Mid-March, strong winds, low temperatures and a brakeless Guzzi V50 - not conducive to touring you might imagine. She who must be obeyed decided it was time to go somewhere. Being based in Edinburgh, a trip to Skye, mysterious northern isle, sounded good. A cursory examination of the timetables revealed that rail travel is very awkward until later in the year, when the Yank tourists start pouring in. The mate with a car decided he needed it that weekend, so number two bike, an X reg Kawa Z250A named Grumble was given a swift oil change (remove the Rickman fairing and Alfa 2-1 to get to the drain plug, of course) and an odd pair of mirrors. Strap a bicycle pannier to the tank, steal a map from the flat-mate and off we go.
When the warm hazy day that initially greeted us for the first ten minutes started to turn to drizzle even before we reached the outskirts of Edinburgh, we guessed what sort of trip we were in for. Up the M9, one of Scotland's few motorways, to Stirling at 50mph into a strong headwind. Pausing for lunch in the village of Callander, we bought a copy of the local paper - amazing how warm ten sheets of paper can make you feel when stuffed down the front of the Belstaffs.
From here north the countryside turns to hills, mountains and lochs, with the road running in the flat bottom of steep sided green valleys. The only signs of life are the occasional tourist and the sheep. We ride on through this very beautiful if wet scenery as far as Glencoe when 140 miles of rain finally wash away the protective coating of WD40 and cause the bike to cut out on to one cylinder and then die completely.
At the spot we finally came to a rest, in the shadows of mountains with names like Bidean nam Bain and Sgurr A'mhain, our feet, like most of the road, were under six inches of water. About that time things like blown condensers, burnt points and holed carb diaphragms ran through my mind and I started to curse not joining the AA before leaving Edinburgh. Leaving the bike to dry out under a tree at Glencoe Youth Hostel, we tried to dry ourselves out and get warm under the disapproving eye of the receptionist. Wet motorcyclists are not, apparently, socially acceptable.
Some time later, the bike started again and was fed a new dose of petrol in celebration. We pressed on up the side of Loch Linnhe to Fort William, the bike intermittently misfiring. Fort William is the birthplace and spiritual home of all mountaineering shops. Mr BP sold us a small can of WD40 - as the label says, it starts wet engines. Just out of Fort William we stopped for the night at Glen Nevis Youth Hostel, where you can sit in the shadow of Britain's tallest peak and listen to the rain fall.
Squeezing into half dry clothing we walked down the Glen and watched the earnest Germans setting off to climb the mountains. After a minimal breakfast, we set out in the overcast, but deceptively dry, world. Following the very beautiful road between Fort William and Kyle of Lochalsh we soon passed through showers and started leaning into cross-winds. At one point, as we rose to the top of the ridge separating two lochs, we found a delightful 40mph side-wind carrying icy rain past the fairing to soak both our left-hand sides. The road climbs hills, runs between mountains, parallels rivers and follows the side of lochs, combining excellent riding with spectacular views (and loads of cold rain).
As soon as we started to climb up into the Cairngorms, heading back for Perth, we met the winds again, stronger and colder than before. Chugging down the M90, swaying in the vacuum left by artics, most of which seemed to belong to Safeway, we finally made it to the ultimate of horrors - the Forth Road Bridge. Beautiful piece of engineering as it may be, anyone who's ever tried crossing it two-up on a gutless barn-door will be pleased to tell you about the cross-winds, the lorries, the Sierras and the speed limit that everyone ignores. I really thought that we were going to die when a large lorry overtook us and took away the wind I was so carefully leaning into. We started to fall over and had the lorry been longer or going slower you wouldn't be reading this now. The Z250, for all its faults, is light enough to wrench back on to line even when the chassis is being thrown every which way by an excess of destructive forces.
This wasn't a great adventure, covering a 1000 miles a day on some Superbike in Eastern Europe, just a short trip to the North, but it felt like an achievement to us. Was it worth it? Naturally. We can look back with a wry smile as we think of the weather we battled through and the amazing barren and wet scenery. Would we recommend it? Definitely, Scotland's roads are generally in a good state of repair and in the Highland's pretty as long as it's not a May bank holiday, and of course the scenery is very, very beautiful. The bike did well in trying conditions, its lack of power two-up being mostly irrelevant since there is very little opportunity to overtake on Scotland's narrow, twisting mountain roads.
Richard Dixon