Travel Tales: Nearly doing the Four Points Run

I spoke with John briefly as I passed his desk. You know, the usual bike stuff. "Nigel," he said, a few minutes later with a thoughtful look on his face (at least I assumed it was a thoughtful look, a beard and specs could often disguise his true expression, "Do you fancy doing something for charity on the bikes?" I was immediately relieved that he had mentioned bikes, for I’d initially had visions of sponsored runs followed by sponsored cardiac arrests followed by sponsored intensive care. He carried on, "How about Lands End to John O’Groats in 24 hours?" "How about the four comers of Britain in four days," I retorted and immediately regretted it. The thought of walking like I had just wet myself for a fortnight afterwards was as appealing as riding a Gold Wing in the Paris Dakar rally.

Talking of Gold Wings, I suppose I should mention the machinery. I had a Gold Wing Aspencade 1200 that had more gadgets than you can shake a remote control at, whilst John rode a Harley Tourglide that had enough stomp to ride up the side of a house in top (a gear in which it’ll out drag virtually anything between 30 and 85mph).

We would both be taking pillions. Thus was born a project that would take more organising than the Olympic Games, more man hours than building the Great Wall of China and more frustration (at times) than a part exchange deal. First decision was the charity, as we were in European Cancer Week it was agreed to donate all proceeds to Imperial Cancer Research. Secondly, we had to call ourselves something. Many pints of falling down juice were quaffed over this one and it was John who shouted "Iron Butt MCC" and promptly passed out. The man has a sense of priority.

The staff of Nat West Access sponsored us by guessing the mileage to be covered. Access sponsored the expenses, such as petrol and oil, and the dealer I bought the Honda from - Eddy Grimstead - also made a contribution. In all, we managed to donate £1000 to a more than worthy cause.

We decided on a test run. This good idea went wrong when we found the Harley in bits. John had taken out the oil pump just to have a look, after replacing the primary chain tensioner, only to find it almost impossible to replace the woodruff key. Five hours later we set off and it was almost dark when we hit the outer limits of Southampton. We were going as fast as we dared, looking for a campsite - the Harley’s clutch slipped and the Honda’s dampers overheated. We had to abandon that idea when the Wing needed petrol, a range of a mere 180 miles just ain’t good enough for such a purpose built machine.

After the service station we found a campsite just 300 yards up the road - it was 11pm and we rolled in just as the' owner turned the lights out. Tents were erected and sleeping bags were crashed out in. On Sunday morning, dishevelled bikers went into a roadside cafe and devoured everything in sight, twice, burped and went home. By this time I was looking forward to the run in the same way that one looks forward to a dental appointment.

Friday 22nd July 1988, the day of the run proper, dawned with a grey sky - such a surprise. I leapt out of bed on the left-hand side and wished that the wall wasn’t there, so I got out of the other side. By the time I’d picked up Phil, my pillion, and arrived at Mike’s house (John’s pillion) we learnt that the Harley needed a new, er, primary chain tensioner. John claimed he could get one just off the M25 and I had visions of a hard shoulder strewn with primary tensioners. We decided to meet up at the services at Leigh Delamere on the M4 after splitting up on the M25.

We seemed to have to wait an age for them to turn up and amused ourselves watching car drivers trying to reverse caravans. It was still grey and there was heavy rain between the showers. John and Mike eventually arrived and a happy reunion ensued.

We were late so it was up the M4, down the M5 at a rare old pace until we hit heavy traffic in South Devon. Never in my life have I seen so many caravans, all crawling along at the BSCS (British Standard Caravan Speed) of 35mph. Just for laughs, as well as the heavy rain that got everywhere, a howling wind, fog and the odd hailstorm was thrown at us. It was necessary to stop on Bodmin Moor (not a good idea) to regain our senses. We were all feeling so low we were almost underground.

