The BMW I picked up a year ago was a secondhand B reg K100RS which had done 10000 miles. The dealer claimed that it was just nicely run in and he'd let me have it for a mere £3600. I commute to work all the year round and have to wear a suit for my job, thus I need some kind of weather protection, luggage capability and, of course, reliability. After an apprenticeship on a series of UJMs. the BMW appeared to be some kind of ultimate.
When the BMW K series first came out, the watercooled, DOHC four cylinder engine turned on its side, managed to stand out from the crowds of across the frame fours from Japan that were dominating the motorcycle scene. However, times do change and the range has begun to look just a little dated, these days, but BMW still produce the best in long lived, quality products - an image hopefully not wrecked by the K1 ‘cafe racer.’ It will be most interesting to see if the K series lasts as long as the boxer twins. It had a nice Dream Machine paint job - on the first waxing I found out the reason for this, the tank had a bump knocked out of it. This appeared to be only cosmetic damage as the handling was better than most of the older Japs, only the latest hyperbikes could leave it for dead in the corners.
If the suspension was on the soft side, and the front discs could bounce the forks down on their stops, the quality of the ride, in its ability to soak up the pot-holed and rutted roads, was more than compensation. I did find that the back wheel locked up or slid momentarily if I mismatched engine speed with road speed as I changed down through the box. This kept you awake and on your toes in the wet.
All the controls have a very expensive feel and the layout of the cockpit emphasises this point. Weather protection is marginal at times, but that’s the price one pays for having a bike that doesn't look like a barn door. Riding position and seat are comfortable for as long as the fuel lasts. I could no longer do without the heated handlebars grips, it makes winter riding so much more tolerable.
It is, I suppose, a bit sad that BMW had produced the RS fairing for the twin many years ago which provided much better protection for hands and upper body than the item fitted to my bike. So good is the older fairing, and so timeless its styling, that a couple of BMW dealers are offering it as an option on the three cylinder K75, which says a lot about style versus practicality perhaps BMW can swallow a bit of pride and do the same for the larger bikes as well!
I use the bike a lot on twisty A roads where, despite weighing 100lbs more than similar performance Japs it runs along very nicely. I haven't come near to a speed wobble or throwing myself in a ditch. The only thing to watch is rear tyre wear, below 3mm of tread the handling becomes imprecise and the bike twitches over white lines.
Mechanically, over the last 12 months, the bike was something of a curate’s egg. I have no gripes over the usual consumables, as things like pads and tyres (6000 miles from the rear) have lasted as well, if not better, than my last, lighter 750 UJM. Where I have coughed, however, is the astronomical cost of some spares.
About two months ago, returning from work, the bike stuck in fifth gear and despite all attempts to to persuade it out, would only offer a false neutral as an alternative. The dealer gave me a nasty shock when he informed me that a gear had broken and that you could only buy a whole intermediate shaft. £480 plus VAT to you, John. Plus a new selector for a mere £87 + VAT.
Despite the suit and a job, this would have taken me near to bankrupcy. Thus inspired I tracked down a whole gearbox in a breakers for a mere £115. Bad enough but certainly better than the £700 bill I had been looking in the teeth. How can BMW justify a selector fork for around £100 when the most expensive Jap equivalent is under £20 - and they’re not known for giving spares away?
My years of faultless Jap machines had led me to expect the same or even more from the BMW, so the gearbox saga came as a rather rude shock, but I suppose it was just one of those things. and not a common problem to these four cylinder engines. The gearchange, itself, was quite reasonable and not at all agricultural as per many shafties. Apart from that, the K has satisfied all my other criteria admirably - there is no doubt that amongst those unfortunate enough not to rides bikes, a BMW carries a social cachet which you just don't get with other bikes.
Neil Bullock
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"Russian warship... go fuck yourself"
Tuesday 31 July 2018
Yamaha RD400E
A chance remark by a friend’s brother that her wife was selling her motorbike raised a flicker of interest. I feared it was a C90 or something of the ilk, which may be fine under certain circumstances, but not for my weekly Surrey to Weymouth trip.
Interest hardly increased when I heard it was a Yamaha 400. I once hired a XS400 - a bike more bland, boring and uninspiring I found it hard to visualize. On the return trip, with the world’s biggest hangover from beer and, er, other naughty things plus a powder that wasn’t Beechams, I can’t even remember Birkenham to Brum. AIthough I reached my destination without incident, I looked and felt like death’s big brother.
I digress, I was bikeless and even an XS was better than the bus. Then things started to look up when it was revealed that it was a two stroke, V registered, expansion chambered and was apparently bloody quick. It could only be a RD; I never even bothered to ask the price.
Some time later I was outside a garage in Woking. The bike was white with red stripes. This I could get to like. It burbled into life after a few kicks, blipping the throttle sent the rev counter needle racing clockwise whilst copious clouds of blue smoke spewed out. A quick helmetless trip up the alley and I was hooked. Three hundred quid without haggling and I was back on the road.
Looking back I can honestly say that the Micron expansion chambers were acutely offensive and, nowadays, I wouldn't entertain them, but at the time the banshee howl was music to my ears. The 400 was my first proper two stroke. Previously, I'd had a half share in a Vespa which I kept falling off, a '61 Mobylette - the least said about the better, and then the relative safety of a pair of four stroke Hondas.
That RD really did seem the business. Fast, light, good handling, comfortable and bloody thirsty - it could get through a gallon of petrol in 28 miles, but it was fun, in big red letters. It didn’t take long for the occupants of a Rover Jam-sandwich to track me down, thanks to those spannies. They wanted to know what speed I was doing, declared that the speedo didn’t work (never wind the mileometer back to zero if the speedo doesn’t work), the chain was loose, the brake light didn’t work and that there wasn't any tax.
In my defence, I stood on the brake pedal to show that the brake light did indeed work - they insisted I did it on the move, which locked up the rear wheel and almost made me fall off. After mucho kowtowing of the subservient forelock we reached an agreement, either I fixed it all or next time he stopped me he'd get me for everything and anything he could think of between now and then.
The next day I hit the local Yamaha dealer to pick up all the necessary bits and four spark plugs - with spannies and speed in mind I bought B9ES instead of the recommended B8ES. Yes, I know it’s a twin but extra plugs have their uses, as shall be revealed.
With all my purchases screwed, clipped, bolted and nailed into their respective places and a tax disc purchased and suitably displayed I was once more on the road. Only the power from the air cooled twin kept me a few mph the wrong side of the law. The spare plugs, plug brush, emery paper and plug spanner were thrust into my jacket pockets. The plugs oil very easily if cold or the K&Ns are sodden or if there's been any fog, frost or heavy rain, when no amount of kicking or bumping helps.
Even though the Yam had 17770 miles on the clock, it'd wheelie in the first two gears just by opening the throttle. Get the revs above 5000 and the world shoots by in reverse. I had great fun screaming about all over the place, life was worth living again and the bike was used more and more. By 18070 miles the bike refused to start, no spark to be had. Putting a screwdriver in the HT cap and kicking the bike gave not so much as a tingle. Something black, about the size of a cigarette packet stopped working. The nice dealer said oooh and aaah several times with a grin like a Cheshire cat with chronic constipation. The offending part was diagnosed and replaced in a week. One day later another black box went, overall result 170 quid on parts and no wheels for a good part of the summer of '83. Labour charges were extra as was transport to and from the dealers.
By 20000 miles the engine felt tired, even frantically stirring the six speed gearbox failed to regain the former urge. My friends asked me when it was last decoked - I just looked blank. They took it apart for me, then scraped, brushed and cleaned all the blackened bits. A job so easy, I could have done it myself had I known.
The performance was back in full, so much so that I had to fit some Metzelers to stop the rear end skating around. These tyres helped sharpen up the handling, although they took a long time to scrub in.
Things got a little weird when the rear frame loop collapsed. I could only find one from a RD350 and when this was bodged on it looked a little strange but only cost a fiver so I couldn't complain.
The single front disc was spongy but powerful, until Goodridge hose was fitted which got rid of most of the sponginess. I bought a set of Allspeeds to quieten down the motor, these changed the power delivery, maybe because I hadn’t changed the jets to suit...
Racing out of Portsmouth, with a wildly optimistic 115mph on the clock, I suddenly lost power. I assumed I was on reserve, flipped the lever, booted down a few gears and wound it on in third. It picked up power and then suddenly stopped.
A car pulled in behind me, he'd been flashing for a while and I thought plain clothes police. No, just a concerned citizen telling me my bike’s on fire! Burning petrol, from too large jets bunging excess fuel straight through the engine out into the exhaust, had sprayed over the luggage. The bike looked very sorry for itself, smouldering items were shoved down a drain and the bike taken to a friend’s garage.
I dismantled the RD, rebuilt it with proper jetting and oversize bores and pistons, some £250’s worth of parts and labour. I did the rebuild with a remarkable lack of knowledge but it still fired up after seven kicks. It had left the garage floor covered it oil - sorry about that, mate - but the bike was fine.
I'd bought a Honda CB900 whilst this was going on. Going back to the RD after the Honda put the Yam in proper perspective. Where I'd once thought the handling good, I now found it felt skittish, the forks were too soft and the bars too wide. But those weren't large problems and could be sorted with a bit of expenditure.
I was lucky, really, that my model was the well developed RD400E rather than one of the earlier bikes that are even more peaky and go through plugs like nobody’s business. Having said that, the choice between spending £170 to replace the electronic ignition or spending every other weekend adjusting the points, isn’t that hard to make, is it?
RD400s are nearly as reliable as Suzuki GT500s and don’t suffer so much from crank seals leaking and draining all the oil from the gearbox. Cosmetics on the Yamaha do suffer, and any bike that hasn’t had all the cosmetics renovated at least once by now will need it desperately. Engine life depends on how hard the bike’s been thrashed - it’s the kind of bike that does attract the thrashers - anything from 20000 to 45000 miles, but it’s such a simple engine to strip down, and there are so many bits available, that they can be rebuilt many times before they're totally out of the game. Anyone done 100000 miles yet?
