The day had arrived and we were going to do it. Lands End to John O'Groats is something I had always wanted to do on my bike one day. The official mileage figure is 874 end to end but you have to get there first and back at the end, so you can double that in reality. The idea came from an article in the UMG written by some other nutcase who had done the trip in all weather on some old dog of a motorcycle.
My partner in this epic journey was my girlfriend Liz, who had passed her test about six months previously. The machinery was Liz's 1978 Honda CB500T and my even older '75 Suzuki RE5 rotary. Day one and the bikes are loaded up with all the means to support us for the planned week long trip. None of this namby pamby hotel stuff; oh no, it's a tent for us and at this time of year it could prove interesting. I don't think my wallet could have stood the strain of a whole week in comfortable accommodation, anyway, with interest rates through the roof, poll tax and yet another rise in bloody petrol prices.
We filled the bikes in Leicester and headed for the M69 under a grey but dry sky. Just when we were settling into what was to become a nearly 2000 mile ride, the Honda started to misfire just 20 miles from home. I watched as sparks and a spectacular mini firework display shot from the CB's silencers and I thought the thing was about to explode with Liz oblivious as to what was going on behind her despite the loud crackling noises almost splitting the tail pipes.
At this point the helmet to helmet radios came into their own and I told Liz to pull over PDQ. A quick check over and nothing could be found out of order. However, this was not the last time my tool kit would be out at the side of the road. From now on, the Honda would have to keep to sub 80mph speeds to prevent a totalled engine and premature end to the trip. On to the motorway the sickening sight of the M6 doing a good impersonation of a massive car park forced us off on to A roads and across the Midlands to join the M5 southbound near Gloucester.
The Honda continued to misbehave and took a dislike to any slight uphill gradient. Now, I know the big Oxford throwovers are heavy but 50mph tops? Come on. Refuelling every 120 miles revealed that the Suzuki was averaging 43mpg and the Honda 50mpg, but the CB had also started a big appetite for oil, needing about a ppint every time we stopped. The engine was smoking a bit so we would just have to keep an eye on the level.
The weather brightened up a bit by the time we reached the A30 in Cornwall and the Honda had begun to piss us both off. Every hill resulted in the old girl losing power and dropping back. Liz suggested we swap bikes and then I could experience the problem and find the solution. I watched in helpless horror as Liz promptly dropped my beloved RE5 - the fully laden rotary lay on its side in a layby with oil pouring from the engine and I am sure Liz's life flashed before her as I ran towards both of them. I quickly hauled the RE upright and told Liz, in a display of colourful language, that it would be very unlikely if she ever rode the RE5 again - she is the only person to have dropped the Suzuki and lived to tell the tale.
The CB's performance improved a little after we flushed twelve years of rust and crap out of the petrol tap filter, but it was still far from perfect as we pushed on to our first stop at a friend's house in Camborne. The helmet radios were performing brilliantly and much better than I thought they would. I splashed out the £138 necessary to equip us both with all the kit to speak to each other up to 80mph and 500 metres apart. They are especially useful in towns and cities where navigating through unknown territory on separate bikes can be a real pain - anyone who has ever lost their partner at a roundabout or junction will know what I mean.
First nights stop in Cornwall saw lots of beer and wine being sunk by both of us and the bikes had the luxury of a garage for the night. Next morning, with painful heads, we set off for Land's End. The whole area has been bought by some filthy rich bloke who decided it will cost you £4.50 to walk to the end of your own country. Just as we were going to abandon the idea in disgust, Liz fluttered her eyelashes (under a full face helmet) at a member of staff and we got in free on the bikes once we told them what we were about to embark upon.
A few photo's with the bikes by the Land's End signpost and we pushed north. Liz got cocky on the Honda and sported freshly scraped footrests courtesy of the Cornish roads, although the CB continued to drink oil at an alarming rate. Night two and 569 miles into the trip, we pulled into a campsite in Slimbridge for an overnight stop. The local beer was fairly uninspiring and it was a wet and windy night with the tent threatening to take off at any moment. However, the campsite was a welcome sight on a dark evening, found easily in an RAC UK campsite guide book, which is a handy piece of kit to carry around.
Day 3 we woke to a still day and brilliant sunshine. The Suzi and CB looked on as we cooked breakfast on our tiny burner and we set off north on the M5. The crosswinds became a problem at anything over 50mph so we decided to take the A roads through the Midlands. Just as we left the motorway, the CB500T died suddenly on the slip road and it took about 20 minutes of kicking to get the thing to start (the electric boot is very laughable). Thoroughly pissed off with the Honda, we pulled into the first layby and I stripped the carbs down as I was sure this was the problem. I was right, there was loads of crud in them. Two passing blokes on a Silverwing pulled over and offered help or even a bed for the night (Liz's leather trousers do this) if needed but we got the CB running much better.
