I’m not the kind of motorcyclist who thinks that cars are some kind of alien construct. I knew bikers like that in my youth, people who just didn’t drive, almost out of principle. But I like cars a lot, and I am hijacking this RoadRider blog post to mourn the passing of a rather special one.

My wife Peter and I lived in Dubai and Abu Dhabi for eight years. Cars are relatively cheap there, as is fuel, so we bought Peter a shiny new black Ford Mustang 5-litre V8 convertible in mid-2010. I loved driving it as much as she did, so later that year I got myself a four-year-old 2006 pale metallic green version, pictured here. Okay, being older it was a 4.6-litre V8 but it still stirred something within me every time I looked at it and every time I drove it.

That Mustang took me to work most days, when the desert heat was too much to make riding a bike a viable proposition. On cooler days we drove it with the roof down for that wind-in-the-hair feeling that you just don’t get on a bike, accompanied by that woofly V8 soundtrack and music from the excellent Shaker stereo. You didn’t have to go fast to enjoy the experience, but the ‘Stang would pick up its skirts and run if asked. The fact that its handling wasn’t up to modern European standards didn’t matter in a land of largely straight roads.

The car wasn’t without its problems. It started to make some grating noises from the rear end, announcing the need for two replacement half-shafts. Then the alternator died. I became on first-name terms with the booking clerk at the Ford main dealer in Dubai, where it was always serviced and repaired. He pointed out that as the car had been imported personally from the US by the previous owner any parts supplied for it would not be covered by guarantee, which seemed daft – all Mustangs were built on the same assembly line in America, regardless of where they were being shipped to. He was decent enough to ignore that rule, though, when the new alternator also failed after three months and they had to replace it again, which they did free of charge.

Other stuff went wrong, too. The engine just died in the middle of rush-hour traffic in Abu Dhabi one morning, signalling the initial alternator issue. Then the electric roof started to play up, needing manual assistance to get the left side up and on its way to the windscreen rail. The left-hand rear window needed a new lifting mechanism. The stereo started to retain CDs in the bowels of its six-disc storage unit. The AC needed regular re-gassing. A new battery was needed every two years – a common occurrence out there due to the heat. The roof fabric started to deteriorate, along with the leather on the driver’s seat.

But through it all I loved that car, probably more than any of the many I’ve owned over the years. It polished up beautifully and warmed the cockles of my heart with every drive. In eight years we put something like 60,000 miles on the clock, even though we had another car and several bikes to choose from. Eventually, though, the time came to leave the Middle East, which meant selling all the stuff we’d acquired over the years, and that’s not easy. The cars were the hardest to sell.

Peter’s black Mustang had long since been replaced by a V8 Jaguar XF, which had a warranty and service plan that made sense in our high-mileage existence, and we virtually had to give that away. There were just so many similar models on the market, all with far lower mileage. Despite lowering the price twice, we couldn’t get anyone interested in the Mustang. It had to stay behind, gathering dust and looking increasingly forlorn, to be used only on our infrequent trips back to the UAE.

I finally sold it a few weeks ago, the same day I cancelled my UAE mobile account, credit card and visa. I took it to one of those “we buy any car” places, knowing that I’d get nothing for it but just needing it to go somewhere. They checked it out online and found that it had been an insurance write-off in the US, then shipped to the UAE where the rules about fixing write-offs are less stringent. You’d never have known it had been written-off – it drove perfectly and delivered great motoring pleasure for eight years.

Now, with 100,000 miles on the clock and sounding like it would run for another 100,000, it fetched about £500 (2,500 dirhams). The scratches and dents it had picked up from five months in a Dubai car park will doubtless get painted over, someone will make a killing on the re-sale, and hopefully someone else will enjoy the pleasure of topless V8 motoring for a few more years. It even gave me a parting gift on its last journey to the acquiring dealer, coughing up the two CDs that had been firmly lodged in the entertainment system for months! Farewell, old friend.

The omens were not good. I had 200 miles to ride and I was suffering from one of those colds that sucks the life out of you: shivers, fever, sore throat, cough. A day in bed with a good book and a hot toddy seemed a better idea than schlepping down the M6, M42, M40 and M25 from Manchester to Woking.

My wife Peter and I were in Manchester to attend the christening of our beautiful granddaughter Grace, which was a joyous occasion in itself and offered the chance to catch up with members of our far-flung family. That’s her brother William on the Valkyrie that very afternoon, a few hours before my cold hit; at least my enjoyment of the ceremony and party weren’t affected.

We planned to be in Woking (near London) the following evening to catch up with two close cousins. Two days later we were flying out of Heathrow to Jo’burg, so in theory we could have holed up in our tiny hotel room for 24 hours and still made it back in time for the flight, at least. A budget-priced Premier Inn hotel room has many merits, but the thought of spending a whole day and another night there in my condition was just too depressing for words.

I decided if I could make it to the petrol station across the road to fill up and get back again without falling over, then the trip back down south was on. The Valkyrie didn’t want to play ball, though: for the second time in two weeks the battery cried foul and wouldn’t start the beast. The writing was on the wall last summer in Germany, I guess, when the same thing happened – the result of the trickle charger being switched off more than on by an over-cautious minder during the bike’s long periods of downtime.

With a push from a passing hotel worker and my wife, I got the bike started, filled up and back to the hotel without mishap. Decision made: we ride. We stopped off to say goodbye to daughter Lizzie, who supplied all manner of cold and flu remedies, and headed for the M6 South – which was at a complete standstill.

They’ve been doing something drastic to the M6 around junctions 16-19 for at least three years, it seems, turning it into a so-called “smart motorway”. The road is reduced to narrow lanes and a 50-mph limit policed by “average speed cameras” (why Britain can’t afford above-average or even first-rate speed cameras is beyond me). The lanes are too narrow for lane-splitting, especially on a wide, Givi-equipped Valkyrie, so every trip to and from Manchester is a traffic nightmare on that stretch.

Happily, the jam cleared after about 10 minutes and we progressed at 50 mph for about 25 miles. At least it was sunny and warm, but even that went to hell when the temperature dropped and it started to rain around Birmingham. We made it to Woking in one piece in a slower-than-usual four hours 45 minutes, including a welcome lunch break on the M40. The M25, as ever, was at a virtual standstill from Heathrow around to junction 10, but I was sustained by the mental image of riding on to my cousin Tony’s driveway, hitting the kill switch, putting down the side-stand and just collapsing.
I took my wet gear off in the garage and made it as far as the bedroom, where I climbed into bed shivering and slept soundly for a couple of hours. Some rides you just want to be over, and this one finally was!

I missed the family get-together that evening but was well enough by Wednesday to wash and polish the Honda to its former glory and head to the airport for the 11-hour flight home. Peter, who had been attentive and supportive as ever during my man-flu, announced about an hour into the flight that she now had the same bug.

Still, we’d had a memorable and enjoyable visit, the Valkyrie thrilled as always (new battery to follow), and we’d seen some old friends and almost every member of our family in Europe. A few days of health misery seemed a small price to pay.