A fine summer’s morning greeted me when I awoke. Ideal for a run down to Bristol from Gateshead. The tool for this trip, a twenty year old, trusty MZ250. I strapped my waterproofs on to the back. I didn't trust the English weather, not even in high summer. It was then I recalled I had to pick up some stuff in Whitehaven. About 100 miles to the west, entirely in the wrong direction.
The MZ decided it didn’t want to start that early in the morning. I shocked it into life by fitting a new spark plug. Always a tenuous business, the head had taken so many plugs that the thread was a bit precarious. Bumped the Iron Curtain miracle before it'd had a chance to oil up. Miracle? Well, it had just gone around the clock. I think, for the first time. I'd modified the chassis to give a perfect riding position. Added a luxurious saddle, sculptured in leather and padded with high density foam. Comfort was not going to be a problem.
The road to the coast was curving, fast and well known. I had made the trip so many times that I could've done it blindfold. It was so early that few cars were encountered. The old engine zinging up to maximum revs. Holding on to 80mph on the speedo most of the way. Wild angles of lean were possible. The suspension refurbished and the bearings renewed. The MZ's chassis had the feel of a much newer machine. None of the flab or looseness that might be expected.
Into Carlisle after little more than an hour in the saddle. Feeling just warmed up by the rising sun and the exuberance of being free on a well running motorcycle. Stopped for the lights, found a cloud of smoke engulfing me. Revved the engine, almost choked to death. I thought about it for a while as I rode out of Carlise. Glancing in the mirror I saw it clear as I accelerated. Couldn’t be anything serious.
Breakfast in Whitehaven with a friend. Who decided it'd be a good idea to come on the pillion. I tried to dissuade him but the sun was so bright that motorcycling was hard to resist. He had no waterproofs, seemed amused at my reluctance to leave mine in his house. No rack, the weight out back caused serious wobbles. I had a tank bag but that was back in Gateshead.
Two-up took the edge off the MZ. It would still do 80mph but took a hell of a long time getting there. The suspension coped with the weight. Even as we edged through the Lake District. It took over an hour to hit the M6. It's easy to criticise motorways, but I like the way they cut through the English countryside. I filled up the five gallon alloy tank. Distinctively non-standard, doing wonders for the MZ's appearance. Fuel was around 60mpg even flat out.
Motorways are great for covering large distances quickly. I reckoned to be in Birmingham before dinner. We could have lunch there and check out the shops. My pillion was having trouble with his eyes. The open face helmet left him exposed to wind buffeting. I wasn't going to lend him my shades. I reassured him that the motorway part would soon be over.
We'd only been on the M6 for ten minutes when the rain started. Any hope that it might just be a summer shower was soon dissipated. The sky turned dark grey and a strong breeze suddenly blew in off the Irish Sea. The light drizzle turned into egg sized hailstones. They lacerated my exposed face and wrists, turning the skin raw. My passenger was digging me in the ribs and screaming something. I don't know what he was complaining about. He could close his eyes and get his head down.
The roaring gale coming from our side was catching the MZ amidships. The bike was weaving over the road like the tyres were deflating. I thought 20mph was risking life and limb, but coaches, artics and cars that were streaming past at insane velocities did not agree.
The only safe place was the hard shoulder. It had only taken a few seconds for us to be soaked right through to our underpants. My concentration was soon shot as I sat there shivering away. Far off over the horizon I could see a spot of blue sky. I fixed on to that as my salvation. The MZ started coughing. The electrics were always a little marginal. I'd improved them a bit. Sealing in various susceptible bits with silicone. Using a Jap regulator/rectifier after doing a 12V conversion. A high quality HT lead and cap normally protected the integrity of the spark.
These were not normal times. This was summer blizzard time. I shook my head with incredulity at the way the cages roared past. It was impossible to believe their visibility was suitable for more than 25mph. Sure enough, about ten miles into the storm there was an accident. I felt it before I saw it, the whole ground seemed to shake. To add to the atmosphere, forks of lightning fired through the air and growls of thunder almost caused me to drop a load. An artic had skidded sideways, falling over with cages piling into it and each other.
We got there just in time to avoid being part of the action. Had we ridden hard into the storm we'd probably have arrived at its epicentre. The storm hid the worst of the chaos. I had to pull over as the pillion had gone berserk. He slipped off, headed for the barrier to relieve himself. The engine coughed one time loudly then died a death.
That was all I needed. Sitting there, mind blasted by the scene of carnage, in soggy underwear with a dead engine, I could've burst into tears. Probably would have had I been alone. I sat on the seat whilst my friend endured uncalled for exercise. He pushed, the MZ wailed and I shook with the cold. The rescue services were wailing, the storm screaming and the injured howling.
The engine caught so suddenly, we bounded forward with a lunatic lurch. My friend ended on his face on the hard tarmac. By the time I'd got back to him two orderlies were trying to drag him into an ambulance. Only with the greatest of reluctance did they let him free. His nose bled effusively for five minutes. The storm became even heavier than before, he looked longingly at the ambulance as it sped off.
I could see the blue sky spreading, the black receding. The M6 blocked off by the crash meant we had three lanes to weave over in splendid isolation for a couple of miles. Half an hour later, just as I thought the storm was never going to finish the sun broke through. The rain was left behind. I cranked up the speed again. Letting the 80mph gale whip the wind through our sodden clothes. By the time we were past Wigan we were dry again. We could stop swearing and sing the joys of the open road again.
We'd lost a lot of time. Ended up in Warrington for lunch. Not my favourite place but the fish and chips were tolerable. The pillion scurried off clutching a wet crotch, complaining about the need to buy dry underwear. I was tempted to leave him behind, his constant bickering was getting me down. But I knew it'd take him the rest of the day to get back on public transport.
