All the interesting motorcycle jaunts get hatched over innumerable pints of the brewer's art. Looking back, this one was different, but not much. It's difficult to say now whose idea it was originally, although we can pinpoint it to a get together at a colleague's 50th birthday party. I should hasten to add that we are not in our dotage just yet - no, we were still prone to a rush of blood to the head at the thought of a 2000 plus mile ride around the scenic route that included the Four Corners and John O'Groats to Land's End.
That the three of us lived in disparate parts of old Blighty - Staffs, Leics and Essex - aided the difficulty of organisation, but these things gather a momentum of their own and we ended up with some sponsorship for a charity run in aid of the Mutliple Sclerosis Society. Thanks to Motul, Frank Thomas. Pirelli, Rivetts, BMW (UK), Silver Machine, The Tube, RPS and BT who stumped up the petrol costs (all three of us work for them).
Before we set off in May I had a couple of reservations. On the prosiac side we hand't booked any accommodation and I was concerned there might not be any room at the inn for three tired and probably wet bikers. In the event I needn't have worried as we met nothing but unstinting hospitality, especially north of the border. I have yet to meet a mean Scotsman and the boss of the Crossways Inn at Gretna insisting on putting £20 into our MS fund did nothing to dispel my impression of unfailing Scots largesse.
But I digress, the other point which bothered me was the wisdom of trading in a trusty old GPz750 for a K100RS only days before setting out. Again no bother. 2300 miles in a shade over 47 hours without missing a beat and heated handlebar grips to boot! Don't believe those BMW riders who tell you that the K series fuel warning lights are a pain. I can say from personal experience that a K without them is potentially a darn sight more of a pain....
As the bike faltered to a halt miles from the nearest petrol station in darkest East Anglia en route to Lowestoft (the first of the four corners), the prospect of pushing a bike weighing over 220 kilos did not appeal. Fortunately, our minimalist preparation had extended to strapping gallon fuel cans on to the bikes (for the wilds of Scotland) and unlike Dick, I'd had the intelligence to fill mine...
The remainder of the journey to Lowestoft was completed without drama on all but the timing front. We had arranged to meet Mick at noon at the sea wall where the most easterly point is marked. Having totally underestimated the time it takes to traverse the flat and featureless Anglian coastal plain, we didn't find him until one o'clock - not an auspicious start. Mick, who had also cocked up the timing, reached Lowestoft on his K100RS at eleven o'clock and reckoned two hours is twice as long as you need to see all the town's attractions.
Photos were taken to immortalise the visit and then we set off at a fair clip, intent on getting as far north as possible before fatigue drew a veil over day one. Once on to the A1, the only thing which sticks in the mind to separate one end from the other was the gradually increasing speeds as we steamed towards Hadrian's wall. This was moderated as we crested the brow of a hill and swept down the other side to be greeted by a white car in a layby giving us one lazy flash of the blues. Point taken, thanks officer.
We stopped for a bite of dinner at Scotch Corner Services and agreed to bed down for the night at Gretna Green (very romantic). This left only a quick ride of the Pennines via the A66 and a meander up the M6/A74. Except that as we left Scotch Corner the weather, perfect up to this point, broke and the heavens opened.
I'm sure the A66 is a blinding road on a dry day, but now it was dark, wet and populated by homicidal maniacs driving artics chucking out gallons of spray. Overtaking became a nerve wracking business to say the least and this was made ten times worse by the cretins driving on sidelights in what were appalling conditions. It was with some relief that we finally reached Gretna at the end of our first day of ten hours riding - no saddle sores yet.
Heading south through Glasgow provided our next conundrum. Dick, leading the way on his GPZ900 on the grounds that his missus is Glaswegian, went hurtling past junction 17 on the M8 where we had planned to join the A82. Mick and I pulled up at the exit slip road and pondered for a minute what to do, not having planned for this eventuality (oh, what a surprise) and then decided to press on as we all had copies of the planned route. This proved to be the right move as Dick caught us up before we left Glasgow's environs.
