The plan was extremely simple. We wanted to ride the A830 from Fort William to Mallaig. Apparently it is one of God's lasting gifts to the velocipedic fraternity. As always though, there was a slight problem, the 350 miles between our town and that fabled strip of tarmacadam. No problem, we muttered as one. We'll ride up the night before then crack it in a morning and be home for a couple before closing time.
Of course, on the appointed day of departure it pissed down, didn’t it? “Well, I'm not going in the pissing rain,” I growled down the telephone. ”That's alright then, isn't it? Cos nobody else wants to go in this either,” was the terse reply. And that, as they say, was more or less that for the month of June. Every time I so much as looked at the bike, the bloody heavens opened. Frustration gnawed at us. Bikes were lovingly polished (well, at least jetwashed), pints were consumed, dreams were dreamt and still the weather refused to break.
July came, not in splendour but in yet more bouts of rain. What price your greenhouse effect now? More in hope than in certainty we decided that on the first Saturday in July we would go anyway and bugger the weather. A meaner crew of naughty bottomed mummies (Bad Arsed Muthas really, but we like to think that we've above all of this foul language) you would find anywhere. None of us under thirty. Each of us a little on the short size for our weight and all a couple of slates short of a roof.
Bob is about 6'4” and dwarfs his Super Tenere. Jason and Gerry have a pair of spiffy new TDMs. Jase's has just got back from being dynojetted, the first TDM in the UK to be so mistreated, and it sports a pair of shiny Yoshi cans. Good shit, as they say in this part of the country. Which leaves me, sitting on the EXUP FZR1000 and feeling rather apprehensive. I know that the EXUP is totally the wrong tackle for a journey such as this but I bought the thing to ride so I'm damn well going to go on it.
5.20pm. Watches are synchronised (because we saw them do it at the pictures), odometers set to zero (except I forgot to do mine) and bladders emptied. We start our engines and... stop them again so we can all have a good laugh at the sound emanating from Jase's TDM. It sounds just like an old Norton and is immediately christened the Commando. Jase is extremely embarrassed by the racket it makes but tries hard not to show it and spends the remainder of the journey attempting to convince himself and everyone else that the cacophony has some beauty attached to it. We, on the other hand, spend the remainder of the journey making sure that our earplugs are a snug fit.
The route goes a bit like this M62/M61/M6/stop for petrol/ A74/stop for food and a pee/ M74/M73/A80 stop for petrol and a pee/M80/A84/A85/stop get drunk at hotel and get some kip. This is really a very boring ride until you get on the A84 at Stirling and encounter the first twisty bits, some 220 miles after passing go.
The first stretch on the motorway passes uneventfully and we all get steadily more and more bored. Bob helps liven things up a bit by clowning around on the Super Ten. At first it's just simple stuff like standing on the pegs. This progresses to leaning off the wrong side of the bike on long curves through the Pennines. His piece de resistance, though, is standing on the seat on one leg with the other stuck out behind. He reminds me of a huge comic Tinkerbell, sailing along at about 80mph in the outside lane, terrifying innocent motorists.
It's just the sort of behaviour which gets our pastime a bad name, but, God, it’s funny. In the meantime, Jason wants to know how fast his Yoshi TDM will go so the speed is gradually upped until we are cruising along at a fair old clip. It’s all a bit mundane for the EXUP but soon the speedo is showing a 130mph. Surprisingly, Bob is still managing to keep up on the Super Ten but I notice that it is weaving about a bit - you couldn’t help but notice, really, he's using all three lanes of the M6.
It looks terrifying to me, sitting in rock steady calm on the EXUP but Bob doesn’t seem to mind, so I turn my attention to other matters, like my aching bum. Jase ups the speed still further and the other two are left behind while I still pace him on the EXUP. He looks across at me and grins. We play roll-ons for a while but the TDM is completely outclassed. In the end, we just decided to see how fast the TDM will go... my speedo is reading 143mph when the TDM goes into a frightening high speed wobble. I think it's going to go into a tank slapper and get well out of way. Jase obviously has the same feeling as he backs off to a more sensible speed. However, we were all as impressed as hell that the TDM is so quick.
First stop at the Canny Scot just over the border on the A74. It's about as far as I can manage on the EXUP without a break. For the last fifty or sixty miles I've been gritting my teeth against the pain in my knees, wrists and bum. It does not auger well for the rest of the trip and I'm beginning to have real reservations about whether I can last the whole journey or not. However, after pie and chips, my spirits begin to rally. We all repair to the bogs and spend a few minutes furiously cleaning our visors as the flies seem to be especially plentiful and suicidal on this particular evening.
Jason and Bob are discussing the speed wobble on the TDM and decide to bugger about a bit with the rear suspension set up. They alternatively press down hard on the seat and let go. They then look at each other and mumble knowingly in a foreign language which mainly consists of acronyms interspersed with swear words. At the same time Jerry wants my toolkit because the brake light is sticking on his TDM and he doesn't know where its toolkit is located.
