Long days, large motorcycle, brilliant planning and no panic. Well, possibly, or possibly not. Like all things, in my life, anyway, there is a general drift either upwards or downwards depending on your point of view. This means things either get done or don't, and it really doesn't matter which way round it is. If a job's worth doing it's worth doing right. Fine sentiments for the desperately pedantic, but not necessarily a lot of fun unless you are dangerously into obsessive behaviour.
To the point, the idea had been little more than that, an idea - a vague notion to travel a few miles on something with two wheels. It didn't really matter what. So there I was sitting through another interminable meeting in the staff room, not really paying much attention to anything other than the ever increasing doodle on the bit of paper I was holding on to at the time, when out of the talk of fund raising novelties, such as fancy dress discos and badges that you can write messages on (I was told there were strict censorship rules on the latter, for some reason) a voice said, 'What ideas do you have?'
'Lands End to John O'Groats run on a bike,' I mumbled. The enthusiasm almost woke me up. There I was sitting amongst talk of planning, sponsorship, big business, publicity and famous personalities.
'Which bike will you use?'
'Dunno yet, maybe the GS550 if I get the engine rebuilt, or if desperate the MZ.'
'What about back up?'
'I'm in the RAC.'
'When do you intend doing the run?'
'When there's more light than dark.'
So there it was, the announcement made, people determined to run round like headless chickens on my behalf. It would be churlish to let them down, and besides the snowball was liable to turn into an unstoppable avalanche completely out of my control. The problem of which bike to use didn't resolve itself for a couple of months. The thing needed stamina for starters, enough grunt to play dial a speed in top, just sit there and let the bugger roll.
This let the MZ out. Sure, heroes have travelled thousands of miles on them but I find the 251 a touch on the small side for comfort, especially with my patent luggage carrying device of a bag or two strapped on the back with bungees. Certain parts of my anatomy tend to become disgruntled when crushed against hard steel for what was beginning to look like a 1800 mile trip.
Reliability of MZ's is much vaunted but mine was back at the dealers three times under warranty, including a trailer job, such was the din coming from the engine. The finish was disappearing faster than a politician's smile when confronted by a lady of ill repute demanding her fees during a televised debate on the moral fibre of the nation. Not that it mattered, they look deformed in any case - MZ's, I mean, not politicians, or there again who knows? It also developed a severe dislike of the rain. It either went or was dead, not the kind of hassle I'd want on a long journey through the vagaries of British weather. The MZ also hated strong winds and hills.
The GS550 was S reg with a known history for the last seven years. It stood outside a friend's house where it refused to start unless he blew down the carb breather pipe. A sight so revolting that neighbours wanted to move and children cried as he emerged dribbling from one side whilst frantically wrenching the throttle against the stop. Accompanied by a reasonable din from the homemade silencer and enough blue smoke to fill the whole street.....
The Cosmic Motorcycle Dealer decided that the swap of a perfectly respectable '69 CB250 for a Q reg CB900 with the engine in one large and rebuilt lump, and the other bits in lots of boxes would be the way to go. The deal done, the bits safely stored in the shed and all questions from interested parties ignored until Boxing Day when I decided it was time to start on the thing so that I could spread the cost of the, oh, so cheap Honda spares I was bound to need.
This presented a problem of a logistic nature, namely a 6 x 8 shed that contained an 900 in bits, a complete CB125SS of 1969 vintage, numerous GS550 bits, kids' bikes and cupboards full of twenty years worth of bikes. This puts a severe strain on the amount of space actually available to work in. It's amazing how many bits will fit under a bed!
That solved part of the space problem. What it doesn't do is describe the pure enjoyment of being hunkered down over a rusty motorcycle frame in a shed in the middle of winter playing with paint stripper and wire wool. Somewhere along the line I had acquired a litre of phosphoric acid and some enamel which actually brushed on smoothly. It does take time to strip the frame, swinging arm and various other parts with which Honda deem fit to adorn the frame. Still, after two coats of phosphoric acid, two coats of primer, two coats of said enamel and a final two coats of Scientific Coatings' finest, the bits gleamed well enough to be allowed prime position at the end of the bed.
The search for spares was on. Dave Silver provided all the rubber bushes that abound on the frame to isolate engine vibes (although it ain't 100 percent effective), bearings and one or two other bits, and then threw in a free battery and indicators by way of sponsorship. The trouble with a bike, any bike that you haven't bought as a complete chunk in one reasonable mass, is that the way some bits fit together almost defies logic until severe desperation has set in and deadlines get ever closer.