Travelling the road which borders Loch Lomond only served to convince me that Scotland is possessed of some of the best biking roads in the country, if not Europe. The weather was on our side with dry roads basking in early summer sunshine. Shame about the roadworks, though. We followed an amazing machine here for a mile or so, spraying the road with high pressure water jets to clear the mud. Except that it sprayed horizontally as well as down so the Rukkas got a sluice down as we overtook. This was the only time we were to get wet in Scotland.
Having sampled Little Chef's culinary delights again, we rode on through breathtaking scenery into Glen Coe which we saw with no mist - surely some mistake? Call it a fertile imagination, if you will, but this area certainly does seem to carry its own aura of brooding over past violence. Whatever, we didn't stop to ponder on historic massacres but rode on to the Corran pier just in time to see the ferry chugging off into the distance.
No problem, it'll be back in a few minutes, we decided, and so it was.....to refuel, which takes an age, what timing! Still, I suppose it provided time for us to reflect on all the famous ISDE names who must've passed that way before us. One heart in mouth crossing, balancing bike on a shuddering steel plated deck, later, we disembarked bound for Salem and lunch. We had seen the car and caravan on the ferry but it didn't strike us that letting it push off ahead of us was going to cause any angst.
Well, it wouldn't would it? Wrong, I'm not saying those roads are narrow and winding, but it took an eternity for all three of us to get past. What nerd voluntarily drags a van down those sort of tracks? As an incorrigible optimist I've found in life that for every downside there are compensations.
To pose another rhetorical question, can you tell me why it should be that in the only pub this backwoods halt can boast, we should be served up with the most exquisite sarnies? They wouldn't have looked out of place on a Bishop's croquet lawn.Now, if you've ever read anything about the run out to Ardnamurchan Point (the second corner) it wasn't an exaggeration. 30 miles of gravel strewn, winding, single track takes you out there, with the daunting prospect of the whole lot in reverse as an encore. And what awaits you at the point? Rocks, seagulls and, amazingly, an old biddy reminiscing about her hubby's old thirties BSA sidevalve. Still, at least she liked bikes.
It was on this road that a car, coming towards us from around a blind bend, caused a deal of consternation with Mick in the lead coming to an abrupt halt and me in second place attempting maximum reverse thrust on shale. Only ABS could have outbraked my squeeze, release, squeeze, release panic stop. Wonder what the RAC response time to Ardnamurchan Point is?
On regaining Salen we opted to try for John O'Groats before retiring for the night. In fact, we stopped some 90 miles short at a place called Bonar Bridge after a truly memorable blast through the gloaming. If I forget all else about Scotland, that will stick in my memory.
Dick, leading the way, claims that the twisting A9/A836/A9 route to Bonar was ideal scratching country and the red mist descended to veil the, by now, illegally swift progress. The K series BMW may not be first choice for this sort of work, but I'm bound to say they acquitted themselves well against the Qwack which was kept in sight at all times.
Plans to press on to the top of Scotland were shelved at Bonar in favour of securing a bed for the night while it might still be termed a reasonable hour. One very comfortable B & B having been found - as was the pattern for the whole week - the first time we tried, we then repaired to the pub for haggis, a pint and the odd dram. A fitting end to the day's ride and an opportunity to reflect on the marathon which lay ahead.
Mick, the romantic member of the group, had always maintained that we ought to do the John O'Groats to Land's End run in one go, just for the hell of it. I didn't realise as we set out on the Wednesday morning that bits of it would be just that - hell! The ride up to Dunnet Head (corner number three) passed well enough with yet more unexpected sunshine to bless us and the A9. What a bleak place, even in summer, though, a hard Highland winter hardly bore thinking about to us wimpy sassenachs. After doing the Head at Dunnet, we tooled round to John O'Groats for the tourist pix by the signpost before lunch.
