I am fortunate in living in a place which is ten minutes from a major city centre in one direction and ten minutes from all but deserted wild Welsh mountain tracks that wind their way up huge hills and through vagrant valleys in the other. I have the option of getting to Merthyr Tydfil, with perhaps the largest concentration of mini skirted femmes in the Kingdom (and therefore always worth visiting), in a ten minute blast down a famously fast A road with 125mph bends (never mind about the straights) or taking a few hours over it by going along tracks deserted of traffic and people, with only suicidal sheep for company. I know the conservationists scream somewhat insanely about the vanishing countryside but here in the UK, unless you live in some particularly horror filled city so large it takes an hour or two to escape, vast landscapes of greenery are but a throttle's twist away. The extremes of the Welsh hills are exhilarating.
On roads little wider than a Mini, hitting the ton is more exciting that blasting along even the most sinuous A road at 150mph. These Welsh roads wind tortuously at times, but every so often they straighten out into a bumpy straight when you can let loose with the throttle. The hairpin bends strain ground clearance and tyre adhesion, the mad sheep brakes and nerves.
I take a perverse delight in travelling East or North (the other two directions put you in the sea) on these minor roads, seeing how far I can go without meeting any other traffic. There's a certain delight in seeing how high and at how low a speed I can hold top gear up a hill or how far I can go without putting my feet down or using the clutch.
These roads are full of history for me and full of memories. I never take a map with me, not so much because I know the roads like the back of my hand, which I don't (I don't even know the back of my hand if it comes to precision), but because I can't be bothered to waste time stopping to consult them and because I like to travel by the sun or if that's done a runner at least away from the rain clouds.
South Wales can be viewed as a series of valleys with huge mountains in between them; invariably there are small tracks that crisscross them as well as the major routes. Sometimes I get completely lost, away from the towns there is no reference point other than the sun and I have to recall that Japan is the land of the rising sun, hence it must set in the west, ergo I should go that way. Sometimes I come across roads I had long forgotten and recall the times I nearly lost it all.
The time I met a van blocking all the road whilst I was flat out down a hill and had to run off the road, taking a RSX100 trail riding, the bike waggling its tail like a happy puppy, finally hitting the road with a massive twitch but not throwing me off. The time I rode through what looked like a small puddle only to find it was a foot or two deep, the huge deluge of water not just soaking me through but stopping the MZ 250 from working - pushing the bike for three miles, almost catching pneumonia from the soaking; remembering the exultation when the bike finally started, the sun came out and the way the heat and speed dried me out quickly.
The time I ran into some sheep rustlers, filling a Transit van with frenzied sheep bleating as if they knew their end was nigh. I pulled over to write down the van's number plate, being then a good citizen, the GPZ600 buzzing happily enough under me, when the porkier of two (they were obviously right on, beer swigging, rugby supporting Welsh hooligans) pulled out a shotgun from the back of the van and let loose a barrel over my head. I dropped the bit of paper I was writing on in my panic and piled on so many revs that the bike wheelied for the next 200 yards; I've never moved so fast in my life.
There are other memories, too, the deserted hills were brilliant places to take girlfriends - after an hour or so of pillion through bends at crazy angles of lean and the stimulation of frenzied revving they were always wet between the legs, although at the time I preferred to believe it was down to my machoness. One time we finished with our passion only to find we were the centre of attention of an ancient shepherd and half dozen sheep; god knows what he did to the sheep after we left! Don't believe what the frigid lesbians say about girls not being turned on by a pillion ride, I've found it works every time.
I have this great venture in my mind to travel the length and breath of the Kingdom along the most minor of roads, perhaps taking in the odd but of trail work as I currently scream everywhere on a TDM250 (nappies are ideal wear because above the ton on bumpy roads it gets completely out of hand, but that just adds to my fun). Now that police have been issued with trail bikes to catch people who ride off road illegally I would have to be a bit careful about exactly which short cuts I take.
I once took a CB250N through a field as it would save about an hour's worth of winding roads but the bike hit some marshy ground and started to sink in the quagmire. By the time I leapt off both wheels had disappeared. A farmer roared over the field and finished off the job by running over the bike with his ancient tractor. Incredible. I was screaming my head off at him but he didn't stop, he completely ignored me. When the dust had settled it was as if the Honda had never existed. I had to walk for about twelve miles until I found a semblance of civilisation - as soon as I opened my mouth they all started chattering away in Welsh. I eventually hitched a lift into Merthyr and took the train home from there.
Unfortunately, I reckon it would take a month to do a complete circle of the country and I just don't have that kind of free time for the indulgence and it also requires the kind of in depth knowledge that you can only obtain by living in a particular area for a long time. I know roads in the hills that start from nowhere. I know one fantastic road that can only be reached by riding up a narrow track and crossing a field. The track was marked by three Cul de Sac signs which made me suspicious, so I roared up it and across the rutted field, following the tractor marks. When I went past a farm house the farmer shook his fist at me so I could have been on private property but I find that hard to believe for the road was well surfaced in an identical manner to all the other roads, indicative that it was maintained by the council.
That road went on for about 25 miles and was an absolute ball. It was a bit like trying to ride a Big Dipper, in the short and sharp dips I left my stomach behind several times. There were hairpins a match for anything the alps might offer, crazy straights where I could run flat out with the front end moments away from a tank slapper and brows of hills I could shoot over with both wheels off the ground. It ended as it had begun, a short stretch of dirt then back on to another road. I rode it many times and never saw another vehicle using that road.
At times I felt I was like Alice walking through the looking glass into a new world. Even though I've been riding bikes in the hills for over 20 years there's always some new route to find and if I ever do become bored with South Wales there's the rest of the country to explore. Down on the coast I've found this superb track that runs most of the way in view of the sea. In places it's hardly wide enough for my handlebars to pass through, the tarmac is rutted where it hasn't been repaired for many, many years and I rarely do more than 50mph, but it's one hell of a lot of fun. I suppose I should buy a proper trail bike, then the potential would be unlimited but I also like the occasional high speed motorway blast down to London.....I know just where to turn off and hit the back roads if I get too bored. A motorcycle is the only way you can derive this duplicity of kicks!
Henry Pointen