Five litres of oil had disappeared into the Honda by then and it was behaving more like a two stroke, leaving a trail of blue smoke in its wake. A stop at a car shop secured a gallon of oil, knowing the Honda would make easy meat of it by the end of the trip.
We got lost around Crewe because someone had stolen all the signs and just as we got back on to the right road it started to rain. Then the Honda decided that it hadn't had attention for at least 50 miles and suddenly lost all clutch adjustment at a huge, busy roundabout. I had shot ahead only to hear over the radio Liz muttering, “this f...ing heap....” Spanners out again.
Night 3 we found a campsite near Warrington and almost lost a sleeping bag after leaving it on a garage forecourt. Another wet night and the campsite warden had greeted us like a sergeant major briefing us like new recruits in army training. All we wanted to do was pitch the tent and find the pub. More rain during the night but the tent kept us and all out kit dry. Next morning the bikes were looking a bit battle weary but started when required.
The Suzuki, with its liquid cooled single 497cc rotor, performed faultlessly, using little oil and cruising smoothly and comfortably. The suspension could be better but remember gas, compressed air, uni-lever and all these new-fangled systems were not around then, just oil front forks and simple preload adjustable rear shocks. Both the bikes coped well with having loads of kit strapped on with dozens of bungee cords unlike the modern eighties missiles with their non existent luggage facilities and flimsy looking plastic bodywork - very pretty but is it practical?
More fuel and oil, northwards once more, taking the boring route to Scotland. The rain started and we stopped at Carlise for petrol and food. There we met a bloke who had done the same route as we would take......but on foot! Up the A74 into Scotland and the rain got worse. The Honda was behaving itself for once and by the time we reached Glasgow the heavens opened and gave us its worst. The rain became so heavy than visibility was reduced and we were down to 40mph on the M8.
Our riding gear had begun to leak and my hands were dyed blue from the soaked gloves - god, I was pissed off. I think if the Honda had started to play up I would have hung myself with one of the many bungee straps we had. Attempts at finding a campsite that wasn't washed out by recent torrential downpours were useless and with daylight fading and water still falling we gave up and booked into a brilliant B & B near Loch Lomond.
The proprietor took one look at my drowned rat figure stood dripping on his doorstep, instead of telling me to go away rapidly, took us in and provided a dry, warm room, hot bath and even a garage for the bikes. We converted the room into a Chinese laundry that night and the steamed up windows were due to nothing more innocent than bike gear hanging up to dry on every available piece of furniture. The helmet radios still worked fine despite the wet weather, although everything leather had long since given up.
Early start and a civilized breakfast, sat at a table instead of the grass, and we said goodbye to some other guests from Alabama who thought we needed psychiatric help riding motorcycles in the cold and wet British weather. We headed north, after yet again topping up the Honda which had a dry dipstick and checking the timing which was spot on. I noticed that the oil was also dropping from both of the rear shocks, which accounted for the pogo action the Honda made over bumps - we'd just have to take it easy.
The going to Fort William was good and the roads were very impressive and in good repair. Perhaps it's due to the lower traffic flow but the quality and maintenance of roads, road markings and signs in Scotland seem far better than found elsewhere in the kingdom. The roads across the highlands are great biking roads if the weather is kind, with breathtaking views and stretches where you can wind the power on without fear of some dickhead inviting you into the side of his Volvo.
After an encounter with a very unfriendly coffee shop we continued on to Inverness and over some huge bridges along the coast road. The bikes seemed to like the improving weather as we cruised along at 60mph with the rotary humming beneath me. We stopped at a warm and comfortable transport cafe to fill our bikes and faces just before the final push to our goal. Pick these kinds of cafes every time, and avoid the chains with their extortionate prices and false pleasantries. Leave them to the Ford Sierra and 2.4 kids mob.
Just when we thought it was looking up weather wise, it started to deteriorate the further north we travelled, but the bikes were going well and eating the miles on twisting roads. On dropping back behind Liz on the Honda, the sight of smoke coming from the right silencer made me cringe and think exactly how much oil was left in the thing. It got worse the harder the CB was pushed, but thankfully the tightening bends of the coast road slowed Liz up to within what was comfortable for the ageing four stroke twin.