To admit that the bike had its MOT and fairing fitted on the Thursday before the grand departure on Tuesday the 1st of June will give some indication of how things went! With a mere 100 miles on the clock, the fairing brackets checked, along with the oil, the thing was parked outside work at 9.00am for the big send off.
Those doing the organising seemed to be more than slightly relieved to see the beast actually working. My answers during the previous few weeks had ranged from the surreal to the Zen. The plan for day one was a gentle burble down to Lands End, a mere 450 miles away (from North Yorkshire), at running in speeds. This proved to be remarkably simple apart from a minor entertainment just outside Bristol, whilst the RAC diagnosed a duff quarter inch of HT lead that caused a misfire until the offending bit had been snipped off.
The only other weirdness was the huge chunk of GRP lashed to the front of the bike. I'd never ridden with a fairing before. It does two things. First, pain no longer enters the speed equation (unless you fall off, which I didn't), therefore it is possible to bruise speed limits in relative comfort. Second, in summer you get hot.
A few layers of clothes were removed with positive relief. The bike was running fine, the sun was shining and I was only a couple of hours late. Through Somerset the sun shone, the birds sang and I tried to come to terms with the back-draught from the fairing, increasing the weight of the rucksack by a factor of ten. Exeter was passed and on into Devon and Cornwall. It rained, the sky lurked about three inches off the road surface, and biker's brain set in.
You know that wonderful detached feeling you get after a lot of miles, especially when everything is grey and dripping. Bodmin Moor scared me - well, it didn't but the wind farm did. The huge whirring shadows lurking on the immediate horizon were enough to summon up the demons for a while. At least it made a change from cursing the heroes to whom rain bouncing six inches off the road, fog and the odd oil slick held no terrors at a steady 90mph. A simple solution would be to remove their windscreens and let them continue as best they could. Might be a good idea to remove their vote as well, you don't need one in the asylum. I digress.
I did notice a fair number of exclusive and elderly vehicles of not inconsiderable performance heading north. They were setting off for good old John O'Groats, a big run mentioned on the local news in the hotel at Lands End. After 450 miles and eleven hours I unwound, had a bath, looked out of the hotel window, wondered where the sea was, walked around to the little post that said Lands End and, er, wondered where was the sea and then retired, promising myself an early start back home the next day.
Well, I got up early, discovered that breakfast didn't happen until 8.30. I cursed, put it down to biker's brain the night before and shuffled around the bike, kicking the tyres, admiring the new disc lock I'd bought and wondering where was the sea. Some old guy who had been on holiday for the last fortnight said they hadn't seen the sun during his stay. I was lucky, I only had to stay one night.
The journey back was a little quicker, but not that much considering the increased speed at which I was travelling. The bike felt rock steady at 85/90mph but I was always conscious of the high centre of gravity, the additional weight of the fairing and the decidedly seventies handling.
After about 150 miles I was on my second petrol and nicotine stop, fuel was going fast - road test reports of 35mpg were horribly accurate. Then it heaved down, stair-rods routine. The reps turned on wipers and sidelights thus becoming indestructible, tuned into warp factor one and sped off into the gathering gloom like lemmings on speed. Hey ho, even games of spot the cretin were becoming ludicrously easy.
I'm too old for such heroics and slowed down (I wasn't convinced that the headlamp was working and you can't just pop your hand in front of the light when moving to see if your fingers glow in the dark with something the size of a barn door fitted to the front of the bike - strange thing, paranoia).
Next petrol stop I made the discovery that I didn't really need one, fuel consumption had dropped considerably due to the slower speeds. Then I was treated to a good dose of memory or one of those bizarre motorcycling flashbacks.....
A GS125 turned out to be the perfect solution for long distance commuting a few, impoverished years ago. An easy equation - 120mpg, 120 miles, what could be simpler? Well, yes, it was boring (dual carriageway all the way apart from 10 miles) and slow. One miserable summer's day what should come hurtling past about two miles into the journey but a Kawasaki 900 and an XS1100, loaded up with gear and suspiciously attractively filled leathers on the pillions. People on holiday, large flash bikes, leather clad females - bastards.
It became seriously wet ten miles on, said tourers parked up under a flyover struggling into waterproofs. I waved as I passed, my bike wasn't big or clean enough to register with these big boys, so I ambled on. Miles later, like Moses doing his Red Sea trick, they blast past again, expensive leather boots lovingly wrapped in plastic bags. I sniggered.
Miles later I saw them in a filling station, waved again, smiled at the lack of response and carried on. Literally, 100 yards before my turn off they hurtle past again, forewarned of stunning rear observation, I focus on the plastic bags on their feet, sure enough Harrods! I nearly fell off. The point of this being that for 55 of the 60 miles of the journey, despite a mind boggling performance difference in our respective bikes, they had travelled no faster than me...