We eventually arrived at Lizard Point in Cornwall. Try to imagine the most windswept, rainy, foggy cliff that you can. Got it? Well, it was worse than that. Just to add to the fun, the car-park surface was made from fine white sand - on a slope. I started to turn the bike around but over 1000lbs of bike, luggage, rider' and pillion does not easily turn in sand. My leg muscles eventually gave up and my legs went limp, immediately followed by a slow motion fall and a lot of swearing. This was watched by John and Mike on the Harley, after which he hardly dared move the Tourglide and basically looked very worried. By the time we’d uprighted the Wing, we were both shaking, Phil from the cold and wet and myself with anger, frustration and a dent to my pride the size of the Grand Canyon.

It was 8pm by the time we had finished taking pictures and decided to go for bed and breakfast rather than camping (wouldn’t you?) The next day was bright - the fog was bright, the wind was bright and the rain was just exactly the wrong temperature. Next, back up through Cornwall to St David’s Head in South Wales. More caravans everywhere and running through Cornwall back into South Devon didn’t see much improvement. In Okehampton they’d built a by-pass but only opened one carriageway at a time! With what seemed like an almighty cough we cleared the traffic and hit the open road — the A30 leading on to the M5. At this juncture there was a rumour that the sun thought about poking through the clouds, but I reckoned it thought better of it and went back in.

Gradually, we started to get into the swing again and actually began to dry out. But all was not well. For some, at that time, inexplicable reason the temperature of the Wing began to climb. Slowly but surely it went up, with no services in sight until Exeter. Pulling off at a roundabout, accelerating away, the Wing went bang. Literally, followed by clouds of steam and hot water. It turned out the top had blown off the header tank. There was a sign about 50 yards along which said Exeter Services 16 miles. We had to wait for the Wing to cool down and do a spot of lay-by hopping in between cooling sessions, eventually arriving at the services. Going down the slip road something caught fire on the motorway behind us and automatically I thought, Bloody Gold Wings.

I let the engine cool again, pouring more water into the radiator. The system holds 2.2 litres and after emptying in 4 litres it was still dry not a good sign. The oil was like mayonnaise. The water had drained itself, via the head gasket into the sump. That was the end of the line for Phil and me.

I phoned the AA who said they‘d send a trailer. At that precise moment I experienced a feeling I have never had before and never want again I can only describe it as complete frustration, anger and despondency all rolled into one. I was so tied up in knots, literally, that I ended up not saying very much, although the expression on my face apparently put across the way I felt quite accurately.

At one and the same time, I wanted John and Mike to go on and to jack it in. I wasn’t able to express either feeling. John also wanted to carry on but at the same time felt he should call it a day. In the end I think he surprised himself by blurting out, "Sod it, shall we go on?" That was it, the ice had been broken and a great weight lifted from our shoulders. They left us to wait for the AA before they changed their minds. We waited, and waited, and in between, amused ourselves by waiting patiently.

Finally, a very nice man arrived with a trailer and we arrived home at 8.30pm. It was only then that it finally dawned on me that one of my life’s ambitions wasn’t going to be achieved and I became somewhat upset. The next day I swapped the Gold Wing for a Yamaha FJ1200.
 
But what of Mike and John? Well, they completed the trip but were dogged by bad weather virtually the whole time which ruined schedules. The wind in Scotland (there must be a joke there somewhere) was so strong at times that they had to stop the bike and push on one side of it to prevent it being blown over.

They had to spend one period of 21 hours in the saddle to recover lost time - and the journey still took an extra day. They both took a week to recover fully. The first thing that John said to us when they returned was, "We’ve done it for all four of us." And that is what it’s all about. Someone once said to me, regarding motorcycling, that to those who do it no explanation is necessary and to those who don't no explanation is possible.

For all the trials and tribulations that we experienced, all of us to a man would attempt it again. We,’ all of us, have some special skill that can be exploited to help others. For us it was motorcycling and for others it might be organisational ability or fitness, but I personally recommend attempting some kind of sponsored event. Sure, there will be aggro, and even times when you wish you hadn’t started it, but the sense of achievement when it all comes together is something to be experienced and will never be forgotten.

Nigel Tabb