Blast. I’d deliberately left the mobile off for some privacy. Now it was bipping me with reminders I’d missed. With one eye on the sky, I rang round with apologies and rearrangements. It takes just long enough for my tea to turn bluragh.

The day had dawned fair if a tad cool but rain was forecast for just after lunch… …about the time when me and two-hundred other bikers had an appointment we’d all rather not have.

I remember as a young ‘un, we’d discuss how people died. It was important to those left behind and as living creatures it seemed important to us. Boots on, doing what you enjoyed best, etc etc. But there is no talk of how someone has died when they are well and truly dead; it is enough to drag your self into their presence and face others in the same shocked trance. The atmosphere of love and honour among those whom I met today was tangible. The friend whose passing we were to mark had such presence that it is felt like you just got off the phone to him, saw him round the corner; it will echo throughout our lives. Excalibur people knew him as Big Mel.

The remains of my lunch were tidied away and I creaked down the hall gathering up lid and gloves. The sky was leadening but bright. The soggy (come on, Oxford) bike cover is bungeed to the railings as the SV bobs and vrrs on the choke. The polish smells good.

Moments later Sheffield’s Parkway is rattling the fairing (come on, Sheffield). It’s not raining but the roads are brown and wet. I am showered in brown. At least I don’t need the heated grips.

On the M1 the wind is a rude, bashing imbecile. It thumps me in the chest from different directions, tries to unwind my fingers from the bars. I relax, hold them like a dove - not so hard as to crush it, firmly enough to prevent its escape - and control is restored. Then a truck throws out its pool of calm until I’m past, when I emerge into a riot of unpredictable turbulence. I smile, as despite any happenstance of gale or surface, the SV doesn’t need a damper.

I finally slip away from this frenzy onto the A 55 where life seems a 12th century village by comparison; but I cleave traffic, not chickens. I close on the obligatory queue as I near Derby. As I near Mel who I’m not going to see now; not ever; must concentrate.

Not frequenting funeral parlours, I join a flurry of lost bikes a few hundred yards from where it’s at. I spot a pedestrian in leathers and pull over to ask. He points across the street, where stands the quietest gathering of bikers you’ll ever see (until the next funeral).

But funeral is the wrong word. Nobody denies their grief, but our take - Mel’s take on life excludes downcast solemnity. We can’t help but smile at each other, at the chipboard air guitar and bottle of ‘dog’ adorning the coffin.

Neither am I singular in recollecting Mel’s firework fun. At bike rallies, when the diehards were sucking in their beards, when the last Gixer-revving pillock is saying: ‘pipipipeee’, Mel would let off the loudest bangers this side of Hiroshima. If it weren’t dark, you could read people’s lips (your ears are ringing): ‘I’ll f*ckin’ ‘ave that bastard’.

Some one did get revenge. Mel once had a square tent, which they filled with rubbish, then they turned the fly-sheet through 90 degrees. So when Mel unzips the door, there’s no way in, especially when it’s dark and he’s utterly wazzed. Wait till he does figure it out…

What a shame, I thought, that no-one let off any fireworks on this day, for Mel. Perhaps I missed his joke - isn’t cremation enough?

The rain has held off as the car leaves the parlour. A top-hatted gent walks oh so slowly in front for a hundred yards until we all fall in behind. A froth of bikes are foot-paddled along behind the car - even the advanced riders can’t do it this slow.

Anyone who’s ridden an escorted entourage will be familiar with blocking. Riders at the head of the procession pause in junctions to hold up traffic while others are safely through. The roads are busy today and as the blockers get used up, they find it hard to get to the front again. At a roundabout, cars try to squeeze past fuming bikers. ‘For f*ck’s sake’, one yells - as if they hadn’t seen the hearse, the hundred-plus queue of bikes and trikes. Or they have but have no honour or respect. They are swallowed as a sea of bikes washes over the roundabout.

Suddenly I’m right behind the car and a left-hand side road is pregnant with traffic. I’m not a marshal designate but I plug the hole - it’s a good way to drop down the queue, as I feel there are others closer to Mel who should go first.

This sense of rank manifests again as the Matchless, Norton, Jap fours, trikes and V twins of all types (self included) pour like a thunder cloud into the car-park at the crem. Nobody wants to take front seats and a sea of us tread time in the lobby. In a blink, a stream of people slips forwards and the place is suddenly heaving. Faces familiar, faces from rallies, bike-meets, flicker across the quiet one-ness.

The pastor manages a respectable speech, getting laughs from the fact that he’s never blessed a bottle of ‘Newcy’ Brown before.

Satriani played as we entered. At Mel’s mum’s behest, we get ‘Don’t Fence Me In’. As we leave, Nellie the elephant casts a beaming smile across the place. Girls shuffle, as dance-mode tries to break out.

We shuffle out, changed but not changed by the discourse, by the service. People are exceptionally sweet towards each other and we celebrate a man who had such a fine accord with any who met him. We look around, feeling that we can’t exactly relish the wake - it seems disrespectful. But the collective memory realises who it is we’re here for; bikes are started and revved. Directions are shouted. And we tear off like it was a summer Sunday blast; it is right and fitting.

After a brief natter, the light is fading and I’m anxious to make tracks (must fit some bright bulbs - come on, Suzuki). As I button up, it has begun spitting. The A 38 at 70 mph seems a bit iffy in rain that is blasted into spray by traffic and wind. It’s hard to keep in lane. Visibility is treacherous and it’s rush hour. So I slink off up the A 6. Mel rode these roads.

Couldn’t wear my waterproof jacket for this ride - the sleeves are too tight to get gloves underneath and you know what happens then (come on, Frank Thomas). So my leather takes (and withstands) a soaking (where are you now, Belstaff)? Leather felt right anyway, respectful.

On dark, unlit roads the pounding weather persists. Floating sheets and clouds of spray intercept my path and I’m dazzled by headlights. At least it’s not brown spray. All these lovely roads turned into a washday drama.

I tense up in corners as I follow a jeep into Matlock. Bugger it, I think, there’s no helicopter about in this lot. So I commence reasonable progress and the SV booms and yarps along in some Nick Saunders nightmare. I put my foot down at the lights in Cromford and it sloshes - me boots have given up and become mobile puddles (no rebuke for Prexports that are used 365/1 - another pair please).

I thrash through the remaining miles, glad I don’t have far to go. Heated grips are on and I’m just comfortable enough not to be phased. I chuckle as the bends splatter, as the straights slip away, taking the booming exhaust note back into a place where it becomes inaudible. Kind of T E Lawrence, not so freaking gay. A laugh sputters inside my laid. Then I guffaw. It’s that moment when endorphins have taken over and they’ll get you there safely.

Finally, I’m throwing the cover over and it fizzes on the exhaust. I’ve arrived seconds before my other half gets back from work. ‘Hello’ she calls in a perfectly ordinary voice. After all, to anyone else, it had been a perfectly ordinary day…