Back to the point, the old hare and tortoise legend. It works. The longer you can keep your bum on the seat the farther you go. Simple, eh? Knock 10 to 15mph off your speed, save money and time. Avoid extended petrol stops. Full of steely resolve I decided to curb speed but compensate by the odd burst of hardish acceleration to leap past Honda Accords.
I didn't achieve any overload in the adrenalin stakes or manage the red mist sensation but I got home and didn't use too much petrol - important because it was a sponsored run and the less I spent the more I could hand over at the end of the outing. Next day, Scotland, no motorways to speak of, fine roads and halfway through the trip.
Next day there was thick fog, splendid, just what I needed on the A68 through Tow Law and on to the Otterburn Ranges. The latter warn of the blind crests and they aren't joking. Aviation of 600lbs at the wrong side of noon is almost enough to wake anyone up.
On to Edinburgh over the Fourth Road Bridge, the fog replaced by wind, with the fairing acting like a sail coupled with my strange and irrational fear of plummeting God knows how many feet into something cold and wet, meant I was not happy. At least it was free and allowed for serious annoyance of our four wheeled brethren as I ran by the queues.
The A9 is one of those weird roads you either love or hate, it's wide, fast and has the required number of interesting bends to maintain concentration. But? If you live down south you will love it. If you don't, if, for example, you live in a comparatively unpopulated part of the world with quiet roads, you, like some folk from the western shores of Scotland, will hate it.
Why? Because it is big Merc, BMW, and Volvo country. These are driven on the limit because they have to justify their huge cost and the drivers don't want anyone doubting their machoness. They have to drive at very high speed in the recognised Victorian method of shouting very loud and hoping all works out for the best. Add to this, an excess of idiots admiring the view, our chums with caravans, demonic truck drivers, coach operators who use their rear view mirrors to clock the thighs of women in short skirts in buses, and moving scenery coming the other way at high speed, and you stop wondering why the police see fit to inform us of accident rates and the presence of unmarked patrol cars. I was in economy mode so survived.
Not quite all the time. A lorry was trundling along at 55mph on a dual carriageway stretch, a car behind looking as if it's going to overtake, so positive use of gearbox and throttle ensued. I blast past at something above the limit, pull in and back off. The car behind follows on and comes alongside - four boys in blue peer across! I stare ahead with a display of avid concentration on the road beyond. They shoved off after a while, only to be seen half hidden further on, looking very disappointed as I motored slowly past.
On to Inverness, where the mountains still had snow on them. Serious trouble in the winter. Even then it wasn't that warm but the fairing was proving its worth. Once through Inverness, the traffic thinned out and the road up to Wick was delightfully twisty with one or two interesting bits, like at Helmsdale where it dips down to sea level and up the other side, round a couple of ever tightening hairpins that soon made me realise that hustling 600lbs of grinding bits of undercarriage on wet roads after nearly 400 miles may not be totally sensible.
It does provide a quick burst of adrenalin, which is handy for the straight and deserted bits that abound in North East Scotland at 7.00pm on a drizzly wet June evening. Thoughts of economy soon returned upon the discovery of £3 a gallon that far north. So a gentle bimble up to John O'Groats in time to sample some liquid, walk down to the sea front and discover the compact camera doesn't work. Still, the tourist shop was open to ten and I bought some postcards to prove my arrival.
The return journey was wet enough to see me stopping in a telephone kiosk to light up. There was no way you could light anything in that kind of rain. Then, wonders of wonders, for the first time in 1500 miles the sun popped out and stayed out, bringing with it the tourists and the Friday afternoon commuters. Not that I cared there was only 100 miles to go down the A68. A couple of hours later I was home, somewhat knackered but not desperately so.
The bike had done well. 1800 miles with no trouble apart from a slight misfire that was cured on day one. No oil was used, the chain needed a quarter of a turn on the adjusters and that was it. The only ill effect I suffered was my left hand refusing to work due to vibration. Wonder what it would be like if the engine wasn't rubber mounted? Four days, 1800 miles and enough in the way of sponsor money to hand out reasonably large cheques to the charities I'd chosen. In fact, the end to end run could be done in 24 hours if you could survive on a couple of hours sleep - my actual travelling time was only 20 hours and I wasn't going berserk. To my mind, a lot of the fun comes from all the effort involved running around fixing up a working machine. Next year, the Arctic Circle on a feet forward K100!
Barry Dodds