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.