After I'd rebuilt the Yamaha, I found I needed money to get married, so one of the bikes had to go - I sold the RD to a breaker for less than I'd spent on doing a rebuild. Paradoxically, in retrospect, I found that it was the bike I missed the most. Maybe time clouds over the bad points, but I recall rushing around country roads in rhythm with the wild yowl of the spannies, as one of life’s better experiences. Pity then that the RD400E is now getting labelled as a classic, the prices rising until those who would really enjoy them can’t afford to buy one. You may just still be able to pick up a good ‘un if you're lucky. Go for it.
Tim Jenks
Suzuki GS750
A while ago I bought a Suzuki GS750, the second update with twin discs and cast wheels. It was cheap and low mileage, but there was a catch. It had been damaged by fire. How or why I never found out because the seller was one of several people who had owned the bike without finishing the rebuild. It wasn’t a runner but didn’t seem far from it on initial inspection.
The engine was fitted into the repainted frame but none of the electrics were connected up and the carbs were but a molten blob, although there were some replacements (the originals were so far gone that they couldn't be compared). Overall it was not a pretty sight.
Certainly, if it had something with a self destruct engine like a Honda twin cam four (cue for outraged CB owners to write in - Ed), I wouldn't have even considered buying it. There was no way I could tell what horrors might be lurking inside those shiny casings. Full of optimism and positive thinking (I must have been full of something) I took the plunge and bought it. Well, it was the beginning of summer and I had nothing else to ride...
Generally, buying bikes that just need finishing is a big mistake. Multiply the expected cost by ten and that'll be nearer the mark. Just because all the major parts are present and correct, dont believe that a few hours work will finish it. Take my word for it, finding the right nuts and bolts to fix on all the fiddly bits will keep you and your wallet occupied for a long time.
Once I'd finally bodged everything into what I naively imagined would be a functioning state the real problems started. The engine was fully wired and plumbed and turned over on the starter without emitting any ominous noises from its insides. The ignition timing was spot on, new petrol was in the tank. There was plenty of compression and the plugs were getting wet. So why didn’t it start?
I removed the cam covers of the rebuilt motor and had a look. Some idiot had assembled the engine - with a nice new gasket - but somehow forgotten to fit the jockey wheel between the cams. Although he'd taken the trouble to time the cams correctly, missing out the wheel meant that the inlet was effectively lagging in phase. Thankfully, it wasn't far enough out to bend any valves but finding a jockey wheel wasn't very easy.
With that fixed, it started and ran well, so it was time for a test ride. I only did about 50 miles before it became apparent that something was very wrong with the transmission. By now I wouldn't have been surprised if someone had missed out a gearbox bearing, but actually the real culprit was the chain. From a distance it looked fine, on closer inspection, however, it didn’t. The fire had melted the O-rings which had coated the rollers with black gunge. As I'd never even pushed the bike around I hadn't noticed anything wrong before. More expense.
Success comes to those who persevere and patience is eventually rewarded (I usually keep a huge hammer nearby - Ed), In the end I had a reasonable Suzuki GS750... I just try to forget that it probably cost twice as much as one I could have bought from the local rip-off emporium!
The good news is that the bike lived up to its reputation for being reliable, fast and good handling. At first I scared a lot of pedestrians when it kept back-firing on the over-run. The cure was simple - refit the vacuum pipe for the fuel tap (I'd been using it on prime). Seeing as how I could make it back fire at will, and very loudly, I really missed this audible warning of my approach, but I was a bit worried that it might damage something or, worse still, catch fire.
The valve clearances altered quite a lot while they settled in but they are easy to adjust - even a screwdriver can be used as a special tool to depress the seat in order to remove the shim. After a few 1000 miles the rear wheel bearings suddenly collapsed, without warning; luckily when I was only doing about 10mph. I'm glad it didn’t happen two minutes earlier when the speedo reading was a lot higher. The remainder of the journey was completed at walking pace with much wobbling and accompanied by terminal noises from below. Once again the cause was a missing part - in this case a bearing spacer. It was amazing that it didn’t happen sooner because without a spacer all you do when you tighten the spindle bolt is push the inner races of the bearings together.
Tyres vaporized at a predictably ridiculous rate, and I remember the handling seemed better on some cheapo Jap Dunlops than other supposedly superior stuff. Strange but true. Petrol consumption figures were a bit disappointing, never more than the low forties mpg and it did bum a bit of oil.
In terms of flat out performance, a GS750 is well down on its GSXR modern equivalent, but in the real world it wouldn't be that far behind. A good spread of torque meant that a five speed box was adequate without needing to tap dance on the gear pedal to keep things moving.
To me, and, I suspect, most other bikers, the GS fours provided a balance of practicality and power that late eighties race-replica models can’t match. A roller bearing crank undoubtedly costs more to make but it certainly lasts longer in unsympathetic hands. Simple twin shock suspension works well enough and is easy to fix if it goes wrong. Likewise, two valves per cylinder engines satisfy most most needs for speed and reduce complication.
So that’s it, a solid, sensible motorcycle that is cheap to buy and run, but doesn’t reduce you to the mind numbing boredom of something like an MZ.
R Ker
Monday 23 July 2018
Honda CX500E
The girl who was selling the CX500 Eurosport wanted £1200 in the beginning but I played the game out and bought it for £550. Things immediately went from good to bad. Roadrunners mixed with rain and diesel meant a visitation to the tarmac; but we were OK, I picked the bike up and got home in one piece.
The following morning the bike was dead. Swearing was replaced by joy as I found that merely one of the battery bolts had come out, earthed on the frame and drained the battery. The second problem was that it didn’t bump start as the CDI needed more voltage than could be produced by trying to push near on 500lbs of metal. An hour on the battery charger sorted that. Luckily, that was the first and only time it broke down.
For 3 months I rode the bike through snow, wind, rain and hail without a murmur of dissent. As a courier I covered about 1200-2000 miles a month and when Chernobyl blew its stack, I covered most of Scotland collecting samples of dead grass, cow, goat, milk and cheese.
I never got better than 51mpg out of the CX on a slow run (55-60mph) but averaged 47mpg even on balls out thrashes. The bike was easy to service, save for the mono-shock that had no grease nipples and has to come apart every six months or pay out a fortune on new bronze bushes. The camchain’s still good with 35000 miles up, and the valves haven't done the usual trick of disappearing into the head and closing up the gaps. Maybe I’ve just been lucky.
The original silencers were still on the bike when I sold it, though they were getting a bit rough after 5 years. The brakes were good for a laugh. The rear just filled up with gunge and secondhand discs are extremely rare. Even new pads, Goodridge hoses and rebuilt calipers failed to make the front discs firm up to my liking, but despite the spongy feel they still worked.
The handling was greatly affected by tyres. When I fitted a set of Metzelers (ME99 & 77) the handling went out to lunch in a big way. Anything over 85mph was suicidal and I had the most inspired case of tank slappers ever when overtaking some cars. Big whoopsies that time, at least the car drivers were amused. Around bends the Metz’s had good grip which helps to counteract the high centre of gravity, but even so, the tyres would suddenly break free - Pirellis slid earlier but more controllably.
I found the best combination a ribbed Pirelli Phantom 100/90 front and Metzeler ME77 120/80 rear. Good directional stability with good traction but still pricey for what you get. Anyway, I started to recognize my own mortality, packed in despatching and took up a nice safe factory job. I offered a colleague a run which resulted in collecting a VW under the front wheel, when it hit us while we were waiting to make a turn. The car driver wanted to move his car, but I told him to wait for the police who I'd sent my colleague to fetch. When they arrived, details exchanged, I went off to claim from NU.
This is where things turned really strange. The driver had given the police one set of details and me a false set. I couldn't claim off the insurance until the driver reported the accident to his insurers but the police wouldn't give me his true name. Only because I have access to friends with dubious reputations who do dubious things with computers was I able to establish that he lived in another county, had resprayed his car and re-registered it to his company. Only after I'd burst into his office and reminded him of the details he gave to the police did he actually admit to being involved in the accident...
14 months after the accident the insurance company finally coughed up some money, and I had a bike in a number of bits after the garage had become fed up of waiting for the money. The engine bars had taken out a large chunk of the engine rather than protecting it and put a large dent in one of the exhaust pipe. The horrendous cost of new spares meant many small bits were repaired rather than replaced and I got lucky with the fairing, a friend had a Windjammer he no longer needed.
When it was all back together, naturally it refused to start. Dismantling the carbs and cleaning them didn’t help. Desperation had taken hold and all my mates had deserted the deal for the local pub. I eventually realised that I'd swapped the vacuum and petrol pipes around, something he is never going to tell his mates. That night I got very drunk to celebrate.
I have lived with it happily ever after apart from the time some hoodlum tried to nick it from outside my front door. The Abus lock protected the bike, but the thief had ruined the lock so I had to get the lads from the fire station to come round with huge bolt cutters.
CX500s have come in for a lot of stick over the years, what with Plastic Maggot and such-like names, but the plain fact is that they do actually work. Despite the aesthetic attraction of things like British bikes, I want a bike I can get on and ride; the CX was just that type of machine. Initially as a working bike and latterly as a general runabout with occasional forays into other lands for holidays, the CX fitted the bill perfectly.
For the price, I don’t know many bikes you can decide to see get on and go to Holland on the spur of the moment and not worry about which bit is going to fall off and whether that relay held on by gaffa tape will last the deluge or not. I'm not one to buy a new model straight off, even if I had the money, but bikes like the CX or indeed the Goldwing have been around long enough to have most of the bugs ironed out.
