As a committed motorcyclist (and some say I should be) I’m often to be found attempting to extol the virtues of bikes to disbelievers. I sometimes think of myself akin to a missionary, equally at risk of being attacked by the natives. Though I can claim a number of converts, it’s no easy task, particularly as one of the better sides of biking is the kindred spirit - the overwhelming desire, when spotting another machine, to meet and chat with its rider.
To the uninitiated this aspect may appear a contradiction in terms, given that the basic design of motorcycles is given to individual transportation. Even with a pillion conversation is at best restricted, so it’s difficult for someone with no first hand experience to understand why anyone choosing what appears to be a lone pursuit would wish to congregate with other like minded souls. They probably imagine the many informal gatherings to be like a singles' party for the shy and retiring, where everyone stares silently into space. How wrong they are!
Rallying is even harder to explain, or camping rallies to be more precise. For those who indulge, these events are the best. of biking and riding. To ordinary folk they may seem the culmination of enduring the rigours of exposure to the elements for extended periods, only to then spend chilly nights under canvas eating food contaminated by grass and waking up in the morning to find that everything that hasn’t been stuffed into the sleeping bag the night before is at best damp and at worst soaked through.
Call me strange, if you will, but I think it’s brilliant and few events are better than the British Motorcycle Federation’s annual rally that was this year held on the weekend of the 21st and 22nd of May. The BMF comes in for a lot of stick over their image, which is seen by some as the cloth cap brigade. Despite the outstanding work they do, many people consider their members to be BMW (and MZ) owning nostalgic riders of yesteryear, intent on preserving faded memories of bygone days. Let me tell you that this just isn’t the case.
Although the rally does indeed involve many historic features, these serve only to remind today's riders of the rich heritage from which modern day bikers and riders draw inspiration. Present day machinery, ideas and style are also well represented and the diversity of life styles on view shows that the BMF has support from all fractions of the biking fraternity.
Even though it was supposed to be a summer rally, when less gear was needed, I decided to take my Guzzi outfit, stuffed full of every luxury known to man, including folding chairs, china cups and plates, and a proper teapot - the most important item of all.
The Guzzi hates me, despite all my best efforts it always finds a different component to misbehave - if the engine runs well then the brakes won’t work or the lights pack up or the indicators or the speedo... this time I’d spent hours honing the bike to perfection - well, it still looked terrible but it was running pretty well. I'd even been through all the electrical connections and made sure they were all clean and working.
The weirdest part of this preparation was that having slagged off Italian electrics constantly in the past, I had to change the aftermarket electronic ignition in favour of the original contact breakers. When I left, early in the morning, things started to go wrong straight away - all the petrol stations had decided not to open. I eventually managed to find one that was open and headed off to pick up my mate, Harry, quite certain that the irritating hiccups that usually accompanied our endeavours were things of the past.
All went remarkably smoothly until a long, uphill section of the M11, when the engine started pinking and became increasingly worse until it actually nipped up. One of the things about big Guzzis is that it takes a lot to stop them going. After letting it cool down, it started up and we could progress as long as the engine wasn’t under too much load - not easy two up with a sidecar on solo gearing. Life was a little frantic at times but we eventually reached Peterborough.
The rally had been famous for attracting both thousands of riders and buckets full of rain, but this time the sun had actually come out. Eight notes poorer each, we rode onto the site, erected our tent, slung all our gear inside and rushed off to enjoy the entertainment amply lubricated by a regular supply of coolant from the bar. By mid-afternoon the combination of sun and beer meant we were desperate for that most basic element of life - tea. This was good timing, for no sooner had we started to brew up, than another friend, Ginge, turned up on a nearly immaculate Commando.
I was basking in the glory of my new tent, the last one having been destroyed by high winds at the Dragon Rally [now there's an act of unparalleled masochism all of its own - 2022 Ed.], when there was a whoosh, flames and a huge hole in the tent. As can happen with those little propane cookers, the cylinder doesn’t seal properly, the gas goes down to ground level seeking out a naked flame. The big burnt hole in front of the tent was acutely embarrassing, none the less for the fact that we were all three full time firemen! It just goes to show that none of us are perfect and we really ought to practice what we preach. We had to cover our red faces (and brigade badges) by telling horror struck onlookers that not only was the situation completely under control but that we were milkmen.
The rest of the day was spent wandering around, chatting to new and old acquaintances, looking at various motorcycles, listening to the music (which was brilliant), generally absorbing the atmosphere and soaking up a few more beers. Next morning we arose early, if not so bright, determined not to miss a thing - that really does take some doing. Our plan of attack was to buzz around all the stalls and then, keeping a keen eye on the clock, dodge between the central arena and outside events. High on the list of things not to miss was the speedway, described in the programme as a speedway demonstration, it’s actually a balls out race by past speedway stars.
The wheelie competition was remarkable, as well, with people wheelie-ing for five minutes, waving to the crowd, standing on the seat and dragging the rear number plate along the ground. There were some characters who took great joy in falling off their machines as many times as possible.
The Moped Bash was the usual mayhem, a pure bit of sport for the fun of it rarely seen today; the participants appeared to enjoy falling off and running over rivals as much as the spectators were amused by the carnage. In contrast, the historic sprinting was wild because the antique machines just didn’t look like they should produce that kind of power, the sound of those exhausts was still vibrating in my ears hours afterwards. Then it was on to the Royal Artillery display where the brute force of the other events was replaced by a different kind of artistry.
Alongside all this were the trade stalls, club stands and the show area full of the weird and wonderful - for example there were no less than three Rover V8-engined bikes. There is something of interest for everyone, be they bike freak, commuter or even the most casual of visitors. There are also products on sale at discounted show prices This is the BMF’s showpiece and well worth a visit.
Alik Wickford
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