'You take the bike out, Barry,” I said, 'and see if you can hear the noise. It's like a little rrrrrrrr on light throttle openings - I'm sure it shouldn't be there.' The bike in question was my 1959 Tiger 110 which in a few weeks time was going to have to convey me to Moscow and back in order to take part in the FIM Rally.
The year, 1967, was rather special as it was the first time western motorcyclists had been allowed on to Russian roads for over 20 years. Incidentally, another 20 years were to pass before they were allowed in again.
Barry returned some minutes later and pronounced the bike one of the smoothest Triumphs he had ever ridden. The crank had been balanced by Laurence Hartley, so it should have been good. No, he couldn't hear a funny noise and I must be imagining things. Various other acquaintances had tried the bike with the same result. I came to the conclusion that perhaps I was imagining things and listening for noises that weren't really there. Subsequent events were to prove me wrong!
We assembled at the dockside at Harwich some weeks later. We were all members of the IMTC founded in the thirties principally to organise motorcycle tours to Continental Europe when things weren't as straightforward as they are today. For all I know the Club may still be in existence, it certainly was a few years ago. A good meal, a good night's sleep, a good crossing and we all arrived at Bremerhaven refreshed and ready for the next leg of the journey. We were scheduled to do 400 miles that day, 300 each the next two. It started raining heavily.
There was a problem at Helmholtz, the border crossing into East Germany. It took about an hour for Barry, who had all the documents to get to the head of the queue. Then because something was not quite in order he had to go away to sort it out and queue all over again. It was something to do with the fact that we did not have individual visas but were all on one visa. A Gestapo type officer appeared, dressed in jackboots, a black uniform with white insignia and a Nazi style peaked cap. He even had steel rimmed glasses. Now, my German is practically non existent but I muttered, 'Eine visa fur alles.' and our passage was considerably speeded up.
Even so it had taken well over lthree hours. It was still raining pushrods. The second border crossing into Poland was easier as there were no major problems and it took a mere two hours or so. I had a couple of rather tricky incidents later in the day. The first was when the throttle slide jammed open, a tendency which the Triumph exhibited under monsoon conditions. The second was when I took a wrong turning and end up being turned back by soldiers brandishing submachine guns.
Another rider had a close encounter with cobblestones in the suburbs. After 13 hours in the saddle we arrived at an overnight stop in Warsaw, very tired and the rain continued to pour down. Accommodation in Warsaw was in a high rise block normally used by students. I was on the 13th floor necessitating use of the lift to transport all my gear - the need to take everything vaguely removable off the bike had been impressed upon us. There was one problem, the lifts were in the charge of formidable looking peasant women who had somehow managed to disable the lift calling mechanisms. There was only one way to summon a lift, about 12 of us had to hammer on the doors until one of the guardians of the lifts decided it was easier to come to our assistance than continue listening to the racket.
The next border crossing, into Russia itself, was at Brest, and I can recall no great delay; only the usual couple of hours. What has impressed itself on my mind were the toilets (earth closet variety). They were easy to find because the black cloud of flies that hung over them could be heard from quite some distance away. They appeared to have been in use since the days of the last Czar.
It was at Brest that we met Ivan, our Russia guide, who was a bit put out when he discovered there was no accompanying car, only a pillion seat on offer. He went by train to our next stop Minsk. We retired to bed listening to the sound of the rain pelting down.
Petrol stations were few and far between in Russia. In 1967 in Moscow there were only 12 in the whole city, and in the country if you saw a station you filled up. Most Russian cars, in fact, carried two or three five gallon jerrycans in the boot. With so many motorcyclists converging on Moscow from all over Europe, filling up could take a couple of hours. A nice touch was provided by Russian children who threw carpets of flowers on to the road as we passed through the various villages. In fact, out of the three Eastern Block countries we visited, I felt the Russians were the most friendly.
Maybe it was because the sun had at last come out and the engine was running hotter, or maybe it was the rotten petrol, I don't know, but as I wound on some more throttle to ascend a slight incline there was an almighty bang from the engine, followed by a death rattle and the rear wheel locking solid. It would not free up again. After a while, someone turned up on a combo and we tried towing the bike but the other engine soon became too hot so we gave up and waited for the police to arrive.
One advantage of the communist system is that the police can commandeer any handy truck that happens to come along. So it was that I found myself in the cab of a truck heading for Smolensk, displaying red flags to indicate that it was under police control, and carrying my bike in the back. The driver's entire command of the English language consisted of just two words - Bobby Charlton - which he repeated at ten second intervals. Unfortunately, I have never had any interest in football whatsoever.
We stripped the engine down in the car park of the hotel that evening. That's funny, I thought, as the head was lifted off, I could have sworn Triumph pistons went up and down together. Closer inspection showed that a con-rod had broken just below the small end. A chunk was missing out of the cylinder and one valve was bent. So that was that, my luggage was distributed around the other bikes and I rode pillion on a big Vincent for the rest of the trip.
My first view of Moscow was most impressive. As we rode over a hill the city, glowing orange in the late afternoon sunlight, appeared to rise up out of the landscape, although it must have still been 40 miles distant. Less impressive was the Moscow campsite. We were suppose to have the chalets but the French had stolen them so we were allocated tents. Six to a tent that was only designed for two! A phone call to Intourist and the British Embassy sorted that and more tents were made available.
There were other Brits at the campsite who had travelled independently. One of them had a suitcase strapped to the back of his Triumph which appeared to contain mainly tinned food. I expressed mild surprise. 'I've been on these jaunts before,' he confided. 'you know what it is, you arrive late at night, you're cold and hungry, it's peeing down with rain and everywhere's closed - well, you can't eat a pair of trousers, can you?'
After 23 years, mixed recollections of Moscow remain. I can recall the usual things - the Kremlin, Lenin's tomb, St Basil's cathedral, Moscow State university; also the wide boulevards, the ornate underground stations, the exhibitions devoted to space exploration and the Moscow State circus. For some reason I can recall the street vendor selling a beer-like beverage made from rye bread, if only because of its unique taste. The ceremony on the last day was rather a formal affair but there was a party in the evening to round things off. I didn't bother to go but learnt that one of the party, Ken, had drunk a bottle of Vodka and ended up in hospital for the night with alcohol poisoning. I had to accompany him on the train to Brest as he was in no fit state to ride his Vincent.
Back on the pillion, we finished off the route, with an interesting stop for the night in Berlin, without any undue problems only the usual things like waiting for petrol and getting through customs. The scenery was often rather bleak and stark, not too inspiring. A few days later we were all safely back in England. The Russians eventually sent the bike back in a big crate and it was found the engine had been running weak because the air filter had been removed but the carb left stock. I should have paid more attention to that noise.
Peter Godwin