The day I can realistically afford a Guzzi Spada is far off and until such time, I'll just have to make do with bikes that aren't fine handling thoroughbreds, but can still turn a crank when it’s demanded of them. I saw too many despatchers buy some phenomenal machine only to spend more time off work fixing them than earning a crust because of their temperament. I like riding but an inanimate bike has always seemed like so much metal. You wouldn’t say a singer had a good voice until you heard them sing, would you?
Ian Lindsay
Honda GL500
A certain rival publication, which has copied the style if not the spirit of this magazine, has described it as that ghastly Silver Wing thing and advised its reader(s) to avoid it. Real Wing owners tend to regard it with the kind of malignant indulgence that Garfield has for Odie (and no, you can’t join the Wing Owners Clubs with one). BMW owners stare at it with barely disguised contempt through their fogged bifocals.
Everybody but everybody looks at it, and, yes, lots of Gold Wings accessories will fit it. If it’s posing on a budget you're after, there is no finer artifact in the known universe than the Honda Silver Wing. I fell in love with it when it first came out, and Honda, in a desperate attempt to boost sales, were holding shows up and down the country. I sat on it and was hooked. Like a favourite pair of jeans if felt just right. Returning to my decrepit Honda CB350K4, I knew that someday, somehow, I would have to own one.
The opportunity did not arise until last year. Having handed back the company car in disgust at what the taxman considered the value of a conveyance used once a week to the collect the shopping, and the current CB550 developing a catalogue of faults that was offering me the choice of either making the local repairman very rich or me a very dead motorcyclist, I went cap in hand to the boss to get an advance on my salary of £1500...
I had, in fact, already put down a deposit on the bike without even seeing it, the dealer assuring me that he had a good one coming in. For once he was right, the bike really had been owned by an old chap who was actually trading in for a new GL650.
The maroon GL500 Silver Wing looked immaculate, free from rust marred only by the most appalling top box I've ever seen in my life. Of sufficient hideousness to have caused Prince Charles to go into apoplexy with his plants had he seen it, the previous owner had attempted to colour coordinate it with the fairing with results that only proved his colour blindness.
Yet more unzipping of the wallet removed the offending item and I had a pair of Krausers fitted. I was then ready to take my pride and joy out on the road. And 20 minutes later, outside the dealers, I was still ready to get on the road. The bike wasn’t. Lesson One in starting a Silver Wing. They don’t. They have an electric fuel pump and flood easier than the cottage I was once conned into buying in Holland (beautiful view of the river which in winter meant from the top of the stairs, as you watched your furniture floating across the lounge). One new set of spark plugs later, fitted by a supercilious mechanic, I was on my way.
The first impression was of its massive size. The skills of navigating a barge seemed more appropriate to the propulsion of the beast than those of motorcycle control. And it was noisy. Everything that could rattle did. The sweet burble so associated with the watercooled, vee twin CX engine increased from cacophony to a symphony by a demented sadist reflected behind the huge fairing.
Honda designed the fairing for the Gold Wing GL1100, a motorcycle of supreme sophistication with all the noisy bits down near the road. The CX engine has slightly less sophistication and has all the noisy bits exactly placed so that the fairing can amplify and bounce the noise up to tortured eardrums.
To compensate, it has one of the most. wonderfully comfortable seats I have ever sat in and once man and beast had, if not learnt to live in harmony, at least come to a wary co-existence, I actually began to enjoy it. People were looking at me; a quick check in the mirror revealed that I did not have an oversize bogey hanging from the left nostril so it must only be the bike. I have now owned her nearly a year and am as much in love as ever. The maroon fairing is slowly disappearing behind a glistening array of chrome, the rattling of which adds melody to the discordant symphony of sound suffered behind the fairing.
I can understand why the previous owner traded in for a 650; Honda Melody owners tend to think you are being kind and protective by riding alongside them. A GPz it is not, although it'll cruise at 80-85 all day without complaint (OK then, half a day... it takes the rest of the time to accelerate to eighty).
The bike returns between 48 and 50mpg regardless of riding style. There's been no oil leaks or consumption. Servicing costs £20 (yes, you did read that right). Total cost of spares in a year has been limited to a rear tyre, a speedo cable and some light bulbs. The bike is reliability incarnate.
The fairing actually works. Caught in a snowstorm riding between Manchester and Birmingham, it was a strange sensation to be completely dry. The handling suits the image and capabilities of the bike.
Ridden sensibly it’s fine if a bit heavy; do 90mph and an alarming weave starts that indicates the upper limits of the chassis and engine. In exchange for the comfort I can accept that. As a reliable tourer with the ability to turn heads, the Silver Wing can’t be bettered.
Colin Anstey
Despatching: Despatched to SE30
It was pouring with rain and I was pissed off. Not unusual, and not without reason. For starters, it was Tuesday, bad enough in itself because you know that means it’s a ages till the next weekend. It was also three o'clock, which is an irritating time. You’ve been at work for what seems like a full day but you know you've got at least another three hours to go before you can slope off home.
And to complete the misery, I'd been on standby in W1 for nearly an hour. All I could think of was Friday's wage packet, which I could imagine would be smaller than a stunted bonsai unless I got a job soon. It was also raining.
Quite an understatement, it was throwing it down. The feeble huddle of trees I was attempting to hide under weren't doing a very good job of sheltering me from the torrent - in fact they were looking pretty miserable themselves. Life was not looking rosy.
Suddenly, the radio crackled, hissed a bit, and produced a distorted noise that might have represented a human voice at the other end. "29-29-29-29," it blared at an outrageous volume that caused several secretaries in nearby offices to tut and huff, closing windows with an offended air. "29-29-29-29," screamed the controller again.
I realised with a shock that it was my call sign he was broadcasting. I scrambled in an undignified manner for the handset. “Ah, 29, where are you now?" Where I've been for the past hour, I thought, a dark cloud hovering above my head. Swallowing my irritation I answered Portman Square. "Oh, someone else is closer to this job, then. Standby." Bollocks, I thought, foiled again.
Water ran into my boot and squelched around my toes. Misery loomed heavy on the horizon and I was vastly tempted to piss off home. But the thought of returning to an empty flat where I'd have to sit in the cold because I was too worried about the heating bill made me even more depressed.
I stared at my feet then wished I hadn't cos I saw a split in the side of my boot. "Aha," I thought, “that is where the water's getting in." More money required and I was not earning any at all. I thought about emigrating to Australia (try Bangkok, much more fun - Ed) but I couldn't afford the airfare. Perhaps I should just take my (semi) waterproofs off and contract pneumonia. At least it'd be warm in hospital.
"29-29-29-29" squawked the radio again. I answered morosely, expecting another false alarm. "Direct Communications to cracklehiss-crackle." "Rog," I replied, having only heard half the message, but not really caring. From past experience I knew it'd be a short run across London as they used us very rarely and then for local jobs. No doubt this would be an urgent delivery from Soho to Regent Street or some such. The day got blacker.
Once on the bike I pressed the starter. We'd been stationary for so long that the engine had cooled and become wet, so the only response was a soggy splutter. Emptying the remains of an ancient can of WD40 over the bike did the trick, the bike clunked into gear and off we chugged.
Five minutes and one hairy moment on a wet zebra crossing later, we slid to a halt in Soho. I wasn’t being flash in gliding to a stop, I lost control on the last corner and simply flung the bike at the kerb and hoped. Standard practice really. Lucky for me that my bike knows what it’s doing better than I do, and often stays up against all the laws of physics simply to ao that it can drive better than can. At least it has an aversion to being dropped - I know some bikes whose characters are exactly opposite and suicidally charge at lamp-posts and Volvos.
Dripping as I moved, I rested the bike on its stand and squelched into the building, stepping in an unavoidable puddle as I did. Water positively gushed through the split in my boots. The pick-up was on the fourth floor and the lift was out of order. Halfway up my heart was pumping frantically and I was starting to pant. When I reached the I was in need of oxygen. I finally waddled into the reception area, a tatty desk in one corner, a broken armchair...
There was no-one to be seen. I dripped further into their suite of offices, leaving a small marshland in my wake. There was no-one there either but I eventually spotted a note with "Biker" on it. It told me to deliver the parcel to Carton House, Black Dog Lane, SE30. An A3 sized envelope with "Don't Bend" scrawled on it in red. How they expected a bike to transport something that size I don’t know.
I'd never heard of the street, had not heard of SE30 if it came to it. Bloody conspiracy if you ask me. There was no mention in the soggy index of my Streetfinder. My aged A-to-Z, the outer pages congealed together with oil, water and chocolate, wasn’t any better. I was going to have to return to the office.
I promised my legs they could have a few days off if they didn't pack in. I eventually staggered back in and was about to pick up the phone to complain to the controller about wasting all my time when I saw another note attached to a new copy of Geographer's Guide To South East London. There it was, between Catford and Brockley, an area of London I didn’t even know existed. I grabbed the Geographer’s Guide as I went, not trusting myself to remember exactly where this obscure little place was.
The bike was cid and wet again. I told it that I was cold and wet too, and suggested that the sooner it condescended to start, the sooner we could both go home. I also muttered that I was a tad fed up with unreliable transport, and I'd seen a very nice GS for sale in the local bike shop... it took the hint and we slid off into the darkening day, heading for a bridge to take us over the Thames and towards good ole SE30.
Black Dog Lane was harder to find than I'd expected. The nearby A287 turned out to be much smaller than the map had indicated, and by the time I'd struggled onto it, page 44 in the map book was looking very sad indeed. Water had soaked the whole book and scrabbling through the pages with my gloved hands I managed to shred most of the relevant section.
