Salvation was at hand some 18 months after I married, when a job change made the purchase of a motorcycle essential for the daily commute into London (no BR cattle truck for me). My bank manager (a very nice man) agreed I could go big bike hunting to the tune of £3500. Enter one shiny red and white Honda Transalp. I remember riding away from the showroom feeling as though I had acquired a two wheeled Range Rover. The saddle height was extravagant and I was pleasantly surprised by being able to see over the tops of the cars in front of me. Better still, they could see me. With the Transalp in my possession I knew I had no excuses not to do the End to End run. An ambition I'd nurtured for 15 years. All I needed was a cunning plan and 96 hour pass from my wife.
Committed to the trip, it was timely to establish a route. As a member of the AA I decided to make use of their excellent route finder service. You simply provide them with the start and finish points then they will produce a computer printout with direct or scenic routes. At 870 miles I chose the direct route as the scenic way would require me to cover the best part of a 1000 miles.
Instead of simply going End to End for fun I decided it would add an extra dimension to the trip if I could raise some charity funds from the event. My employer (BT) generously donated £500 and a further £500 was brought in from equally generous work colleagues, friends and family. I contacted the Surrey Trust for Nature Conservation, advised them that with a degree of luck, and lots of speed, the cash would be theirs to dispose of as they wished.
Although my Transalp was just the right side of run-in, I decided to have it fully serviced to ensure that everything was still within tolerance and bolted down. Those very nice people at Doble Motorcycles kindly offered their support by carrying out the service entirely free of charge (they even included fitment of a braided stainless steel brake hose I'd supplied). All the usual things were gathered together (bulbs, oil, cables, plugs, etc) and I drew up a check-list of everything I would need to keep body and Transalp together for four days. I established my travel dates - ride down to Lands End Thursday, go End to End Friday, and travel home over Saturday and Sunday. About 2000 miles in four days - I couldn't wait. My plan was so cunning you could brush your teeth with it.
The ride down to Cornwall from London was a leisurely cruise of about five hours and 330 odd miles. I regarded it as a training run as the real meat and potatoes were yet to come. The weather forecast was for sun and/or broken cloud over the whole route with the exception of showers around the Glasgow area. On arriving at the B and B during mid-afternoon on the Thursday, I stowed my gear in preparation for being tucked up at 6pm and went in search of food. A short ride later, I found myself at Sennan Cove which hosts a chip shop serving the best F and C in the known universe. You can eat outside where there's a superb view of the local coastline.
Fed and watered I checked out the start point at Lands End and returned to the B and B to give the bike a final check before turning in. The landlord was strangely unwilling to cook me breakfast at 3.00 the next morning. Perhaps not trusting me with his gas cooker, advised he would leave out a Continental spread. I laid my kit out on the bedroom floor so I could walk straight into my clothes, not needing to engage brain too soon after waking up.
It seemed I had only been asleep five minutes when the alarm sounded reveille. By 3.30am I was dressed, washed, fed and out by the bike. I quietly packed up and wheeled the Transalp away from the house and some way down a gentle incline before thumbing the starter. The Transalp fired up immediately, I rode gently down to the car park which would be my launch pad. After about five minutes the bike was ready and at 3.45 we were off and running.
The first few miles passed at a steady 50mph, allowing the engine to reach full operating temperature. From there it was a case of making the best time possible along largely deserted roads. It was still dark and I caught fleeting glimpses of rabbits on the grass verges as they stood transfixed in my headlight's beam. Eventually, the sun started to rise and I was joined by the occasional heavy lorry as we all travelled eastwards into the dawn. I can't recall how long it took me to whistle through Cornwall and Devon but before long the trip meter was telling me I'd covered 130 miles and should start looking for fuel. I made my only navigational error of the whole trip when I missed a filling station and rode prematurely on to the M5 with only a cupful of petrol in the tank. Was I glad I had packed a gallon can in the top box!
I drained the can into the tank and cut back to an economical 50mph before reaching the next petrol stop. From there the order of the day, as far as the M5 and M6 were concerned, was to cover the ground in rapid 100 mile stages then stop for fuel and lube the chain, which despite copious application from the spray can was always dry by the next stop. I also ate and drank at every rest point to keep blood sugar levels up and my concentration focused.
By midday I was well pleased to find myself in the Lake District and heading for the Scottish border. The weather was sunny and warm, the tedium of the motorway section behind me. The scenery was really breathtaking and I felt that with the exception of a short bypass of Glasgow (where I ran into heavy but mercifully brief rain), the countryside just went on getting better and better.
I successfully found my way on to the A9 for the final run northwards, finding myself on the most incredible motorcycling road I'd ever ridden. The A9 curved, dipped and climbed through majestic rolling hills, dotted with pines and all covered in every shade of green. Twice I caught up with a snaking column of traffic, at the head of both was a car labouring under the load of a huge caravan. Get a bike and enjoy yourself, I thought, as I cruised past. At Inverness I stopped one last time, performed the functions which were now so much a ritual that Nigel Mansell would be proud of my turnaround times. I accelerated away for the last stage and membership of the End to End club.
As I motored across the Morey Firth with only about 130 miles to go the early evening light took on that soft glow against the clouds you only seem to find by the coast. With the Cromarty Firth bridge in sight I reeled in a gaggle of German CBR600's and exchanged waves as I rode round the outside and headed out to Alness - the AA direct route suggested leaving the A9 at this point and taking the A836 as it passes through many areas of outstanding natural beauty; I did and it was certainly worth it.
I rejoined the A9 at the Dornoch Firth and felt compelled to stop for ten minutes to take in the superlative views. In fact, I was stunned by the absolute silence that followed when I cut the engine and walked away from the bike - not something you experience in London. From Golspie, the A9 hugs the coast and often switchbacks up and down small steep valleys with streams running down towards the sea.
By this time I knew that barring a puncture or crash I was going to make it to the other end in plenty of time to unpack and relax. I drew closer and closer to Wick, the last town before John O'Groats, pleasantly surprised by the groups of small children playing outside in the small intervening villages who'd stop to wave as I rode through. The next time I'm going to stuff bags of sweets into the fairing to throw out.
Wick was negotiated successfully, I soon moved on to a long straight stretch which seemed perfect for a quick celebratory ton. There were no side turnings, only fields with a few sheep either side. I waited until the arrow like road climbed a long, gentle incline before dropping down on to the tank and opening the throttle. As I hit the target speed a sixth sense warned me to check behind. A police car had appeared out of the ground. I sat up and rolled off the throttle. With my stomach churning they drew alongside, until a large bearded policeman in the passenger seat looked over at me. I waited for the inevitable pull over signal and said a prayer. The cop looked at me, he waved and smiled, then they accelerated away.
Tired wheels finally rolled into John O'Groats, recording an official arrival time of 20.45, a total elapsed time of sixteen and three-quarter hours. Confronted by a helmeted alien splattered with every species of flying insects, the landlady asked how far I'd come. She was visibly taken aback when she learnt of the day's adventure and opened up her kitchen (which had closed an hour earlier), saying I could order anything I wanted. A hugely appreciated gesture.
Once I was fed and watered, I walked down to the jetty and sat listening to the oyster catchers that wheeled around the beach. The sun never really sets in June and I watched what passed for a sunset, every warm shade of red, orange and yellow imaginable, over the island of Stroma a short distance off-shore. Overall, it'd been a memorable ride and a great experience.
Steve Budd