An odd day today. Start loving life.

Today started reasonably well. I got out of bed and had a cup of tea before heading out for a run. Not a massively long run by any stretch of the imagination but 4 ½ miles of serious hill work. It's been a long time since I ran Up North and I had forgotten just how big the hills are up here. I managed to keep a good pace the whole way round and thoroughly enjoyed my shower when I got back to the house. The weather was overcast, dismal to a degree but dry, so I decided to head out on my bike. Out of the driveway and heavy on the throttle immediately, the roadside trees rapidly becoming a blur as I head for triple figures on the speedo in a matter of seconds. Better slow it down a little as the Fuzz around here are notorious for raping speeders, so I settle down to a more respectable speed and concentrate on having a smooth ride, gliding between bends on the perfect line. Riding a motorcycle really frees the spirit and always puts a smile on my face.

I decide to head over the 'Tops', a local term to denote going over the hills as opposed to through the valleys, and a wonderful journey on a bike. Plenty of bends mixed with fast straights and stunning, if not slightly bleak views. Yorkshire is a beautiful place, if you manage not to notice the locals, but it does have an air of desolation about it that freaks a lot of people out. Well, that and the countless dry stone walls everywhere you look. But for someone who has grown up there, that simply adds to the romance. Im heading for Keighley (pron. Keithley). A pokey little shit hole of a town that was was built on the confluence of the River Aire and the River Worth and has been around in one form or another since before the Doomsday Book. It was actually mentioned in the book as a settlement so it's existence goes back to pre William the Conquerer. It is now home to around 55,000 of the nations greatest rejects and is cited as the third largest Parish Town in England. That doesn't stop it being an absolute dive though. The route from my Mothers house where Im staying, takes you through Brighouse, Rastrick, Denholme and finally to Keighley. Real Brass Band country and all old villages and towns linked by some of the windiest, bleakest roads in Yorkshire. Perfect for a nice fast ride. I hunker down, shaping my body to the bike, tucking myself behind the tiny screen out of the wind and get busy on the throttle again, overtakes done in a heartbeat as I wind my way through the greying countryside, finally arriving in Keighley around 40 minutes later and heading straight to Brooks's fish shop. They haven't actually been called that for nearly 30 years but that's what it's still known as, being situated directly opposite Brooks DIY, and is one of the best places for fish and chips in the country. Haddock is the standard fare here, dipped in milk before the batter and results in one of the tastiest bits of fish going, slapped in a soft teacake (bread bun or roll to Southerners) with plenty of salt and vinegar.

Finishing my brief dinner I decide to head up the road to the little satellite village I grew up in, hoping for a glimpse of the familiar. I'm not disappointed. Nothing has changed in the 16 years I've been away. As I pull into the dingy, run down council estate, everything is pretty much as I remember it. The children's park cluttered with rusty, dilapidated play furniture styled in classic and everlasting 80's hues of turquoise, pinks and yellows. Garden fences collapsed, offering glimpses of smashed green houses and long grass, some of the gardens nothing but mud and dust and others, filled with old rotted chairs. The narrow cul-de-sac littered with broken bottles and empty, crushed Special Brew cans. The memories come flooding back, not all good but in general, all tinted with the rose coloured view that nostalgia tends to bring. Seeing my old house occupied by the interlopers was actually quite a painful experience, as was looking across to number 13 where the neighbourhood bully and his sister lived, and seeing nobody I recognise through the window. Although he was a bully, a lack of other kids in the area resulted in a friendship forged through necessity that actually worked well and resulted in some of my happiest memories, as well as some of my worst.

The clouds start to close in so I head out of the estate, left up the hill and follow the roads around to the private housing estate directly behind my old house. I pull the bike up, not switching off the engine, and gaze at my old back garden. Looking at the old tree and the back door reminds me of happy summers, building tree houses, dens and generally having a carefree life. My gaze extends across the fields that border the garden, cows still chewing the cud just as they did years ago, and lifts to the moorland that is only a stones throw from the front door. My god I miss this place. As I remember my childhood here, I start to feel sick at the thought of never being able to recapture it and I curse the day that real life intruded on my little bubble and burst it. The feeling intensifies and with tears in my eyes and my stomach in knots, I can no longer bare it. I click the bike into first gear and head off, slowly at first as thoughts of a lost childhood race through my mind, gripping me with despair and grief, the homes and streets going unnoticed. As I exit the village I speed up going up the hill towards Harden and at the top, pull in, turn the bike off and roll a cigarette. I inhale deeply as I gaze across the rolling hills, remembering long walks with friends and my (now deceased) father, my stomach cramping with pain as I think about the happy memories. I briefly think of long nights spent poaching rabbits up here and fossil hunting and blueberry picking. We were absolutely poor as paupers when I was growing up but as a result I think I had one of the richest childhoods you could have. It's a bittersweet realisation and as I finish my cigarette and don my helmet and gloves and climb back aboard the bike, I get the overwhelming urge to try and escape.

The bike fires up with it's distinctive, deep V Twin roar and I waste no time getting on the gas. In a matter of seconds I'm redlining third gear, carving my way through the twisty country roads in excess of 120mph, the landscape blitzing past in a surreal blur as the pain Im trying to leave behind follows hot on my tail. Minutes pass by and Im now heading out of Cullingworth, a dying village with it's only export being cheap, stinking dog food and it's only redeeming feature, a series of natural waterfalls that pass through a slim strip of woodland to the rear of the housing estates, all black millstone. Once out of the village and onto the national speed limit roads, I open the bike up again, whizzing past traffic as though it's at a standstill. And then as if my spirits couldn't be dampened further, the heavens open, unleashing a wild storm of ridiculously heavy rain, hailstone and biting winds. Where the hell did this come from? Within seconds my leathers are soaked, the wind chilling me to the bone and mere minutes later, the roads are awash, rivers of dirty water flooding downhill in any direction it can. This brings me round a little. Riding in these conditions is potentially lethal if you concentration is not 100%.

I survive the ride back to my Mums place, let myself in and strip off. As I stand in front of the long mirror drying myself, I start to try and unpick the turbulent mix of emotions I've just been through, and whilst still feeling relatively dark, with a tinge of hopelessness churning away inside, I realise that actually, I had a fantastic time as a kid, went on from there to forge my own path in life and I now have a loving wife who I would die for, a small circle of true friends that I love almost as much as my wife, a good standard of living and a thoroughly grounded set of morals that I live my life by, and that if I died today, I have always lived to get the most out of life and would regret nothing. At the end of the day, isn't that what life is all about?

You might think I'm being a bit of an Emo prick, but to be honest, that doesn't bother me at all so feel free to think it. The one thing I hope even just one of you takes from this, is to cherish your memories, but never let them stop you living your life in the best way you can. And don't worry, I'll be back to my usual misanthropic self in no time, so don't despair if that's what you're missing. Thanks for reading you bunch of cunts. Peace out.