By taking a leisurely lunch we unwittingly made a big error. We later discovered when working out times and distances, that we had missed the magic 1000 miles in under 24 hours by minutes! There's nothing like careful planning - and this was nothing like....
Departing after lunch, we retraced our steps down the A9 to Inverness where we took in a McDonalds to break the Little Chef/Happy Eater duopoly. Leaving Inverness to get back on to the A9 proved fraught, however, as I got separated from the others. Cock up compounded misfortune and the upshot was that they got on to the A9 south thinking I was up ahead and were thus going like stink to catch me. In fact, I was behind, having done another quick circuit of the centre to make sure they weren't waiting for me and now had to go doubly hard to overhaul them.
If the police officer in the Land Rover is reading this, then I whistled past you at 70mph, sir. On the other hand if he'd had a Vascar he may have had me dead to rights at something approaching the K's maximum stomp. My friends finally twigged some 70 mile down road that I couldn't be in front and had stopped. We regrouped at a layby and suited up for a downpour, which, I'm glad to say, didn't amount to much as I've heard stories about Highland storms.
Circumnavigating Glasgow proved a pain on the return journey for an entirely different reason to the travails of the outward. At different stages we saw no less than three unmarked police cars plus several squad cars. Is this par for the course on a quiet Wednesday afternoon up there? Anyway, a steady 70mph was the order of the day almost as far as Carlisle. The next four hours of motorway was so monotonous as to defy description, so I won't try. All that I will say is that as I went by my house on the M6 it was about 1.30am and the lure of a warm bed was strong.
Having seen so little rain up to now, I'm sold on the idea of a holiday in Scotland. The English heavens made up for the kindness experienced earlier, however, and just to the north of Bristol the rain came down in torrents. By the time we pulled into a service station for fuel, my eyes were out on stalks.'Where's Dick then,' asked the nut who had just led me at 80mph through a night time monsoon on a superslab.
Unfortunately, we'd lost him and we killed the next hour in the service area waiting for him to catch up. Just as we were giving up hope, we glipsed a blue Ninja hammering past the services. It was dawn by then, so we donned waterproofs and set off in hot pursuit. To no avail, we didn't meet up again until Land's End, but that's jumping ahead.
Only when we reached North Devon and left the M5 did it stop raining. I have no desire to do a repeat run of those winding Devon roads which were both wet and littered with diesel slicks. A hearty breakfast near Launceston restored our equibibrium, however, and set us up for the run down the A30 to reach Land's End at about 11.30am about five minutes after Dick. He couldn't believe this as he'd had a puncture back up the road and stopped on the M5 to dry out his sopping gear, and had been under the impression that we were hours ahead of him.
Incidentally, thank you RPS for the puncture repair kits, they're brilliant.
Nevertheless, Dick, I do think you might have moderated the speed a touch in deference to the plugged rear tyre, surely they aren't guaranteed for speeds approaching three figures?
If the M5 monsoon was one kind of hell, then Land's End at the tender mercies of Mr DeSavery is another. We took the photos PDQ and left the building site for the last corner at the Lizard. Land's End to the Lizard and then back into Penzance to find a B & B was the hardest part of the week for me, with delirium kept at bay only by the saddle sores, aching shoulders and throttle wrist. I do vaguely recall a few beers and dozing over my Chinese meal, but certainly not the walk back to the digs.
Day five dawned fair and the leisurely ride home seemed an anti-climax. I had ridden 2279 miles by the end in 47 hours 15 minutes of riding time, giving an average of 48mph and the bike returned a shade over 50mpg overall. The odometer clocked 882 miles from end to end and we did that leg in 19 hours 15 minutes, or 46mph.
So was it all worth it? I'd say so and if I get the chance I'd do it again another year. All told we raised just on £2000 for the MS Society, which, I'm sure, will make them think it was a worthwhile venture. If you are interested in tackling either the four corners or the end to end, then I can recommend contacting the End to End Club, who's help was most useful.
Neil Bullock