Through the sheets of rain that were falling I could barely see the grid section with Black Dog Lane in it - but worse, I could see even less of the actual roads. I plunged on into the unknown, riding down what I hoped was the A287. After about three miles of nondescript, suburban side roads, I was about to give up. I hadn’t seen any landmarks, road names, signposts or friendly traffic wardens who might know where I was going. The bike had started to whimper; it was either completely water logged or running out of petrol. Quite frankly, I wanted to whimper too.
I was about to radio in and admit defeat when to my unbounded joy I spotted a worn sign that said "Carlton Mansions." It may not have been Carton House but it was a start. A nagging whisper told me that it wasn’t big enough to contain enough flats to have the number I needed, but I resisted listening to the voice of reason - my mind was made up; I didn’t want to know the facts!
I parked the bike - I didn’t need to turn it off as it died before the wheels stopped turning. Grabbing the soggy parcel and disentangling it from the mass of bungees that had supported it across town, I sprinted (well, as close to a sprint as I could manage) up the stone steps to the imposing front door of Carlton Mansions. The entry phone didn’t list the flat I wanted. I stared at the labels, unable to believe that, this close to accomplishing mission impossible, I was going to be foiled by the nonexistence of the flat.
Through the red haze that was forming across my eyes, I spotted a lonely door bell, nestling on a door frame with the right number written in black marker next to it. I almost fainted with relief and delight. My hand actually shook as I pressed the bell. course, no-one answered the door. I didn’t really expect anyone to, and I didn’t really care. The pesky parcel, that has caused me so much trouble, was folded, bent, mutilated and finally thrust — through the oversize letterbox. I cackled wildly, skipped back to the bike (which actually started first time without complaining) and rode off in the general direction of my home.
Two blocks down the road I realised that something was missing. I was certain that it was something obvious, something vitally important, something that I could not do without... why was m clutch hand so cold? Oh my God, of course, in my hurry to escape from SE30, I'd clean forgotten to pick my glove up - it was probably sitting in the porch of Carlton Mansions. I couldn't face further complications after the day’s events so I continued homeward, promising myself I'd return in the morning and retrieve the abandoned item.
Well, the best laid plans of mice and DRs... the next morning I rose from my sleeping pit (it's a bit of an exaggeration to call it a bed) and almost frolicked to the bike. I wished it a cheery good morning and it regarded me with world weary disbelief. I was in good spirits. I was planning on picking my glove up, zooming to the city and earning a minor fortune. I was going to have a good day. Oh no I wasn't.
SE30 struck again. I couldn't find the bloody place! I rode round and round in a huge circle, looking for a landmark from the night before, but I couldn't spot anything that would lead me to the A287 or Black Dog bleedin’ Lane. I dug the Geographers Guide out of the fabled top box yet again, but to no avail. Page 44 had given up the ghost and succumbed to a night of soggy torture, leaving a a mess in its place.
Peeved beyond belief, I did the only sensible thing. I gave up. I hadn't liked that glove much anyway, even if it was half of a very expensive, utterly waterproof and snug pair of Supermitts, which had come strongly recommended by all the magazines. No, I decided that my sanity was more important that a mangy old glove, and bid the absent article a fond farewell.
Later in the day, a sudden fit of conscience struck me, and I remembered that I'd virtually stolen the Geographer’s Guide. I wasn’t worried that they might report a theft but they might report it to my boss or stop using the company a With the work situation the way it was, we needed all the clients we could get. So I decided to drop in on their offices next time I skidded past Soho, return the map book, and maybe I'd moan a little about how difficult the address had been to find. (No other courier I’ve spoken to since has ever heard of SE30 or any Black Dog Lane - nor have I found either in any atlas since then.)
When I wobbled to a stop in Soho, all evidence of the company’s existence had disappeared, no name and no furniture in the office. No-one in the building had a forwarding address. There’s more too, while I was in the office, the map book which I'd absent-midedly left on the bike seat was taken, so my last connection was severed. At least they paid up the invoice, including all the extra time I'd claimed for running around in circles, much to my astonishment. That has to be the least believable aspect of the whole escapade...
Rowena H
And to complete the misery, I'd been on standby in W1 for nearly an hour. All I could think of was Friday's wage packet, which I could imagine would be smaller than a stunted bonsai unless I got a job soon. It was also raining.
Quite an understatement, it was throwing it down. The feeble huddle of trees I was attempting to hide under weren't doing a very good job of sheltering me from the torrent - in fact they were looking pretty miserable themselves. Life was not looking rosy.
Suddenly, the radio crackled, hissed a bit, and produced a distorted noise that might have represented a human voice at the other end. "29-29-29-29," it blared at an outrageous volume that caused several secretaries in nearby offices to tut and huff, closing windows with an offended air. "29-29-29-29," screamed the controller again.
I realised with a shock that it was my call sign he was broadcasting. I scrambled in an undignified manner for the handset. “Ah, 29, where are you now?" Where I've been for the past hour, I thought, a dark cloud hovering above my head. Swallowing my irritation I answered Portman Square. "Oh, someone else is closer to this job, then. Standby." Bollocks, I thought, foiled again.
Water ran into my boot and squelched around my toes. Misery loomed heavy on the horizon and I was vastly tempted to piss off home. But the thought of returning to an empty flat where I'd have to sit in the cold because I was too worried about the heating bill made me even more depressed.
I stared at my feet then wished I hadn't cos I saw a split in the side of my boot. "Aha," I thought, “that is where the water's getting in." More money required and I was not earning any at all. I thought about emigrating to Australia (try Bangkok, much more fun - Ed) but I couldn't afford the airfare. Perhaps I should just take my (semi) waterproofs off and contract pneumonia. At least it'd be warm in hospital.
"29-29-29-29" squawked the radio again. I answered morosely, expecting another false alarm. "Direct Communications to cracklehiss-crackle." "Rog," I replied, having only heard half the message, but not really caring. From past experience I knew it'd be a short run across London as they used us very rarely and then for local jobs. No doubt this would be an urgent delivery from Soho to Regent Street or some such. The day got blacker.
Once on the bike I pressed the starter. We'd been stationary for so long that the engine had cooled and become wet, so the only response was a soggy splutter. Emptying the remains of an ancient can of WD40 over the bike did the trick, the bike clunked into gear and off we chugged.
Five minutes and one hairy moment on a wet zebra crossing later, we slid to a halt in Soho. I wasn’t being flash in gliding to a stop, I lost control on the last corner and simply flung the bike at the kerb and hoped. Standard practice really. Lucky for me that my bike knows what it’s doing better than I do, and often stays up against all the laws of physics simply to ao that it can drive better than can. At least it has an aversion to being dropped - I know some bikes whose characters are exactly opposite and suicidally charge at lamp-posts and Volvos.
Dripping as I moved, I rested the bike on its stand and squelched into the building, stepping in an unavoidable puddle as I did. Water positively gushed through the split in my boots. The pick-up was on the fourth floor and the lift was out of order. Halfway up my heart was pumping frantically and I was starting to pant. When I reached the I was in need of oxygen. I finally waddled into the reception area, a tatty desk in one corner, a broken armchair...
There was no-one to be seen. I dripped further into their suite of offices, leaving a small marshland in my wake. There was no-one there either but I eventually spotted a note with "Biker" on it. It told me to deliver the parcel to Carton House, Black Dog Lane, SE30. An A3 sized envelope with "Don't Bend" scrawled on it in red. How they expected a bike to transport something that size I don’t know.
I'd never heard of the street, had not heard of SE30 if it came to it. Bloody conspiracy if you ask me. There was no mention in the soggy index of my Streetfinder. My aged A-to-Z, the outer pages congealed together with oil, water and chocolate, wasn’t any better. I was going to have to return to the office.
I promised my legs they could have a few days off if they didn't pack in. I eventually staggered back in and was about to pick up the phone to complain to the controller about wasting all my time when I saw another note attached to a new copy of Geographer's Guide To South East London. There it was, between Catford and Brockley, an area of London I didn’t even know existed. I grabbed the Geographer’s Guide as I went, not trusting myself to remember exactly where this obscure little place was.
The bike was cid and wet again. I told it that I was cold and wet too, and suggested that the sooner it condescended to start, the sooner we could both go home. I also muttered that I was a tad fed up with unreliable transport, and I'd seen a very nice GS for sale in the local bike shop... it took the hint and we slid off into the darkening day, heading for a bridge to take us over the Thames and towards good ole SE30.
Black Dog Lane was harder to find than I'd expected. The nearby A287 turned out to be much smaller than the map had indicated, and by the time I'd struggled onto it, page 44 in the map book was looking very sad indeed. Water had soaked the whole book and scrabbling through the pages with my gloved hands I managed to shred most of the relevant section.
Through the sheets of rain that were falling I could barely see the grid section with Black Dog Lane in it - but worse, I could see even less of the actual roads. I plunged on into the unknown, riding down what I hoped was the A287. After about three miles of nondescript, suburban side roads, I was about to give up. I hadn’t seen any landmarks, road names, signposts or friendly traffic wardens who might know where I was going. The bike had started to whimper; it was either completely water logged or running out of petrol. Quite frankly, I wanted to whimper too.
I was about to radio in and admit defeat when to my unbounded joy I spotted a worn sign that said "Carlton Mansions." It may not have been Carton House but it was a start. A nagging whisper told me that it wasn’t big enough to contain enough flats to have the number I needed, but I resisted listening to the voice of reason - my mind was made up; I didn’t want to know the facts!
I parked the bike - I didn’t need to turn it off as it died before the wheels stopped turning. Grabbing the soggy parcel and disentangling it from the mass of bungees that had supported it across town, I sprinted (well, as close to a sprint as I could manage) up the stone steps to the imposing front door of Carlton Mansions. The entry phone didn’t list the flat I wanted. I stared at the labels, unable to believe that, this close to accomplishing mission impossible, I was going to be foiled by the nonexistence of the flat.
