Jo’s Diary: Cold, wet and not loving it

Upon driving into Bob Minion’s yard, I am greeted by dozens of other Royal Enfield bikes. People seem drawn to my loan Interceptor and I can understand why. This is the Lightning special edition and connoisseurs are quick to spot all the factory-fitted options that make it look the part. Ironically, looking around in this sea of chrome, it’s the blacked-out engine and exhausts that stand out the most. The flyscreen, though small, did provide some relief on my earlier trip and while I hope I won’t get to test the engine and sump guards, the bike looks fantastic in its touring armour.

I really find my pace as we roll into the Peaks. Following our group leader takes away the navigational guesswork and I can really focus on rolling in and out of the corners, the long snaking line of fellow riders behind me following in a hypnotic motion. Although I find the Interceptor a bit heavy at first, and the comfort seat so tall and wide that I need to tiptoe my way around with it, it falls nicely into the bends when I raise both my own effort levels and the speed of the bike. The 648cc parallel twin engine manages about 47bhp, but it purrs smoothly with the twist of the throttle and, honestly, it’s all the power I need on a day like this.

I take the long way home. There’s a chance of rain and I’d rather avoid the motorway. Unfortunately the light drizzle suddenly becomes a full force shower and I can feel my trousers starting to stick to my legs. I make an emergency stop on a layby. I’ve never been a fan of luggage racks on a motorbike, but I am converted. I remove my now sopping wet boots and quickly jump into the blissfully dry pair of waterproof trousers awaiting me in the panniers. Where has all this water come from? Wiping wet goggles with equally wet gloves only buys me about five seconds before the road ahead quickly drowns back to a blurry vision.

Slowly, carefully, my vocabulary of expletives expanding ever outwards, I make it home safely. I’m never riding in the cold or rain again. Yet, there is a Norton in my garage and it is snorting and puffing like an excited race horse wanting to go out. I oblige. The Norton Commando 961 looks worlds apart from its 1960s and ’70s antecedents. It is more racy, sleek and in its black, gold and carbon dress is probably the most handsome neo-classic out there.

The Commando comes with a proper weight of expectation on its shoulders, as it has led Norton’s resurgence since the brand’s acquisition by the TVS Motor Company in 2020. Having picked up the bike from Norton’s new headquarters and manufacturing facility, opened in 2021 just a stone’s throw away from me in Solihull, I could witness first-hand how carefully executed every detail is. The Commando in my garage certainly reflects this. There is a certain handcrafted je ne sais quoi about it. Like it was built in a skilled artisan’s shed, and I mean it in the best possible way.

This is a bike that is very easy to fall in love with. It takes about two miles. From a bird’s eye view as I sit on it, its almost violin shape stands out. The scalloped indents on the tank let me tuck my knees in nicely, and even though it looks tall from a distance I never feel anything other than sure footed when trying to reach the floor. But it is on the start-up that my heart really flutters. The engine grunts into life and I am startled. It is about 10 times louder than I expected. It sounds feral.

The riding experience is no less surprising. The Commando feels utterly old school, demanding my complete attention. Where my Triumph is a lot more forgiving, the Commando will slap me on the wrist if I drop a gear without perfectly matching the revs as I do. Spiteful it is not, but rather characterful and engaging – something so rare in either modern cars or bikes. If my Triumph is Dr Jekyll, the Norton is Mr Hyde. Yes, the Commando costs more and goes slower than the Thruxton, with 77bhp versus 97bhp, but for the right person I think the charisma and exclusivity could well be worth it.

The weather steadily worsens as we approach mid-November. I pick the one dry day this week and I commit to braving it out. It’s five degrees and I have climbed into as many layers as humanly possible within the limits of still being able to operate a motorcycle safely. I’m not repeating the mistake I made with the Royal Enfield. I catch my reflection in a mirror: I am the Michelin Woman, but I’m a warm Michelin Woman and a small drop in sartorial standards will be worth it if it enables me to stay that way.

Fat chance. Here I am again, chilled to my bones once more. Socks dripping with wet stale muddy water after I misjudged the depth of a deceptive puddle, or rather small lake, on an otherwise very dry road. Things got a bit sketchy when my fingers became so numb I could no longer tell how hard, or indeed if, I was squeezing the front brake. But I have reached my destination and my digits are finally returning from blue to red as they thaw, firmly wrapped around a scalding hot cup of coffee.

I don’t think my mind can be changed. I just need to accept that I become a hermit as soon as the sun hides away, which means that, living in the UK, I am indoors for the majority of the year. That said, I take my journalistic responsibilities seriously and am aware of my duty to provide you with more material to read between now and the return of the sun. Maybe I will compromise: if the weather can stay dry for a bit longer this winter, I might, just might, invest in a set of those heated gloves.

Main image courtesy One Ride