Riding one's bike on to a train and parking it, how groovy is that? Nearly as groovy as a train that travels under the sea at 90mph. That was my weekend getting off to a groovy start. ( And so it continued ... )

After the bike-related aggravation of recent weeks, something good to report. When I got home from the bike club meeting on Monday evening, my laptop was missing from the back seat where I'd secured it with a bungee. (This isn't the good part.) How annoying that I'd previously travelled hundreds of miles in this configuration, and it had failed on a two-mile trip in a 30mph limit. I retraced my route, but no sign. Rats! Not that it was a laptop of value: old and slow, long since retired from the office, no irreplaceable data or embarrassing secrets. Its value was in being set up how I wanted, with the software I needed. More, inside the case had been a pad with my notes from the meeting, for newsletter editing purposes.

Then this afternoon I got a call from an ex-client of five years ago. They'd had a call about a laptop that had been found. Of all the coincidences, the case had contained a mail message printed on the back of one of their old letterheads, now used as scrap paper chez nous. A couple of phone calls later I was heading for Blandford to meet the gentleman who'd kindly stopped his car at the roundabout to retrieve an object lying in the road, and whose acute detective work had led him to me via the ex-client. And now I'm typing this upon that very laptop – still old and slow, but intact and fully functional.

So, at least four pieces of luck there.

• The vehicle following me home on Monday hadn't been a bus or an artic (or indeed a bicycle whose rider might easily have come to grief)
• Its driver had been a person of resource and sagacity, not to mention integrity
• Someone at the ex-client's remembered me and knew how to get in touch
• The computer had been robust enough to survive the tarmac interface (thank you, Dell)

My luck seems to be IN – perhaps I should buy a lottery ticket. But first I think I'll get myself a new bungee.

I love a bike show, but the NEC's a long way to travel, usually in bad weather, and getting there by train's an expensive luxury. This year the London bike show's moved from the Ally Pally – theoretically nice, but inaccessible and impractical – to Excel, the purpose-built Docklands exhibition centre implausibly named after a spreadsheet. Yesterday I took a day off work and went along with huskyteer and our friend Howard.

Leaving home at 8:45, it was dull and grey and the local rush hour congestion was miserable. (I'm still working on a rant about the realignment of Canford Bottom Roundabout.) Half an hour later I was on the M3 in bright sunshine, and when I stopped for a coffee at Winchester services, the Mondeo driver in the next parking space expressed his jealousy of my vehicle. "No roof", I pshawed, "no heater". But he said it was a lovely day to be out on a bike, and I couldn't disagree.

The M25 was back to damp greyness, and while taking on more coffee at Clacket Lane I was moved to clean the headlamp as well as my visor. It was sunny again on the A2. Emerging from the Blackwall Tunnel, I quickly located Excel, parked for free (cars £3/hour) and entered the show on the dot of my noon ETA.

The absence of the big four Japanese, and the one and only British manufacturer, was a disappointment for many, not least the organisers, and probably accounted for the pleasantly uncrowded show. But it let the Europeans shine. Best looking bike in the show was the Ducati 1098. Having lost their way with the previous model range, Ducatis are once again looking like Italian bikes should – sex on wheels. I especially admired the space-age brakes. It's not exactly a commuter though, and six-foot-four Howard (who's in the target market) complained that as well as being uncomfortable on it, he couldn't see the clocks.

I had a sit on a KTM Adventure – comfortable, great view, and on days when Mountbatten Way was excessively congested I could off-road it along the central reservation. But the bike that really took my fancy was the BMW R1200RT. After nearly a year on my 1150RT I seem to have been assimilated. It fitted me like a glove, and ticks all the boxes. It's gained a few 'osses, benefited from BMW's weight reduction programme so that it's actually lighter than my previous FJR, and has a new smooth gearbox and balancer shafts to cut vibration. Seemed like a lot of bike for the money, if you can get past the idea that a bike can cost five figures, although the display model with radio, CD player, cruise control, electronic suspension adjustment and colour-matched luggage was well into that bracket. Have requested a test ride. A year from now will be soon enough.

I made sure to visit the Gerbing's stand to thank them for the swift replacement of my failed glove last week. They have a new electric neck-warmer – mmm. First time exhibitors were our friends John and Jen from Bike Normandy, doing well, fully booked already for June and July. Perhaps I'll visit them again soon, but not for their Dangerous Tour, thanks.

The route back to huskyteer's place took in the Woolwich Ferry, which was pleasant, and a load of South London congestion, which was less so, apart from making me glad to live in Dorset. More traffic hell on the M25, of course. Back home I was glad to take my boots off, after 250 miles and plenty of walking in them, but well pleased with the day out.

Fancied giving the new gloves a road test today, but spotted whilst doing my weekly checks yesterday that the bike had a puncture in the rear tyre. Pressure was down to 15psi instead of 42, but not knowing when it had happened, I couldn't tell how severe this was. I left the nail in the tread, rather than make things worse by removing it. This morning I found it had lost about 8psi overnight. I decided to test it under load, and with gauge, pump, and kneeling mat in the top-box, and RAC Recovery as a long-stop, headed off.

Stopped at Avon Forest, after eight miles, and found the pressure was now 2.5psi higher than when I left home, because the tyre had warmed up. Whether it should really have been higher still, I didn't know, but at least it had gone up, not down. Thus encouraged I joined other club members on a ride to Sparkford via Salisbury and Shaftesbury. It was lovely to be out and about on uncrowded roads, plenty of overtakes to be had, fingers nice and toasty.

75 miles later, after a cuppa at the Haynes Motor Museum, the tyre pressure was a mere 2.5psi below normal. I decided this was OK, re-pumped it up, and headed for home via Sherborne, Sturminster Newton, and Blandford.

The puncture's in the centre of the tread and looks as though it might be repairable. On the other hand, the tyre was due for replacement within the next 1,000 miles or so anyway – was planning to get it done at the next service. Glad to know it'll probably get me to work tomorrow. I'll see whether the shop will repair it but contact the mobile tyre replacement people as well.

ETA Nice pic by Roger - thanks!

Hooray, it's time to praise a supplier for customer service beyond the call. Riding to work in Thursday morning's bitter cold, my sensors quickly detected that all was not well in the cosiness department. My left hand was freezing. It seemed as though my £100 investment in a pair of Gerbing's heated gloves, two years ago, had come 50 percent unstuck.

Heated grips just don't do the same job. Perhaps it's my poor circulation, but boiling palms and freezing knuckles and fingertips, ouch. I had to stop half-way for a warm. And continually changing hand position to try and optimise heat transfer does nothing for safety or concentration.

Got out the multimeter in the evening and, sure enough, the left glove was open-circuit. Perhaps not too surprising – flexible heating elements are notoriously hard to achieve, and all that clutch work - but still disappointing.

So yesterday – fortunately not quite so cold - I phoned Gerbing's UK distributor to report my plight. Imagine my surprise at being told the gloves would be replaced immediately, and for no charge. This morning I was even more surprised to be asked to sign for a parcel containing a brand new pair. Well done, Gerbing's! (And well done, the Post Office.) The words "lifetime guarantee" mean just what they say, and make the gloves excellent value. Chilly mortals like me need look no further.