Through the red haze that was forming across my eyes, I spotted a lonely door bell, nestling on a door frame with the right number written in black marker next to it. I almost fainted with relief and delight. My hand actually shook as I pressed the bell. course, no-one answered the door. I didn’t really expect anyone to, and I didn’t really care. The pesky parcel, that has caused me so much trouble, was folded, bent, mutilated and finally thrust — through the oversize letterbox. I cackled wildly, skipped back to the bike (which actually started first time without complaining) and rode off in the general direction of my home.
Two blocks down the road I realised that something was missing. I was certain that it was something obvious, something vitally important, something that I could not do without... why was m clutch hand so cold? Oh my God, of course, in my hurry to escape from SE30, I'd clean forgotten to pick my glove up - it was probably sitting in the porch of Carlton Mansions. I couldn't face further complications after the day’s events so I continued homeward, promising myself I'd return in the morning and retrieve the abandoned item.
Well, the best laid plans of mice and DRs... the next morning I rose from my sleeping pit (it's a bit of an exaggeration to call it a bed) and almost frolicked to the bike. I wished it a cheery good morning and it regarded me with world weary disbelief. I was in good spirits. I was planning on picking my glove up, zooming to the city and earning a minor fortune. I was going to have a good day. Oh no I wasn't.
SE30 struck again. I couldn't find the bloody place! I rode round and round in a huge circle, looking for a landmark from the night before, but I couldn't spot anything that would lead me to the A287 or Black Dog bleedin’ Lane. I dug the Geographers Guide out of the fabled top box yet again, but to no avail. Page 44 had given up the ghost and succumbed to a night of soggy torture, leaving a a mess in its place.
Peeved beyond belief, I did the only sensible thing. I gave up. I hadn't liked that glove much anyway, even if it was half of a very expensive, utterly waterproof and snug pair of Supermitts, which had come strongly recommended by all the magazines. No, I decided that my sanity was more important that a mangy old glove, and bid the absent article a fond farewell.
Later in the day, a sudden fit of conscience struck me, and I remembered that I'd virtually stolen the Geographer’s Guide. I wasn’t worried that they might report a theft but they might report it to my boss or stop using the company a With the work situation the way it was, we needed all the clients we could get. So I decided to drop in on their offices next time I skidded past Soho, return the map book, and maybe I'd moan a little about how difficult the address had been to find. (No other courier I’ve spoken to since has ever heard of SE30 or any Black Dog Lane - nor have I found either in any atlas since then.)
When I wobbled to a stop in Soho, all evidence of the company’s existence had disappeared, no name and no furniture in the office. No-one in the building had a forwarding address. There’s more too, while I was in the office, the map book which I'd absent-midedly left on the bike seat was taken, so my last connection was severed. At least they paid up the invoice, including all the extra time I'd claimed for running around in circles, much to my astonishment. That has to be the least believable aspect of the whole escapade...
Rowena H
Suzuki GS750
Everything was fine for the first 75 miles, then 20 miles down the M6 the heavens opened. I was young and brave (read daft), so did not even consider slowing down from my 80-85mph cruising speed. I approached one of those motorway curves that are normally great fun and found myself gliding from left to right across the three lanes towards a fearsome looking armco central barrier.
This was my first experience of aquaplaning; I was scared shitless. All the time I was doing nothing not knowing what to do - the barrier was getting nearer and nearer and the ground was zipping past rather too fast for me. I ever so gently shut the throttle, bit by bit until my tyres (T100s) regained their grip with the tarmac allowing me to point the damn thing in vaguely the right direction.
Three fags and two cups of coffee soothed my shaking body enough for me to leave the service area. As soon as the sun shone again, I was able to venture back up to 90mph without fear and loathing setting in.
The bike was basically a good handler and could be piloted through A-road bends with great elan, perfectly stable up to 90mph. It was such a nice bike to ride that I was always willing to find an excuse to go for a trip.
I had a whole summer when all I did was change the tyres (rear 4500 miles, front 8500 miles) and fit a Piper 4-1 that upped the power throughout the rev range and sounded really naughty in the upper reaches. I took it off the road in winter as I don’t like falling off, and was working locally.
In spring it wouldn't go at all. My dad came to the rescue - "Drain the carbs, petrol on and belt the carb bowl with this big wooden handle screwdriver.” I gave him a strange look but could see he was keen. The colour of the gunge was reminiscent of the time I had too much Pernod and blackcurrant one night. I kept tapping until real petrol appeared. The bike worked well after that.
I started a holiday in France really well. I'd put in some new brake pads for the occasion and forgot about pumping the lever. I ran into the garage door smashing an indicator off. I fixed it at a Suzuki dealer en route. I really enjoyed the trip down, the bike, as ever, was running sweet as a nut. I did not think much of London (who does? 2018 Ed.), but then I’m a country boy at heart and, anyway, was soon on the Dover to Calais ferry.
Once in France I had great fun until I hit the Paris ring road. It has a rather quaint drainage system whereby grooves are cut in the road at right angles to the direction of travel. This took me by surprise and rather upset the GS. It was behaving and wandering in a most uncharacteristic manner, so I tried 50mph, no good. 60mph was a bit better; 70mph, mmmm, 80mph, no! Eventually, I found that the bike was stable with about 67mph on the speedo and was much relieved when we were on the autoroute proper.
It was the French holidays and it seemed like all the Frogs, er, French were going south on the same day as me What an eve opener, never knew 2CVs could go so fast; mad! All the southbound lanes were chock-a-block, all doing 90mph. I had never experienced anything like it in my life. I knew it wouldn't last and sure enough, twice on the way down our chosen form of transport came into its own when we used the hard shoulder to run past miles and miles of tailed-back, overheating traffic caused by the usual motorway carnage.
I stopped every 100 to 150 miles for a smoke, petrol and to avoid cramp (flat bars and forward placed footpegs are not ideal). Apart from that and the ferry, I'd been on the bike for 25 hours and was feeling a bit knackered by the time I was closing in on the campsite. I reverted back to riding on the left side of the road (throttle hand in gutter is a good motto - Ed.), ending up in a vineyard when a big red Porsche came screaming towards me and I had to take swift evasive action. That fazed me a little and I was well glad to crawl into my doss-bag that night.
There were a dozen or so English lads and bikes in our part of the campsite. We used to have drag races and burn outs until some Wops decided to dampen our spirits. Every time we went past buckets of water (at least that’s what I hoped it was) and cans of Coke would be hurled at us. We restricted our fun and games to quieter parts of the area, outside the camp.
The weather was fabulous, I did all the touristy things - Monaco etc, got drunk, scuba dived and sunbathed. But all good things come to an end and it was soon back toe the road to Calais. About 100 miles north from the Med the heat was intense, it seemed to bounce back at you off the road but the GS never missed a beat and I was really pleased with it.
It took 28 hours to get home and in Britain I was suddenly frozen to the bone; all that sun must've made me soft. I discovered far too late, that service areas in France have a garage with a pot of oil and brush so that bikers can keep their drive chains oiled. Once home I had to spend £62 repairing the damage.
It was later that same summer that I was shunted from behind by a mate on a T140V from a minor junction into the middle of a major road. Luckily, nothing was coming and the only damage was a broken number plate. The best bit was when we were pulling the bike back onto the side of the main road. A few cars that we had passed earlier on were having a good look to see if any of us were dead or something, when one of the cars shunted another. Laugh, I nearly paid my road tax!
That was 1982 and the GS was showing a few marks of a well used bike. The Piper header pipes had gone a lovely deep blue/purple colour and apart from one or two scratches on the casings, it always came up shining with a bit of Solvol, Turtle Wax and elbow grease.
In '83 it went to the South of France again this time in the company of a friend on a Laverda Jarama. He was envious of the way my little bike could keep up with him and even outrun him on occasions. He could go faster but vibes put an end to any long distance throttle action. The time he ignored it in the night, the headlamp fell out! No, the Laverda had class but the Suzuki had practicality.
By late summer '83 my bike was definitely getting slower, losing its sharp edge but as I am no mechanic I just kept polishing and riding it. I junked the chrome front guard about this time for a short plastic one to no ill effect, and that was how it was until I swapped it for a GSX1100 plus £250, which put the tired GS engine in its proper perspective.
In three years and 22000 miles I just changed the oil, plugs and filters once a year and it did me proud. Loved it even; wonder where it is now?
Stephen Ashford
Sunday 22 July 2018
Travel Tales: Adventures in the Snow
The first signs of heavy snow around my home brings out in me a sort of adventurism. I must go out and conquer the elements. The colder the better, the deeper the snow the happier I am, the further I have to ride the more excited I become. My friend, Pete, had a '75 Honda CB250G5 modified for trail riding. How? Well, you substitute the rear boot for a Dunlop Trials Universal, add a rack and a huge top box to redistribute the weight backwards. Myself, I had a Suzuki TS185S, which was quite a usable trail bike in its day.
We set off on a bright January day at around 8am, into the Welsh hills. Initially the roads were dry and then became wet, thanks to the sun melting the previous day’s snow. In Llangollen we warmed up a bit and rechecked our route on the maps. We were to climb over the Berwyns to Llanarmon Dyffyn Ceiriog and follow the route of the Wayfairer to Cynwyd, then follow the A1 back to Llangollen and home.
Up through the town, left then right, past the sign that said "unsuitable for motors," which we interpreted to mean very suitable for some fun. Climbing up this track was like running along a dried up river bed, although once upon a time it had actually been an old drovers road. The surface was loose pebbles of various sizes, covered in snow.
At the same time as the road suddenly steepened, the track became covered by trees and was free of snow. The sudden lack of light and change in road surface nearly had me off and I could only applaud the sheer balls out lunacy that allowed Pete to whack open the G5’s throttle and fishtail up the incline. With a Bridgestone front to complement the trials rear tyre, the G5 steered like a supermarket trolley with half seized rollers.
