After 25 years intermittent ownership of small, functional Hondaware supplementing the family car, I started biking again when l was fifty. In my youth I did trials riding and rode a Thunderbird in my spare time, but responsibility and respectability put an end to all of that sort of thing.
When my son became too respectable to own a bike, I finished up acquiring a CJ250 which was put in the shed. A year later we needed the space, so I prepared it for an MOT, and the sun shone as I rode it to the local dealer. The sun shone on the way back, it had passed and as I rode it home I knew that I would not sell it immediately.
After one summer with the 250 when I did about 5000 care-free miles of non essential travelling, I bought a rather nice BMW R65. It was a revelation, l could travel greater distances, confident that the bike would not let me down, and knowing that I would be able to stand upright and walk after a couple of hundred miles because of the sheer comfort of the bike.
Last year I stole a few weeks, free of work and family commitments, and embarked on a short tour, aiming to take in the Humber Bridge, the North York Moors Hadrian's Well and the Kirkstone Pass. All of them would be new to me. I set off with sleeping bag and tent packed, which was pretty adventurous because I had not camped for 30 years, but I was feeling bold, brave and undeterred.
l got lost on the M18 and finished up north of the Humber, as a result of which I enjoyed crossing the bridge twice, once in each direction. It cost me £1.40 but was worth every penny to see and use what must be one of the most amazing monuments to the ingenuity of civil engineering and folly of politicians. It is an awe inspiring structure, but it is clearly in the wrong place because very few people seem to need to use it.
I headed north for Pickering and settled on Spiers House campsite in the Cropton Forest, An excellent site, immaculately clean, well provided, quiet and welcoming. I got myself settled, went for some pub grub and by accident came across the 1 in 3 hill at Rosedale Bank — marvellous. It was a warm sunny evening, the moors were at their best, I was at one with the world and I retired to my bag to sleep the sleep of those with a clear conscience.
The next morning started sunny and I discovered Scarborough, where I declined many tempting offers to tell my fortune. The fish and chips at Scarborough are excellent and the contrasts amongst the different parts of the town are fascinating. It seems to have a bit of everything. The roads near the coast are spectacular, and on the way back I was gobsmacked by my first sight of the Fylingdales radomes. I didn’t even know that they were there, they are not marked on the OS map, presumably so that the enemy won't discover them but they are quite stunning. Another example of the ingenuity of the engineers and the folly of their masters.
Paul and Jackie arrived at the campsite on their BMW R80RS, never met them before but we made each other cups of tea, swatted flies together, had a couple of rides across the moors and invaded the local pubs for a meal. They were good company, and l have discovered on lots of occasions in the last three years that nearly all bikers are good company, there is some truth in the thought that you are never alone on a bike.
As we were going different ways, after a couple more nights I headed north. Going over the moors was OK but the haul around Darlington was a bit boring until I hit the A68 and headed for Corbridge where l replenished at a pub and a bank, then headed straight for Hadrian’s Wall. There is a great deal of it left, and the views of it, and from it, are breathtaking. It's an amazing piece of work — l hope that those radomes last as long. I stopped at the information centre near to Twice Brewed where I learnt a lot about the wall and settled on Haltwhistle as my next stop. When I got there I changed my mind. The town is dreary and the campsite a couple of miles south was deserted, I could find neither warden nor campers. I headed for Alston.
They say it gets cut off by snow more often than any other town in England but it looks OK in the summer. I filled up with food and petrol, and headed south west, on the A68 for Penrith. This is an excellent biking road. At the very top, at Hartside, there is a lonely cafe that commands tremendous views over the Lake District. The climb up and ride down are exhilarating until you get to Penrith which is a traffic jam surrounded by tourist traps.
I went straight on and arrived at Park Foot campsite overlooking Ullswater. This is a much more commercialised site but I was tired and hungry so booked in and rode across the field to find a level site. Before I got off the bike I tested the ground with my heel and I put the bike on the sidestand with some care. As I turned away to yawn, stretch and scratch, the bike very gently, gracefully and precisely fell over and pinned me to the ground. The bike was not as damaged as my dignity, but I immediately made friends with my temporary neighbours who were pleased to lift the bike and release me.
The next day it was raining. Although I had the kitchen sink, I was not equipped with appropriate rain gear for getting about a campsite or walking the hills... I could stay warm and dry in the tent or on the bike but not on foot. I listened to the weather forecast and heard of dry weather in the east and protracted rain in the north west, so I packed up and headed for Kirkstone Pass.
The rain was the first for weeks, so the roads were well oiled and polished by all the holiday traffic. I was very careful. I am sure that the run is spectacular but the rain blocked my view and the road surface was a constant threat to my underwear. l was glad to arrive in Windermere, bypass Kendal and stop for a bacon sandwich by the Devils Bridge at Kirby Lonsdale.
There were one or two other bikers there, but the rain prevented too much conversation and I soon headed east, hoping that the rain would stop before Harrogate. The A65 is supposed to be a biker's road, but I did not enjoy it, and at Skipton I turned off and made for Manchester. The eastern flank of the city contains lots of interesting places but I did not stop at any of them, not even Stalybridge Station. Over the Snake Pass I went and called at a cousin's in Hathersage for a cup of tea.
The rain had stopped but it was clearly going to start again, so I decided to head for home, Milton Keynes, where I could have a couple of days of hot baths and then return to touring, possibly in Wales. When I returned home the local paper contained an advertisement for a reasonably priced R100RS. I fancied the protection that a fairing would give, so I spent the next week tidying the R100RS up and renewing the clutch thrust mechanism. I also sold the R65, with considerable regret.
I did not get any more touring in the last year, I was enjoying becoming familiar with the new bike. I thought that the brakes were not good, so I replaced all pads and rubberware, and then discovered that the brakes were no better! The fault was in the fairing — it lets you go too fast and offers so much protection that it is easy to become unaware of the speed at which you are travelling.
I am now familiar with the bike, a couple of us are spending the dark nights contemplating, rather than planning at this stage, a run to Europe next summer. We could take in the Spa 24 Hours, have a ride around the Nurburgring, zip along the Moselle Valley, see the hills at Charleville and call in at the WW1 battlefields on the way back. Only 1000 miles and a week's travelling. It sounds like a pretty ambitious project for a semi geriatric novice, and I am hoping that it comes off.
I’m a born again biker and proud to admit it. My family don't understand but they tolerate it and I don‘t care. In the last two or three years l have enjoyed my bike and the company into which it has brought me immensely. Long may I fight off respectability and responsibility.
John Spencer