Whilst I was trying to put my toolkit back in the little hole where it belongs, the others fire up and clear off. "It's alright lads,” I shout, ”I’ll catch up with you then shall I? You just go ahead, I’ll be alright.” But by this time I’m speaking to empty air and exhaust fumes. I button up and start the bike, grabbing a big handful of throttle as I let out the clutch lever. The bike snakes sideways and gives me a real moment on the loose gravel of the car park but I manage to hang on. Out on to the slip road and I really hammer the FZR.
The bike picks up its skirt and flies. If you've ever really nailed a big bike you will know just how intoxicating it can be. As the rev counter hits the red in first I change up and nail it again and again and again. Through the red mist I am vaguely aware of my partners in crime reversing towards me at a hell of a lick but I ignore them and slam past like some enraged Exocet on speed. Sanity returns presently and I ease off to a more licence preserving pace.
And then we all got bored again. Even Bob's antics couldn’t cheer us up as we droned northward. My knees ached, my wrists were a sea of pain and my bum was completely numb. I began to hate the FZR. I cursed Yamaha. I put a hex on the children of the biking press who had led me to believe that the EXUP was the quintessential motorcycle of our age. The others looked so comfortable I began to hate them too. The A80 and another petrol stop. By this time I was getting towards the end of my endurance and so blagged a couple of paracetamol from Gerry in the hope that they might dull the pain a little. On we went. On the way out of the services area Jase grabbed a big handful, the TDM did one of the biggest wheelies I've ever seen. I really thought he was going to loop it. Still, it helped stave off the boredom a bit.
Stirling at last, and we leave the motorway. At the first sign of swervery my pain vanished magically and we had a fine old scratch for the remainder of the evening’s ride. Jason raced Supersport 400 until two seasons ago and he is damn quick. Bob, I suspect, is just a lunatic and they soon left Gerry and I behind as the route became more and more twisty. The road alongside Loch Lubnaig just north of Callander is mega. I loved the EXUP again. I didn’t want to be on anything else in the world. When it's cranked over and tracking through a corner it just feels as though it’s on rails. You can change line, accelerate, brake, have a cup of tea and a fag if you want and it doesn’t bother the bike one jot. It really is a very remarkable machine.
There is one blind left-hander on that road which I will remember for a long time. It goes over the brow of a hill then tightens up and flicks right. First time through it, as it was for me, it is a complete surprise. The EXUP just shrugged it off. On anything else, at that speed, I would have ended up firstly on the wrong side of the road and secondly in the hedge when I missed the right flick. What a bike.
Dusk was just coming down as we rode thankfully into Killin and our hotel. 320 miles in four hours twenty minutes including a forty minute break at the Canny Scot. Not bad going at all. We arrived at 9.40 by our synchronised watches and then had a big argument about how far it was because Bob's odometer was reading 20 miles less than the others. In the end we concluded that Bob's was low because the Super Ten's front wheel was off the ground a good deal of the time.
We decided to just have a couple of pints in the hotel because we were going to be off early the next morning. After six pints we decided to have a couple more because we were going to be off early the next morning... What a hangover! 8 o’clock and I felt like I wanted to die. We all got up and went to have a look at the river but the noise and the sunlight hurt so we went to have breakfast instead.
Engine start was about 9.00 and we set off in bright sunshine. The scenery was absolutely breathtaking all the way to Fort William. We stopped at Glencoe for the mandatory photo session and got a couple of good shots, as it later transpired. I had a hairy moment on a long right hander. Something had been spilled on the road, oil I think, or perhaps diesel. Anyway, the bike squirmed like a happy puppy and, for just a second, I thought I was off.
Fort William appeared at last and the beginning of our journey. Loch Linnie was mirror calm, one of the most visually stunning sights I think that I have ever seen. The expedition was beginning to take on a dreamlike quality which I think we all felt. The air was dead still and the temperature was climbing into the eighties as we filled up our tanks and prepared for the off on the final leg of our adventure.
They didn’t lie. The A830 is an absolute cracker. It weaves, dips and climbs, like a drunken sailor, through a barren and rocky landscape. You make a big mistake here and it will probably be your last. I'm following Gerry and he's taking it relatively easy because the TDM absolutely hates to change line mid corner. Lots of these corners tighten up.
This is serious stuff. We roll into one blind right-hander on the brakes only to find that it opens out and we could have done it at twice the speed. Gerry shakes his head as if to say, "I'm getting old, | should have been quicker through that one.” At last, the well paved grippy tarmac gives way to a single track road with passing places.
This is an A road? Well, actually, yes it is. We drone slowly behind a queue of cars and roast gently in our leathers and helmets. Bob pulls over and stops. We all remove our helmets for a breather and Jason and I light our cigarettes. “How much is the fucking helmet fucking fine then,” demands Bob, of no-one in particular. "Beats the shit out of me,” I wittily reply, quick as a flash. ”I think it's fucking 25 dabs,” chimes in Jason. "But you don’t get any points on your licence for it,” says Gerry.