We emerged from the tree cover onto a farm track, suddenly in six inches of soft snow, both fighting for grip as there was still a bit of a gradient. Past a farm, the track became deeply rutted from the farmer’s tractor, where we rode over slippery, deeply compacted snow, our feet trailing along on the ground to give us some stability. This doubtless meant we looked pretty silly, but when we fell off, we were able to do so with our legs well clear of the bike - and we fell off very often, which was all part of the fun.
We eventually crossed over the top of the Berwyn hills, went down towards the valley through which the river Ceiriog cut, where the track down towards the village of Pontfadog became really incredibly steep. The thick layer of virgin soft snow with no tyre tracks at all meant there was no way we could stop in a conventional manner. Before my speed increased to truly insane proportions, I laid the Suzi down and slid clear into a soft but cold landing in the snow. I then helped Pete slow down by grabbing hold of his rack as he sped past, and digging my heels into the ground. This was repeated several times until we reached level ground.
In Pontfadog we joined the B4500 which is a really great biking road, a good smooth surface with every kind of bend and very few straights. My Suzuki was fairly standard except for the gearing that had been altered to give a low top speed of 65mph, but this was sufficient to allow me to enjoy the road, Pete only overtaking me on the odd bit of straight. It was now one oclock, lots of time wasted warming our right hand and stamping our feet. We'd kept our left hands warm by clamping it on the cylinder heads (don’t try this if your gloves are plastic) as we sped along. As darkness didn’t fall until 4.30pm we had no worries because we'd be on the B4401 on the other side of the Berwyns in the Vale of the Dee well before then. That’s what we thought.
At Llanarmon DC we stopped at the pub for home-made soup and crusty bread in front of the log fire. Out of Llanarmon, we turned right onto an unclassified road, virtually impassable to four wheel traffic. The road is ten miles long, the first 2 and last 3 miles surfaced and the rest dirt track often washed away by a nearby river my favourite bit of trail.
The first part was relatively flat and free of snow, even the sun was shining dimly. When the road surface changed to dirt track, it also became a steep hill with high banks on either side. This part of the road was often turned into a river but what we saw exceeded our greatest fears - from one bank to the other a solid sheet of ice stretched for two to three hundred yards! We parked the bikes and with great difficulty walked to the top, beyond which the track appeared clear, so we decided to give it a try.
I tried first by taking a run at it, and did quite well by getting to the half-way mark, laying the bike down and slowly sliding back a few feet before coming to a halt. We slid the bike over to the side of the road where there was a ditch that allowed me to ride, with Pete pushing, to the top of the hill. Pete got a face full of frozen mud for his pains.
The Honda is much wider than the Suzuki and it wouldn’t fit in the ditch. We thought a run at it would help, but also got some branches from a hedge. Pete set off at quite a speed, much faster than I'd been going and just nailed the throttle as he hit the ice. The back wheel spun and fishtailed, the bike reached a height similar to my own, where I was waiting to grab hold of the Honda.
Pete reckoned that if the bike was at an angle with the wheels touching the right bank there might be enough traction. With branches under the rear wheel and both of us pushing, we somehow slowly moved it about six inches at a time. It was very tiring moving a bike at 45 degrees whilst trying desperately to find some grip underfoot. We kept slipping and dropping the Honda, but as we neared the top we seemed to get the knack and eventually breached the summit. This took about an hour and it was now 2.30pm, but I reckoned we had at least two hours of daylight, which was plenty of time... who says you can't trail ride in the dark?
Snow drifts were more evident as we came out into more open country, but only one caused a problem to Pete on the Honda, and with a push from me he got through. The lighter Suzuki didn’t sink so deep in the drifts and its narrowness and higher ground clearance meant it was much easier to ride. Pete was doing really well keeping up with me, as I was travelling as fast as possible to make up for lost time.
I had to keep looking behind to check on Pete (no mirrors), all was fine for two miles until I saw that he was falling behind. I had to stop to let him catch up - his engine sounded a bit sick as if it was only running on one pot. He reckoned it would clear soon, so I followed after him, ready to get off to push the Honda up the last uphill section we could see about half a mile away.
Where a stream crossed the track, immersing the Honda in 12 inches of water, the motor cut out and he only just had enough momentum to clear the water. The engine refused to restart and, naturally, we hadn’t come prepared for a major breakdown. The problem appeared to be the solid snow packed coils under the tank, thrown up by the front wheel. After clearing it away there was no improvement; we decided to leave it there, returning the next day with WD40, new plugs and a proper selection of tools.
I got on the Suzuki and kicked and kicked and kicked... now it was my turn. We tried for a while but it just wouldn't start. We decided to find a phone to contact a friend who had a car - the phone box was three miles back. We hurried along the track because we didn’t want to become lost as darkness descended. You could feel the landscape change as the sun closed down and everything began to freeze up. We tried running but our footwear was useless for that kind of fun, so we ended up walking as fast as possible.
Pete had been complaining about a wet right foot when he slipped for the umpteenth time on his smooth soled boots - he split the boot down the inside seam from toe to heel. We eventually reached the phone box, frozen through and praying that vandals hadn't wrecked one’s of British Telecom’s flimsy phones. They hadn’t and we arranged to meet our friend in the pub in Llanarmon DC.
Pete's foot was thawed out and his sock had dried by the log fire, by the time our mate and some friends arrived in the Land Rover. Over plenty of drinks we took our time relating our story and he exclaimed that his Land Rover could get up anything the Honda could manage. It was decided to try to rescue the two bikes!
The Land Rover didn’t make it up the hill, it ended up wedged between the two banks. We all had to get out and push it clear. No way it was going to make it, so we started to walk to the bikes armed with that modern miracle, WD40. Pete went all quiet as his foot froze again and eventually said he'd return to the Land Rover.
The bikes were still there and once sprayed started straight away. The Honda stopped straight away because the fuse blew but a bit of silver paper soon sorted that. As there were four of us, the most experienced riders took over. I was on the back of the Honda and experienced the craziest ride I've ever had trying to keep up with the complete madman on the Suzi - he fell off six times on the way back, which was the only reason we managed to keep up. Once he had to stop to put out a fire under the seat.
As the Land Rover was a short wheelbase job it was decided to ride home in a convoy in case the bikes played up. Because we had to stop to warm up all the time, the Land Rover driver said he'd go ahead and wait for us at the chippy. Pete kept stopping to get warm, he was shivering and acting strangely, his frozen foot was really beginning to affect him.
When we passed the chippy, which was closed, with no sign of our mates he became even more morose and soon after refused to continue. I’d never seen him like this and it scared me. I persuaded him to get on the back of the Suzuki, and we rode a few more miles to Wrexham where we found a taxi office open (it was now after 2am), where we warmed a while in front of the heater, whilst we waited for a taxi to return.
By the time we got home Pete was well again after some nasty fits of shivering. He says he doesn't remember much of the last part of the ride, and must've been suffering from hypothermia. The bikes were picked up the next day, none the worse for wear, although the Honda’s wiring loom burnt out a few weeks later. Our mates apparently found the chippy closed, went looking for another one and missed us. Pete's wife banned him from trail riding with me...
Bernard M Wright
Sunday 15 July 2018
Travel Tales: Budget Portugal
How you get to Portugal depends on how much money and time you have to spare. If you're lucky enough to have both then the drive down through France and Spain can be enjoyable. The secret is to plan your journey time carefully. Give yourself enough time to savour the very different delights both countries have to offer.
But, if like me, poverty is a way of life rather than an abstract philosophy (copyright the Conservative Party), then there really is only one way - the Brittany Ferries sailing from Plymouth to Santander in the north of Spain. This takes 24 hours and sails twice a week (sailing times differ depending on the time of year). Price at the time of writing is £138 single or £276 return. Open returns are available and recommended. Just make sure they shut the doors. Discounts are available and can be considerable. I hear that Bike magazine do have dealings with the ferry companies but since I'm over 18 I'm not allowed to buy it, so you'll have to find out for yourself.
How you ge into Portugal after you get to Santander is all a matter of personal preference. You can hang a right out of Santander and take the coast road, the N635 (E50) to the north of Portugal but, and here’s the rub, very few people in that neck of the wood speak English and getting fed, drunk, housed and directions can be tedious and frustrating.
Better to start in the Algarve, where English is widely spoken and you can begin to practise the Portugese you learnt at evening class. But seriously, folks, make an effort to learn at least a bit of the language - it'll make the difference between having a good time and having a complete and utter ball. Courses are available in most large towns, your local library will have the details.
One route you can take is as follows: Take the N623 through Burgos to Madrid (about 200 miles), then take the E25 to Cordoba (but, please, please, watch out for a very nasty junction at Bailen) - 260 miles. Then through Cordoba to Sevilla and then take the N431 to Vila Real, a mere 160 miles. These mileages are just a rough estimate to give you some idea, and I only recommend this. route because I like to spend at least one night in Madrid if I’m in Spain!
Remember, also, to give yourself plenty of time to get used to driving on the right, especially pulling out from gas stations and junctions. First impressions upon arrival in the Algarve are not good. Try to imagine Wigan basking in 120F and you have some idea what Vila Real is like. It’s what I would call a working town, though it does have a good plaza in the middle of the city with cheap sidewalk cafes. If you're so tired you can't ride any further, book into a pension and go to the town cinema (the last place I'd go - Ed) as going to the cinema in Portugal is a must as films are almost always in English and have half hour in-_ tervals to let you get pissed at the inevitable bar.
