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