What a brilliant day today.

Up at AJP, we only had one guy with us. Young man by the name of Darren. When he wasn't teaching people to ride bikes (he is a riding instructor), he is out on his bike in the rush hour reporting on the traffic for his local radio station.

That's 11 hours every day spent on a bike. To get some time off he, em, came out on a bike. His Missus had booked the day for him as a christmas present. It reminded me of that fateful text from The Missus about 9 months ago: "Have made a decision. You are at Yamaha Offroad School on Friday".

Even though he had never ridden offroad before, Darren was good. Very good. We set off in the morning about a half hour late and by lunchtime we were 45 minutes ahead - that's how quick the pace was.

I scored today, since I was riding Jane - the little PR3. I made it my mission to find something to complain about - we'll come back to this.

Off we set, me in front, and Darren was right behind immediately followed by Martin. I decided to give it some welly and we took off at a hell of a rate of knots. For about 10 miles on gravel and dirt, Darren was right behind me. Then we came to the ruts and mud. The first off - actually more of a get-clothes-lined-by-an-overhanging-branch belonged to Darren. It didn't help that he was well over six feet tall - I just rode under it and never gave it a thought.

The next off of the day belonged to me, but it was well worth it. I came up a very steep hill - quite short, only about 20 feet in length and the same high - and was losing traction towards the top. You all know what I did at this sign of trouble - gave it 'andful. Next thing I know, I am on my arse and the little PR3 does a backward somersault over the top of the hill. This is known as "looping out". All those months I've been trying to get the front wheel in the air, and I put it so high in the air that I land on my arse. There's a lesson there somewhere.

The PR3 was twitchy - handled more like a KTM. The front end was just s-o-o responsive - the slightest bit of pushing on the bars and the little bike would change direction like an obedient collie. Coming from the bigger and heavier PR4, this caused me a few problems at first and I needed to adapt my riding style a little. Well, a lot actually - there is much more power in this bike.

Because of the quick pace, we managed to get further on to the Plain than we normally do. It had been raining last night, and everything was a bit damp and sticky. Martin was in front, Darren behind and me at the back just flying through the mud. We flew over this jump - about four feet high - and I gassed it a bit much, nearly ending up on my arse again.

Martin was riding quite quickly - quicker than normal - and rode through some harmless looking mud. Ahh, but the eyes can deceive. It wasn't harmless mud at all - it was the evil sticky-sucky-look-at-me-I'm-a-legend mud. Martin's bike stopped dead - from about 40 miles per hour. The laws of Physics being what they are, Martin kept going - even though his bike was at a standstill. Straight over the bars - taking enough time to do a little handstand on them as his feet sailed right over his head. Straight into the evil suction mud. As Missus Beeblebrox would say "10 out of 10 for style, but minus several million for good thinking".

I helped him pick the bike up and it was absolutely caked in slimy slippery mud. It was so slimy that he couldn't grip the throttle properly - it was like trying to grip a banana soaked in WD40. He grabved some tufts of grass and was trying to wipe it clean, and I rode a little way ahead looking for something to wipe the bike down with.

I found what looked like a discarded rag. A bit muddy, but clean enough to wipe the bike with. I picked it up - they were somebody's underpants. Quite why somebody had chosen to discard their underpants in the middle of Salisbury Plain I'm not quite sure. Martin asked if they were clean - apart from being muddy they looked it. I put them over the grip and buffed it up the way you would shine a pair of shoes. Lovely. Pants to the rescue. Whoever you are, and whyever you discarded your pants, thank you.

We came back via a mountain bike course - all up and down and slippy and narrow and roots and horribleness. I was throwing the PR3 around like she was a BMX. There was nothing I could throw at this bike that she couldn't handle. My confidence was improving and, as it did so, my bike skills improved. There's a lesson in that somewhere - whether you think you can, or think you can't, you'll probably be right.

OK, so there was one thing that I could throw at the bike that she couldn't handle. Or perhaps it was me. My one complaint about this bike is that she's not a helicopter. Martin stopped at the top of that hill. Darren was up for it, and started going down. I shouted to Martin - "there is no fucking way I am going down there. I am recovering from injury - if I go over the bars and it doesn't kill me then The Missus will finish the job".

Darren was already rolling down the hill. Martin told me that I'll have to do it sooner or later. I agreed, but it wasn't going to be today.

We stopped off for a rest. To the right of us was a very steep and slippery hill - about 50 feet high. Martin nodded towards it - "bet you can't get up there". I looked at the hill, and I had to agree with him. Then I thought that if there was ever a bike that would get up there then it's the PR3. Off we went. And up. All the way up. Martin applauded - used the word "awesome" at one point. I told him that it was his turn now. He went all Old Bull on me. Explained that there were three possible outcomes:

1. He'd get up it as well I did;
   
2. He'd get up it less well than I did;
   
3. He'd fall halfway up

He decided that discretion was the better part of valour, and he'd take the zero. Kind of made us even - he was up for going down that hill and I wasn't. I joked with Martin about the phantom lap he got at Track and Trail (where he apparently passed me twice and I only saw him once) and told him he's going to need a lot more of those since I'd be whipping his ass on this PR3.

I told Martin - and any passers by within earshot - that I had found my glass slipper. This little PR3 was custom-made for me. I told Darren that if he wanted it then I'd happily fight him for it. Martin decided that he wanted a shot now and gave me the PR4 125. Much heavier, and about half the power. That shut me up. Ass-whipping will have to wait.

Back to AJP and Martin and I started building the new PR3. We had some issue-ettes with getting the trailtech computer on, but sorted those out with some creative drilling and some well-placed cable ties. Martin had a few sweary moments when he was fitting the brake light switch - mainly due to the fact that he had to spend an hour bleeding the brakes. Then I had to siphon some petrol from one of the other bikes since there was none in the cans. Recommendation: Don't drink petrol. It's not pleasant.

After about an hour of screwing, bolting and swearing, the little PR3 roared into life. And did she roar - what a lovely sound. Congratulations - it's a girl. Goldilocks is born. I will post some photos tomorrow.

As I said we'd come back to, the only complaint I have about the PR3 is this. When I am on the stop - full throttle - ploughing through the mud, I have nothing in reserve - there is no 'andful to give. Doh. Obviously, I'm at full throttle - doing 60 or so. On a bigger bike, I'd not be on full throttle - the confidence that this bike inspires is huge. It's easy to feel confident riding at 60mph through stuff that I'd previously only have taken at 30mph.

If there was ever a bike that would get me through Dawn to Dusk, then it's this one. Put the 260cc engine in it, Dakar looks like a distinct possibility.

Download the Manic Mission Information Pack for the full story ...