Last autumn, I pulled over at a petrol station near Matlock — 90 miles in, already dreading the ride back. I was doing that thing where you shake your hands out and pretend you're just stretching.
A bloke called Dave — mid-fifties, tatty Tiger 800, panniers held on with ratchet straps — watched me for a second, then walked over.
"How long's that been going on?"
"Four years," I said. "Tried everything."
He looked at me like I'd told him I was still using a paper map.
"No you haven't."
He pulled off his glove. Underneath was a slim black wrap around his wrist — barely visible, nothing like the pharmacy brace I'd tried. Snug, thin, looked like it belonged there.
"MotoWrap. Compression design for riders. Keeps your tendons stable without locking your wrist up. Most of the lads I tour with wear them — just don't shout about it."
He rode off. I went home and ordered a pair.