The road to John O'Groats seemed to go on for ever, partially due to the crap weather and high winds which reduced out speed. The roads were deserted and there wasn't a soul seen for about 50 miles in a very bleak, windswept and wet part of the country. I had everything crossed and hoped that neither of the bikes broke down - not now. The lights of the small John O'Groats village became visible and we breathed a sigh of relief as we rode right up to the famous hotel on the quayside. The daylight had gone, the weather was really bad and we later found out that it was, in fact, a storm, the first in months and we had caught it.
We staggered into the building at the end of the long journey from the other end of Britain, half expecting some kind of heroes welcome but instead got a puzzled look from a bored hotel receptionist who thought two helmeted aliens had just landed and popped in for a coffee. I was determined to camp that night despite the weather and we struggled to erect the flapping tent in the only area we could find that was in the shelter of the single wash building.
The only other inhabitants of the campsite were an Austrian couple in a camper van who couldn't speak English, and I got a very odd look from the woman who had just left the ladies clutching a towel as we loaded all out gear into the washroom. Considering the bloody awful weather and virtually deserted campsite we decided to make use of the building to cook and dry out some of our riding gear.
We cooked our evening meal on our camping stoves and enjoyed the shelter from the horizontal rain and noisy wind outside before running over to the hotel for a chat with the locals and a pint or two.
Despite the weather our little tent held up well and we had a good, dry nights sleep, exhausted after the ride up the coast. The next day brought a bright and clear morning, the wind having dropped to a comfortable level, easing off the sea from the Orkney Islands which were now visible. After breakfast we had a look around, not that there is much to see but I wanted to spend a few hours at the place we had fought to reach over the last few days.
The Orkney Islands, I was surprised to discover, have 18000 inhabitants which you wouldn't believe looking at them from the mainland as they look bleak, bare but strangely inviting (if you're a weirdo like me) and I vowed to visit them soon on my bike. I enjoyed the quiet and relative desolation of the town but knew we had to start the journey back to the Midlands and the cities that I dislike being near and working in. After many photos, we loaded up the bikes and headed off towards Edinburgh for the first night's stop.
The coast road could be enjoyed this time as the weather had become a lot better than on the way up and we swung the bikes around the bends left and right. I had a few bottom twitching moments as the right-handers tightened up just a little too much forcing me to haul the RE5 over on to the edges of the TT100s but I survived.
The Honda continued to consume oil and we were getting close to the end of our second gallon in 1200 miles. The RE5, on the other hand, needed just the odd top up in the sump and one litre in its total lost tank which is pumped into the fuel flow like a normal Jap two stroke and controlled by the throttle position.
We left Inverness as light began to fade and hoped to make our target that night, but disaster struck. We pulled into a tiny village in the middle of the Grampian mountains, which looked like a deserted Mexican ghost town, for petrol. The only gas station was shut and every house looked empty. Between us, the two bikes had about a gallon left. On trying to buy some at the hotel, we were offered two litres for £2. This made me admire Dick Turpin. At least he had the decency to wear a mask.
Some deep thinking to avoid a night in this lonely place saw us emptying the last few dribbles of petrol from the Honda's tank into the RE5 and setting off on the one bike with Liz pillion, her bike's tank on her lap. We were forced to back track 25 miles to the nearest fuel stop at Aviemore, not really knowing if we would make it with the small amount of fuel on board. I gently ran the RE5 along at 50mph trying to use as little fuel as possible and was relieved to see the bright lights of the only fuel station for many miles. I had vapour in the RE5 on arrival. Both tanks full we went back for the CB and all out gear. 20 miles on we found a clean, well organized campsite at Blair Athol and a nearby bar that didn't mind Liz's leather trousers.
The final push south the next day in showery weather took us across the massive Forth Bridge, an impressive sight. As we paused for photos I heard a roar and saw a Vee Max approach the toll booth (free to motorcycles) and do some serious posing by wheel spinning his way towards Edinburgh. We followed in a less spectacular fashion, cruising steadily down across the border back into England. We cracked on all the way home that day, making that stretch about 400 miles in a day, the longest of the week.
Both bikes were filthy but were treated to a good wash and check over to thank them for the sterling service they had given us, even the Honda made it. The overall mileage was 1965 with about half of that being hard ridden due to the poor weather conditions. It had taken seven days although I would have liked longer to enjoy the sights and perhaps taken in a more scenic if not necessarily direct route; a month would be better.
After all that the bikes had put up with - high mileage, heavy loads of camping gear, neglect - they had not let us down in a big way and all the breakdowns were fixed at the roadside with a simple tool kit which came out many times for the CB. The first morning after the trip the RE5 refused to start for its 8 mile trip to work. It cranked over repeatedly without firing.... come on, girl, from Land's End to John O'Groats surely you can manage to take me to work......no, she had decided to take the day off and refused to start; I had to use the Honda!
Greg Archer