”Right then,” says Bob, “mine’s going on the pillion until we get back on to the good stuff.” And, so saying, he proceeds to strap his Arai to his bag. We all follow suit and are presently rumbling along in the fresh air. This is the first time I've ever ridden without a helmet and in the summer heat it feels marvellous. Bob is wearing an outrageous pair of sunglasses which hide most of his face behind a gold reflective expanse.
He seems to be able to look ridiculous on almost any occasion. We keep the speed down now, aware of how vulnerable we are and without actually discussing it, set a speed limit of about 35mph. We're all giggling like naughty children. Stupid really. Gerry has his camera hanging around his neck and buzzes around us taking photos on the move, a sort of mobile Lord Lichfield.
The road opens out again for the last few miles into Mallaig, but we just trundle on at 35mph and don’t bother to put our helmets back on again. “Won't there be coppers in Mallaig,” | shout across to Bob. “Who cares,” he replies, ”I'm enjoying this far too much to stop now.” So we arrive helmetless and pull up on the harbour wall. The sea is a bit of a disappointment as close inspection shows it to be full of jellyfish. Hundreds of the bloody things. Ugh! So we start up and meander round to the shops to get a drink.
A few more photos just to prove we'd been there and then we leave, still helmetless, back towards Fort William and lunch. The truly amazing thing is that no-one has even looked twice at us riding bare headed. I remark that this is because it's a well known fact that once you get on to a motorcycle you, and the bike, become totally invisible to the general public. This is why we get bounced so often by car drivers. Just to prove me wrong, a Ford Fiesta drones past with the driver pointing furiously at his head. Did he think that we didn’t know?
We leave our helmets off all the way back to the end of the single track stretch and then stop to replace them. However, before we do that, Gerry wants a shot of Bob doing his famous stand on the saddle routine with his daft sunglasses on and no helmet. Bob is happy to oblige and goes back off up the road. A minute or two later he comes careering into view around a right-hand sweeper with the most beautific look on his face as he poses for the camera. We collapse helplessly on to the grass verge as he roars past.
After that, it’s a head down, no nonsense scratch back into Fort William. Jason is leading with me second. Bob is right up my chuff on the Super Ten and Gerry is hanging back waiting to pick up the pieces when Bob T-bones me. The problem is that Super Tens don’t have much in he way of brakes or power. So, whereas I am trailing the brakes into the bends and then squirting the EXUP out on the throttle, Bob has no choice but to throw the Super Ten in, hoping that it comes out the other side. Otherwise he could ever keep up.
Every time we go nto a right-hander, as the bike rolls in I look upwards and see a bloody great Tenere front wheel spinning inches from my head. Unnerving, to say the least. As soon as the road opens out a bit I clear off and leave him to it.
We had a wonderful lunch at a small seafood restaurant on the side of the loch in Fort William. The only thing missing was a nice white wine but since we had a long way to go we drank mineral water instead. While we were inside the rain started, just in time to herald our trek home. We continued all the way to Glasgow where we finally took off our wet weather gear as the sun began to shine again. After that, it was outrageous behaviour all the way home.
Cruising at well over the ton, nothing passed us for the first hour after Glasgow. Then another EXUP tagged on to the tail end and our modest convoy became five. A little later a bloke in a red BMW 535i turned up and wanted to play as well. So there we were hammering down the M6, Jason and the BMW playing at seeing who was the fastest for a while but it turned out to be pretty much a draw. Then there was one glorious incident near Lancaster - there were two girls in a new Merc sports car with the roof down.
The driver must have seen us approaching in the mirror and told her mate because she turned around in the passenger seat, craning her neck to see us as we closed with them. As we screamed past I waved and was rewarded with a truly beautiful smile and wave in return.
By this time I was in a lot of discomfort, but we didn't stop again until the services on the M62 at Manchester. Then it was head down for the last 20 miles and home. | arrived back at 9.15 on Sunday evening. We had done 847 miles in just under 28 hours. The big revelation of the trip was how good an all rounder is the new TDM. It definitely does not deserve the tedium monicker which some of the press have given it. As a go anywhere, do anything bike it is probably without equal. However, knowing what a fashion conscious lot we Brits are I still don’t think that it will sell in any numbers, which is a real shame.
Surprisingly, whenever we filled up throughout the whole trip, we found that all four bikes were using almost exactly the same amount of fuel. The Tenere was the thirstiest but only by a few pence, followed by the EXUP with the two TDMs using the least. Even though one of them had been dynojetted they both used exactly the same amount of fuel. However, the tuned bike was noticeably more powerful, which would seem to verify all of the claims which the vendors make for this kind of modification.
As for me, the trip was not as bad as | thought it was going to be. There is no doubt that I was knackered at the end of it, but here were no lasting aches and was fine by the following morning. We're off again in August and I still think I will stick with he EXUP because it is just so much fun in the twisties. Of course, the real truth is that I'm so much bloody slower than the others that I’ll get left behind on anything less powerful.
Jeff Stokoe