heard of, which looked to me like a pitch-perfect little English town. How many more of these places were there around the country that I’d never heard of and would probably never see? It panicked me a bit.
I parked in the town square and asked the lad in the shop if there was a cafe anywhere. “Oh yes,” he said. “There’s a great cafe a couple of minutes’ walk away.” He was right. It was called Legends. Here, an extravagantly tattooed and exuberantly friendly bloke made me a cup of tea and a sandwich. I’d have been perfectly happy, if I’d been able to stop thinking about how many places like this I’d been missing out on.
I looked at the map, and saw my route was working the space between the M40 and the M1. I dread to think how many hours I’ve spent on those roads in my time, so close to all this, yet missing it completely. That’s the trouble with motorways – since the first one, the Preston Bypass in 1958, they’ve been doing what they were invented to do. They’ve been allowing us to bypass everything. Which is great, and necessary, and how it must be. But the more bypassing we do, the more our world passes us by. I don’t think trains are much better in this regard: they too take you past everything. Last weekend a friend was initially dismayed to find she had to take a rail replacement bus from Rugby to Rugeley Trent Valley, but was soon loving seeing the middle of towns and cities she’d hitherto only barely glimpsed out of train windows
We all have an idea of what our country and our compatriots are like, but what are we basing this on when even those of us who travel a lot are seeing so little of it? Here’s a sense in which I think we might well be an island of strangers.
On to Buckingham and then Towcester. En route, Maids Moreton, Akeley, Lillingstone Lovell, Whittlebury: to you, I say sorry to have left it this long to make your – albeit fleeting – acquaintance. I decided I’d call this thing I was doing mindful motoring. And I busied my mind formulating some guidance as to how it should be done. Bike is best, but car is fine too. Just give yourself time. It won’t work at all if you’re on a clock. Optimally, don’t have the car radio on, and, most importantly, don’t use satnav. This makes a world of difference. If I have my satnav on, my attention’s drawn to the data on it rather than what’s all around me.
It helps to plan ahead a little, pick a road number or two and just stick to them. The more route anxiety you spare yourself, the more headspace you free up. Here, for example, I knew I could get on the A5 at Towcester, which, deliciously, took me all the way to Hinckley. Towcester, by the way, looks a smashing town. And what a magnificent entrance it is to the racecourse. I’ll be back. But not before I’ve chalked off some other mindful, alternative routes. I’m thinking Birmingham to Manchester on the A515 via Ashbourne and Buxton. And all the way from Oxford to Aberystwyth on the A44 via too many new places to mention.
Adrian Chiles is a broadcaster, writer and Guardian columnist