Back on the crowded motorway. Hold on to 85mph all the way down to Birmingham. Keep the speed up in case the weather changed again. Birmingham in an hour, I hoped. Well, not quite. There was the matter of the artic that decided to play funny buggers. He found it hilarious to put his bumper an inch from my number plate.
The pillion gave him the finger, which made him blast his air-horns. Made me leap a foot in the saddle, almost losing control. The engine had a dangerously fiat note. The speedo buzzed the 90mph mark. Flat out, trying to edge ahead of the lorry. No chance of that.
After about a quarter of an hour, he tired of the game. Flew past at about 120mph (I always thought they were supposed to be speed restricted). He used his brakes to waggle his trailer inches from my front wheel. My fingers bulged on the brake lever. The TLS Honda brake killed the speed dead. Cruised along next to the hard shoulder at 50mph for ten minutes. Wanted the engine to cool down. I'd had one MZ motor seize when caned like that. No wonder these lorries are crashing all over the place with plonkers like that at the wheel.
With one thing and another it wasn't until three o'clock that we took a break in Birmingham. I knew my way around the town well. The complexity of its roads held no fears for me. My pillion looked like he'd aged ten years. He went on and on about how the lorry driver had tried to kill us. The MZ didn't want to start. We took turns on the kickstart for an hour. He wouldn't push and I wouldn't let him loose on the controls. He had crashed every bike he'd owned! The engine stuttered, caught and promptly filled the area with stinking pollution. We coughed our hearts out until it cleared.
The M5 snaked all the way down to Bristol. By the time we escaped the incredibly heavy traffic it was nearly 6.30pm. Normally, the MZ would filter through the smallest of gaps. The pillion's legs stuck out so far that | kept coming close to knee-capping him. His screams alerted me to the possibility of his premature end. So, it was going with the marginal flow of the cars. Rather than the good old cut and thrust for which small motorcycles are so useful.
There was the possibility that I'd end up riding in the dark. With the paucity of the candle power up front that was not something I looked forward to. More speed was needed but the engine was tired despite its rest in Birmingham. No more than 65mph was possible. The gearbox felt like the oil was turning to cement. All kinds of scenarios flitted through my head. Main bearings on the way out (not that uncommon on older MZ’s). Rings about to fall apart. The gearbox about to seize up. Could be anything. The motor had been amazingly robust over the years but the speedo read 103000 miles!
As we came towards the turn off for Worcester the engine started coughing again. It had a different tenor to before. I guessed it was about to go on to reserve. I found that the tap was already switched on to reserve! There should've been enough fuel to easily get me down to Bristol. Where the hell was it all going? That got me even more worried, a drop in fuel economy could presage some terrible mechanical trauma. The engine died a death halfway along the slipway. I juggled the tank, swirled some more petrol on to the tap’s side.
The only way to get her going was to push. The pillion was reluctant but as the alternative was walking he didn’t have much choice. The engine caught more controllably this time. The pillion almost grinned as he avoided a dose of tarmac rash. I knew the day was going to turn nasty when we couldn't find a petrol station. Some ped had directed us off towards Leominster. By the time we realised he was taking the piss it was too late. The petrol tank was completely empty. We pushed the bike back until an intelligent human being directed us to a fuel station.
It was eight o'clock by then. Would we reach Bristol by nine o'clock, before darkness descended? Judging by the way the speedo resolutely refused to budge beyond 60mph I doubted it. I told my pillion to start saying his prayers. I took the A road, no point straying on to the motorway only to break down and pay out to be towed off. It was a lovely bit of highway once past Gloucester... in the day when I was fresh in the saddle not dog tired and verging on complete paranoia.
By the time we hit Gloucester my friend was screaming abuse again. Needing to have a piss. He reckoned it was the vibration, | reckoned that he had some kind of venereal disease, all that pissing, he'd gone about ten times. The MZ didn't really vibrate to my mind, just a nice background buzz that let you know that the engine was working well. We both looked longingly at the bed and breakfast in Gloucester but Bristol wasn't that far.
The MZ had stopped working again. It didn't want to tick over, needed some frenzied revving which put out the dense smokescreen. It wouldn't even bump start. Knowingly, I unfurled my second spare new plug. A few minutes later I was cursing as the plug cross threaded. I pulled it out, tried again and again. That time it went in but | knew there was no way it would take much pressure. | used all my skill to bed it down. The engine started first push.
70mph was possible, just. I tried the lights as the sky turned a dark grey and the day came to an end. The motor lost revs, the speedo dropped to 50mph. What the hell was happening now? I switched the lights off, the bike sped up again. I put the lights back on, the engine coughed, spluttered, threatened to die a death. I put the lights off, the engine cleared and speed increased.
There was no way I was going to ride along the A38 without any lights. It was the kind of road that kinked and turned its way through the natural landscape. So it was lights on, speed down to a mind numbing 30mph. It was an awfully long 20 miles to Bristol. But we got there. A permanent smokescreen, a knocking engine and crawling through the Bristol suburbs on pilot and a blown back light. Just to round off the night, we were pulled over by the cops. They wrote down a long list of offences and | gave them the previous owner’s name, never having registered the bike in my own name. We all seemed happy.
The next morning there was no way the MZ would start again. The engine had decided it was time to end it all. I almost sobbed when I pulled it to pieces in the gutter. My friend in Bristol knew a breaker who had an engine that we heard running. £50 poorer the MZ was ready for the trip home. The pillion decided he was going back on the bus...
Brian James
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