If you want some light, and for that matter not so light, entertainment over the winter - and my apologies to readers in Southern California who might be unfamiliar with the concepts of wet, cold, gales, and thermal underwear - I do recommend Robert M. Pirsig’s wonderful book, “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance: An Inquiry into Values.” It’s not the best ever philosophy book nor is it an absolutely seminal work of motorcycle literature. However, it is a really first class bridge to begin thinking about why we are motorcyclists. I love the book - and it didn’t do Mr. Pirsig any harm selling over four million copies.

I got to thinking about the book after returning from a ride in the Welsh mountains today. Although we are well into November - the month when God turns off all the lights in Britain - the weather has been unseasonably warm. It has also been really wet and we had, what by our very quiet, well-behaved standards, was a real storm with 80 mph winds.

As far I was concerned, these were good reasons to go riding. We have 61 million people jammed into a small island so the words “deserted” and “roads” are just as common as, “pass the pork sandwich” at a Bar Mitzvah celebration. However, with the wind howling, and the rain lashing down, I thought that I was in with a sporting chance of getting three or four hours of intense riding.

The Welsh hills are just half an hour away from home and normally this area is just one enormous tourist magnet, densely populated by underpowered cars towing caravans at 29 mph when the posted limit is 60 mph. But not in a November storm. No, no, no, no. In these conditions, only those with a very good reason to be out on the high hills were using the roads.

A long time ago, just after the American Civil War, when I first fell in love with motorcycles, the best that we had for winter riding were waxed cotton jackets and over trousers. Okay, Steve McQueen did look cool in a Barbour jacket but for the rest of us they were utter rubbish. Barbour suits were fairly waterproof but they were also cold, dirty, stank like a bison’s armpit - and gave zero protection in the event of a crash. And contrary to current legend, they DID NOT instantly persuade young ladies to do naughty things either. That privilege was, I feel sure, reserved exclusively for when the Barbour jacket just happened to contain Mr. S. McQueen.

Now, we have absolutely superb waterproof gear with heat reflecting linings and highly protective body armor. In short, there is no reason to get wet on a bike.

Our V-Strom is also state of the art for storm riding. A flexible, docile engine combined with rock solid handling and excellent brakes means that the pain is taken out of riding in harsh conditions - just leaving the pleasure.

And what a pleasure it was too. The Welsh moors are not very high by American standards but they are world class wet when an Atlantic storm is blowing in. The gales lashed the rain to a frenzy and every four or five miles a few yards of the minor roads on which I was riding disappeared under water.

In these conditions, all that was left was an intensity of riding experience which I have rarely found away from the track. The V-Strom was rocked and kicked by the wind and the rain literally hammered off my Arai - but inside everything was wonderfully calm and relaxed. Freed of tourist caravans, and lurking Police with laser guns, I was able to concentrate on nothing but riding. Caress the throttle; stroke the brakes; ease the V-Strom over the stones washed on to the road; the merest touch of opposite lock as the rear wheel kicks out over a puddle. I grew into the bike and the bike morphed into me, reaching out to the immortal Francesco Bulto’s concept of the two-wheeled horse.

I didn’t ride very fast and neither I, nor the ‘Strom, would have won any trophies for presentation. There was no pit crew or cheering spectators and no work related reason to ride. Rather, it was simply returning full circle to why I am a motorcyclist. Rider, bike and nothing else. I ride therefore I am.