Once out of Vila Real head along the N125 to Faro. This will give you your first taste of Portugese driving. If you thought the Spanish were bad they've got nothing on these guys. One incident will stay with me forever. Most of the main roads in Portugal consist of two lanes with a hard shoulder (of loose red dirt) on either side. I had just turned a fairly tight right hander to be confronted with a bus doing about 70mph, overtaking a heavily laden lorry. It would normally have been quite easy to avoid by pulling onto the hard shoulder but no-one, and I mean no-one, can predict the driving antics of the Portugese driver. On the outside of the bus - on the hard shoulder was a BMW motor doing 100mph overtaking the bus! Luckily, I was driving a car at the time, so locked everything up and ended on the verge on the wrong side of the road (the only space left) I watched in horror as the BMW went round the corner on the wrong side of the road followed at high speed by the bus. And this is where I begin to have my doubts about life, the universe and the idea of riding a motorcycle abroad.
Behind the first bus was another bus doing exactly the same thing! Staring open mouthed in astonishment rapidly becomes a normal part of your day. If you manage to make it as far as Faro, my advice is to drop a gear and power on through. Because the airport is right on its doorstep the rip-off merchants are out in force. Prices in the shops and cafes are just stupid compared to the rest of the country. If you want a quick bite to eat and a drink, go to the cafe/bar opposite the railway station.
If this begins to sound a little grim, never fear, there's worse. It’s called Albuferia. Fortunately, the main road goes past it, so you dont actually have to visit it. But it's a great place to see Monty Python's Watney's Red Barrel sketch on a grand scale and get hassled by time share salesmen.
Fortunately, the rest of the Algarve is free from these rascals. If you want to find the limit of your temper then take a walk down to the beach at Albuferia, the shitheads just wont give up, but you can have some fun at their expense. Say your interested but are really starving and are just gong to grab some lunch - without fail they will pay for it and a bottle of wine in the hope you'll get drunk enough to sign up (although it does help to be over six foot when playing out this ploy). And that’s the worst over with.
Portimao is the next town you hit, renowned for its seafood. Go down to the quayside and have lunch at the open air restaurants, gorge on king prawns and barbecued sardines, washed down with the local wine. Great stuff(ing) and all for two or three quid.
Unless terminally homesick, avoid all the English owned bars for two reasons - they are two or three times as expensive as the local places and are nearly always owned by complete pricks - and this goes for anywhere in the Algarve. About this time, with a bit of luck, you'll discover the Task. These are really slummy bars but great fun. If you want character these are the places to go. Even asking for directions to the nearest Task will bring a me grin to the face of your friendly native and do your street cred no harm at all. If you want something a little more civilised - tut, tut - then there's a huge choice of eateries.
Apart from the Portugese, the many Indonesian restaurants are damn good value. And don’t worry about overstaying your welcome as the Portugese expect you to stay all night. Every small village has at least two restaurants and it’s well worth getting on your bike and finding some out of the way place. The only thing on the menu that might stretch your budget is lobster (Lavagante) This is priced in kilos and this can catch out the unwary. Still, it’s delicious.
Leaving Portimao on the N125 (N stands for National, some of which is like our motorways but mostly it’s similar to our A roads) you'll see the signpost for the 902 to Monchique. Take this road and you'll see some of the most beautiful scenery in the world. Drive up through the rugged and wooded Serra de Monchique and can almost see the greed in Bogart’s eyes (anyone care to explain this? Ed). This is a Spa town famous for its pure and natural water. Accommodation is fairly limited, although there is a good hotel that can be used outside the peak tourist season (it’s a bit of a tourist trap but commonsense will see you through). Back down the 902 and onto the N125 towards Lagos.
This gives a fine chance to sample village life. About ten miles along this road, turn off to Mexilhoeira Grande and have a drink in one of the roadside bars. You will soon be accosted by the local bike maniacs. These guys drive around on heavily tuned 125s of homegrown or Spanish origin; no Jap crap here. Speaking of home grown, those of us who like to put our Rizlas together three at a time will find the quality here a bit of a revelation, as well as cheaper. But be warned, the jail in Vila Real is full of German hippies who thought they were still in Spain.
But I digress, you may be tempted to have a go on one of these bikes but be careful, Portugese riders think that brakes are for Nancy boys. And I speak from bitter experience. The first time I rode one of these things I found a 200rpm power band, no brakes and a dry river bed that resulted in a broken arm, bike and bank balance (insurance is also reserved for closet benders). Mexilhoeira Grande is also the home of the infamous Campismo.
Words fail me when I try to describe it. All I can say is that if it’s open, try it. Apart from Bastardos I wouldn't really recommend using campsites. They insist that any food/booze you consume on site be bought from their on-site shop (expensive). No noise after 10.30pm (radios, motorcycles, etc). And they charge for the tent, the number or people in it and the bike. Much better to stay in pensions.
These are cheap, clean and you get a comfortable bed. Best place is to get one at the local railway or bus stations where the landladies tout for business (an ambivalent statement if ever there was one - Ed). Don't be put off by their insistent style, it’s just the way they are. As most are middle-aged they don’t speak English. Thus, do you have somewhere to park my motorcycle is, "Tem em qualquer lado sem perigo estacionar minha motocicleta?" Incidentally, in all the time I was in Portugal I never had anything stolen, quite the reverse, in fact - twice I lost my bag containing passport and cash and twice I had it returned intact.
If Vila Real is a working town then Lagos is where you go to have fun. Most of the town centre is traffic free and at the cafes and bars you can make and meet friends from all over the world - mostly Germany. The Krauts are out in force, although they’re not such a bad lot, but jokes about the war leave them baffled, as does humming the Dam Busters theme every time they walk past.
Places to visit are the well preserved Slave market (the original Jobcentre) and the old fort. The nightlife is great, as you'd expect in a town crammed full of young, adventurous people. Actual nightclubs are few and far between, but with bars and restaurants open to the early hours who needs to spend £5 to stand on a sweaty, crowded floor listening to George Michael (you sure it's not covered in vomit - Ed) at five billion watts. Greens can check out the veggie restaurant close to the main police station.
Most of the police are OK. They come in three different types. The ones dressed in green with the pill-box hats are mostly simple chaps who try and ignore the fact that tourists exist. Requests for directions will be greeted with a blank stare. The regular Guarda are dressed in blue and include the traffic section. If your documents are in order then the worst you'll get is an on the spot fine for speeding. If they are not then you will get a lot of hassle, but on the whole they’re OK. Also dressed in blue but issued with mirror shades and commando style berets are the PCP. These bastards are only found in the Algarve in the summer months.
How bad these guys are is borne out by the wild rumours that circulate as to where these guys come from - the one that was going around before I left was that they were murderers who had to do this duty before they got parole. This is quite credible - avoid like the plague.
After the excesses of Lagos, where better to let it all drift away than the End Of The World. No, it's not the apocalypse, just what Cabo de sao Vicente used to be called before Christopher Columbus discovered America and, by some strange twist of fate, this was where he learnt how to do it (well, he probably learnt how to do it in Lagos). This is where he went to the School of Navigation set up by Henry the Navigator.
The ruins of the school stand atop cliffs that drop down a 100 feet, Straight down into the Atlantic Ocean. It’s the kind of place that makes you feel you're the small, insignificant speck you always suspected you were. It must have taken some gall to set out across a massive ocean with little idea of what you were going to find (happily they found Brazil and all had a far out time screwing the Incas.)
There is a Youth Hostel in the old school but you'll have to book during the summer months. A YHA card is quite a useful thing to have. It’s only a few quid and you can join at your local Youth Hostel. The card is valid all over Europe and gives you access to cheap if basic accommodation.
From here take the N268 up to Aljezur. This is a great bike road that runs for the most part alongside the ocean. I remember riding up it one morning with the temperature hitting the nineties, wearing only a pair of shorts, Hawaaian beach shirt and a pair of the ubiquitous shades. By the time I got to Aljezur my teeth were speckled by flies because I couldn't keep the grin off my face.
By the time you get to Aljezur you will be on the N120 to one of my favourite places outside the ALgarve - Grandola is famous for nothing in particular except having amidst its populace the most honest person I've ever met. It had been three years since I was last there and I'd only been in town about ten minutes when a taxi pulled up beside me. I was about to wave it away when the driver leapt out and thrust a pair of sunglasses into my hand. “Here you are," he said, "you left these in the cab the last time you were here!" Things like this happen all the time in Portugal but you never quite get used to it.
Grandola has good nightlife for its size, the restaurants are well cheap and the bars appear to be open 24 hours a day. A few miles down the 825 is the Praia de Melides, a beach much used by the Portugese - and they should know where to go. The fresh water lake only 50 yards from the beach gives it a great advantage. There is a campsite here but you can camp on the beach - illegal but generally accepted on this particular beach.
Either take the N120 and then the E52/E4 (tolled motorway) to Lisbon or, preferably, the more enjoyable route of the 261 and then the oe to Setubal, joining the E4 further up for the spectacular ride into the heart of Lisbon. Driving over the massive bridge, joining Almada and Lisbon is quite an event in itself. Looking back and to the right you'll see the huge statue of Christ, a slightly smaller version of the one in Rio de Janerio. Looking down whilst crossing the bridge can have interesting results. The roadway is cast grid-iron which means when you're moving at speed and look down there seems to be nothing between you and a 300 feet drop into the water. I only mention this because when I first did it, I almost fell off - forewarned is forearmed.
Lisbon is Disneyland for adults. You can have some serious fun in this town. The Bairro Alto district is where it’s happening. A magazine article I once read described it as Lisbon’s Soho, but this is like fish paste to freshly caught salmon. The Bairro Alto is a wonderful, friendly place - the worst thing about it was having to leave. There are far too many places to visit to list here, so I won't. Just go there with an open mind and enjoy.
Again, I would recommend staying in a pension. The Tourist Info place will give you a list with phone numbers, although if you do phone try to get a Portugese speaker to help you. Last time I was there I paid three quid a night and they didn’t care what time I rolled in. If you're rich, hotels are about £40 to £50 a night for a double. During the summer months you'll have to book well in advance.
At the Gulbenkian Art Gallery, you can feed your face as well as your mind, lunch is so good you will find yourself eating there every day. Other places that might not be in a regular guide include the amazing fun fair that’s straight out of the 1920's. The roller coaster might not be the biggest in the world but it’s definitely the most terrifying - how long you're on it depends on how long the attendant’s in the bar across the road. And you can go see A Clockwork Orange, a film that is banned in Britain, but on in Lisbon all the year round - don’t ask me why.
Going out at night to drink is best done by leaving the bike at home, instead use of the cheap and sometimes cheerful, taxis. They'll save a lot of hassle and won’t try to rip you off. As a matter of fact, they will only charge eight quid to take you the five miles to the new Potugese GP at Sintra (and not, as Bike magazine put it, probably in Spain).
Estoril and Cascai are in the same neck of the wood and are often billed as the Portugese Riviera, but they're not really in the same class, maybe they're talking about the prices on the seafront.
Well, if you’ve read so far you should have avoided most of the horrors and tasted some of the real Portugal. My advice now is load the bike and go and explore. There are many delights to be found inland from the coast and friendships to be made that will last for years.
Make the effort to speak the language and you'll find a race of people devoid of any of the greed and avarice that has become the norm in our beleaguered isle. And when you get home? You can snap your fingers at principles and prejudices, smile indulgently, thrust your hands in your pockets and see yourself as a shrewd man of the world. You have moved around for a brief while in the comfortable and warm life of the South. And never after this will your bike drive along clear or troubled roads without at least one coloured pennant fluttering its confident defiance - Sim, Gosto Muito!
Just a couple of things before you go. You will need a Green Card to make your insurance valid. Driving through Spain will require a Bail Bond - if you don’t have one and have an accident then the Spanish police will probably throw you in a cell for a few days/weeks/months. I was going to recommend a get-you-home-breakdown scheme but the more I think about it the more I’m convinced it would be cheaper to take it to the nearest train station and take it home yourself.
Anyway, with all the engineering shops around it would have to be pretty major before you'd have to resort to that. So, I think I would save the cash for some Madronha, a weird drink that should be left to the professional dipso - don't blame me if you wake up in the wrong place with some strange woman, you've brought it on yourself.
Tony McAnulty
Saturday 14 July 2018
Travel Tales: End to End on a Bonnie
Inspired by the writings of Ted Simon, Hawk and I were discussing what epic adventure to embark on to test my two year old T140 Bonnie. As the length of time available was only a week, a trip around the world had to be ruled out. Due to lack of readies we decided not to tour Europe, so we were stuck in Britain - the obvious choice was the end-to-end run from Lands End to John O’Groats. 874 miles as the crow flies.
We departed early on June 1st. To save time we caught the train from Liverpool to Penzance, where we stayed the first night. The first problem struck at Lime Street station, where we searched in vain for a ramp to heave the bike into the guard's van. Eventually we quizzed a GPO man standing nearby, who whilst refusing assistance on the grounds that it was a railman’s job, directed us to a well concealed ramp.
Nine hours later, we staggered off the train at Penzance, the bike attracting some admiring glances from the station staff. After depositing our luggage (which was hidden in tank bag panniers and tote bag on the rack) at the Pirates Hotel, we went for a quick blast down the twisty roads to Lands End. There were blue skies and the sun was shining as we set off, leaving our waterproofs behind. Everything looked set for a week of fine biking weather - needless to say, on the way back we got soaked by a sudden downpour. By the time we arrived back the hotel bar was open and we spent a few hours sampling local ales. Whilst this was immensely enjoyable it meant our plans for an 8am start next morning were abandoned.
In fact, it was nearing 10 o'clock when we set off for Lands End where, after taking pictures of the bike outside the First and Last Inn, First and Last cafe, etc., we set off on the A30 to Exeter, then the motorway to Bristol, where we enjoyed a brief diversion to the Cheddar Gorge. I succeeded in breaking my camera lens while stumbling down a cliff, the only other lens I had with me was a 135mm tele, so every photo after this entailed a long walk away from the bike.
We were taking it in turns to ride, but Hawk could not start it. He was left breathless on one occasion, with a traffic warden breathing down upon us. It started first kick when I took over much to Hawk's embarrassment. He also found slow work difficult, on one occasion I had to push us away from a coach to stop us tipping over. I was having a nervous chuckle over this when I pulled my visor down - and wondered why the world had gone white - I soon realised that an incontinent seagull was responsible. Moral - don’t laugh at other’s misfortunes.
We found our way back to the motorway and blasted our way to Manchester at 80-90mph, arriving at about 10pm. The venue was a friend’s room at the University hall of residence. After dashing to the bar for last orders we visited a nearby club, again ruining our plans for an early start.
It was almost midday before we set off and our original destination of Fort William went by the board and we stopped at Inverberg, thirty miles north of Glasgow, after being escorted through the city by two members of the local chapter on a chopped Trumpet. Whilst parking up we noticed the back half of one silencer had disappeared somewhere en route, but the baffle was still intact so we thought no more about it.
The next morning, in the middle of a heavy thunderstorm, the engine died while we were crossing a lonely moor twenty miles from Fort William, but started again after we'd given ourselves electric shocks checking for sparks holding the plug against the cylinder head. Thinking the bike was happy after meting out such punishment we carried on.
However, a couple of miles further on the motor began misfiring then cut out altogether, so we heaved it into a clearing between two cliffs and gave the wiring a wipe down and checked the ignition system again - no obvious loose connections, so we assumed the rain had finally proved too much for the electrics.
We were just putting everything back together when a coach load of hikers pulled into the clearing and we had to try to start it as twenty of the woolly hat brigade filed past. Our embarrassment was worthwhile as the coach driver took pity on us and let us borrow his can of Swarfega to clean ourselves up whilst he poured out mugs of steaming hot tea. Thank god for Scottish hospitality - it really raised our spirits and when we went back to the bike it started first time and, shock, horror, the sun even came out of hibernation.
We eventually made it to Fort William and had a bite to eat and tried to dry ourselves out. A most unfortunate incident took place in a public loo when Hawk, thinking I was occupying the next cubicle to him, launched into a lengthly monologue describing exactly how wet he was and that both sets of trousers he was wearing were soaked through. God only knows. what the Scotsman in the next cubicle thought - we left town without further delay!
Our original schedule having long ago gone by the board, we played it by ear, riding till around seven o'clock then stopping at the first guest house or hotel that appeared - that night it was a small hotel in Dornoch. We certainly appreciated a bit of civilisation after the day’s tribulations. Our room ended up like a Chinese laundry with wet clothes hanging all over the place in an attempt to dry them out, while we boozed in the bar with a member of the American Dare-Devils stunt team who happened to be staying at the hotel. His drunken parting shot was, "Y’all take care of that Triumph now, y'hear."
Friday morning we were up and away, for this was the big day - John O'Groats or bust. There was now less than 30 miles to go and just over an hour later we were posing outside the Last House souvenir and John O’Groats Hotel while one of us walked half a mile away to take photos. A couple from New Zealand asked us to take a photo of themselves standing by the bike - their son was a Bonnie owner back in Auckland who'd had his steed purloined by a tea-leaf. Apart from the hotel and souvenir shop there isn't a lot at John O'Groats so we retraced our path down the A9 to Wick with the idea of finding something to eat, but no sooner had we parked than we were accosted by a gypsy muttering an unintelligible dialect.
After listening to him for a few minutes he called his brother over and the next thing we were shaking hands and being greeted like long lost friends. The gist of what they were saying, we soon gathered, was that they had no money and we did so we should give them some. As Nigel Dempster would say, we made an excuse and left, our budget being tight, like ourselves.
On the road south we noticed a mobile shop parked in a driveway and pulled in to buy something to eat. The only other customer seemed surprised to see us queuing up behind and it was only when we got back to the bike we realised we'd been standing in her front garden - the mobile shop apparently calls at each individual house in that sparsely populated area!
We stopped for the night at a guest house in Kingussie run by the only kilted Scot we’d encountered on our travels - incongruously, he spoke with a farback English accent and it later transpired he was an old Etonian, of all things. He was very interested in our journey and wished us bon voyage next morning.
We headed south through Scotland avoiding Glasgow on the way back; the only incidents on the journey back into England were the sidestand bolt saying goodbye (we were able to retrieve the stand) and a photo stop at a lay-by on the A9 when a huge herd of cows ambled over to a fence and posed for the camera as we took turns to feed them.
By early evening we'd arrived in the Lake District and, knowing the area’s hostility to bikers, we recalled a guest house we'd stayed at on a holiday in '78 at which a couple on a GS1000 also stayed. Figuring we wouldn’t get barred, we headed for Keswick and ended up staying in the very same room, although our search that night for Good Time Charlie’s nightclub where we'd spent an eventful night out on the previous holiday was unsuccessful, so we consoled ourselves with a few pints of Old Peculiar before staggering back to our digs.
Inspired by another article that insisted the thing to do with old Triumphs was to ship them abroad and ride ‘em for thousands of miles to see what would happen, we turned off for the Lake Windermere Ferry, just to round off the trip. This turned out to be a flat decked barge with space for ten cars - at least we were able to say that we shipped the bike somewhere. By this time, the oil tight bike we set out on at Lands End was leaking from every conceivable orifice and the soaking wet deck of the ship was soon covered in rainbow coloured patterns of oil. On disembarking we had a boring run down the M6 and arrived home tired but happy, with a great feeling of achievement.
For a long time afterwards life seemed a big anti-climax - to get up in the morning and go to work instead of having a distant destination to aim for. I can understand the feeling of restlessness our hero Ted Simon experienced after years on the road. All this took place in 1981 but I still have the Bonnie, countless rebuilds and prangs later. It’s still going strong and took me and Hawk on a 750 mile circular tour to the Magna Carta rally this summer - it holds too many happy memories for me to part with it now.
Dave Pearson
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