The four of us who were going on the great adventure, Phil and his brother on the Hesketh (which he'd had from new for three weeks), myself and Ian on my Norton Commando Mk3 Interstate (which had just suffered from the past owner's decision not to fit an oil seal to the end of the camshaft), met at my house early on the appointed Saturday. We made a last check of the overladen bikes, climbed aboard and fired up. That's two to a bike for the less mathematically minded.
Before we took to the road, my last words to Phil were, "keep it down to about seventy, I don't want to blow the old girl up before we get there." He smiled and nodded, clanged loudly into gear, the engine sounding like he was dragging his granny up the road in an old tin bath, and rode off. I followed him watched by a mother, father and sister who were all convinced I was mad to even contemplate such a holiday on such a bike (although my mother would be relieved not to have her kitchen vibrate frighteningly every time the Norton was started up). After all, they had read the bike mags and heard the horror stories that surrounded British machinery.
The first omen, which I did not recognize as such, came as we neared the A1. The panniers fitted to the Hesketh were ex-Honda ones utilizing a frame made in rather a hurry by my father; not at all ideal. All had looked well initially, but they did appear to be moving about rather a lot when Phil hit a bump. Ian, my pillion, leaned forward, "I hope your old man’s welding is up to that." I glanced around and informed him with complete confidence that it was. I was to be proved right with unfortunate consequences.
As soon as we were out of Luton and on the A1, needless to say, Phil opened up and we were soon cruising at seventy, then eighty with the odd burst up to ninety. At first, I kept glancing down at the Commando’s engine, expecting it to suddenly give me an exploded view of its internals - after all, it was heavily loaded - but it appeared to be quite happy so I forgot about the engine and really began to enjoy the ride. Hell, it was dry if not warm, and in this country that’s pretty good going.
In spite of the heavy loads, both bikes still handled well and both proved more than comfortable, so our first stop was for petrol. As we dismounted I naturally looked the Norton’s engine over. It was still oil tight except for a slight smear on one of the exhaust rocker covers. Feeling well pleased I turned to the Hesketh. On the cases between the cylinders there was copious quantities of oil. Best not to say anything, I thought and we filled up and set off once more.
The weather remained good, the bikes were running OK and | was just beginning to think what a wonderful world it was when Jan leaned forward again, "Why’s Phil's sidestand bouncing up and down?" I quickly pulled up alongside and waved him down. We discovered that the sidestand spring had disappeared.
We tied up the stand, then removed it when we found a garage that would lend us the necessary tool - we had to take the down pipe off to get at the nut. Phil was not amused by the garage attendant’s remarks. On reaching Dumfries, after some fast road work and enjoyable scenery, we found a Jap spring that would fit. The owner of the bike shop’s comment that the Hesketh leaked a lot more oil than the Commando did not amuse Phil either.
Without further incident we arrived at the house of the owner of the holiday cottage we were to rent for the first week. An old chap answered the door and a small dog rushed past heading for the bikes. I turned back to see the dog lift its leg to urinate over the Commando. Akin to treason in my eyes; my right foot, encased in a steel capped boot, twitched. Had not the old chap returned with the keys he would have been the first owner of a Western dog in space.
After the Hesketh had shed its second spring (the new one was wired in position), the weather stayed pretty good, if not outstanding, we decided to take a run over to Hermitage castle. This turned out to be one of our longest rides of the first week and, of course, we experienced our worst weather. We had covered barely ten miles when the rain started and it just got heavier and heavier. The waterproofs didn’t live up to their name.
Travelling at about sixty on a straight open road, out of the gloom loomed the sign for Hermitage castle. Phil indicated and whacked on his three Brembo discs whilst I hauled on my single Lockheeds. It hardly slowed the bike at all initially and I had visions of sailing straight past Phil. Fortunately, one thing the Commando does have is good engine braking and as the speed dropped the pads cut through the water. Hermitage is well worth a visit, as are most Scottish castles, it’s sort of bleak and forbidding, especially in the rain. Very atmospheric.
We had some good rides around the area, culminating in a visit to Gulzean where we found that the Hesketh’s mounting brackets had cracked - not part of my father’s frames but the bits that came with the bike! The Commando was loaded with all the gear until a set of throw-over panniers could be purchased. We departed for our next rented cottage, travelling north east it grew even warmer and at last we believed the gods were truly smiling down on us. When almost at Tomintoul, our destination, we took a wrong turn and had to turn around. The Hesketh is a big bike, tall and heavy, especially top heavy with luggage piled on it.
As Phil turned the Hesketh he overbalanced and down they went. No damage, only to Phil's pride. However, as he’s six foot tall, it does show what a bitch it could be for shorter riders. Our second cottage was in the hills outside Tomintoul and very nice it was too. As was the weather for the week, we hardly saw a cloud, which from my experience is not at all normal for Scotland.
With that weather and the beautiful roads some serious riding was undertaken. I am not a superstitious man, but one incident with the Hesketh made me wonder. Phil was well leant over in a bend when the Hesketh’s centerstand dug in, lifted up a huge chunk of tarmac and threw it at my head. Believe me, seeing four or five inches of very solid ground coming towards your head at speed is not funny, especially if you’re wearing an open face helmet. It passed close to my right shoulder and nearly converted me to religion. The Hesketh appeared to attract misfortune (Only later did we discover that it’d cracked the rear of the sump through which the stand is mounted!).
Scottish roads were great fun for British bikes, often deserted of cars we were able to run along at frightening speeds with the bikes well heeled over; even two up they both handled well. The clear roads, that we could see well ahead on, meant that it was real exhilaration time on more than a couple of occasions. Despite the rumours, the people were generally friendly and the lack of towns full of look-a-like shop fronts meant everywhere was interesting and just different enough from England to keep us awake.
We were greatly disappointed by the way the Hesketh had ruined its chain in 4000 miles, despite having the swinging arm mounts on the same axis as the final drive gear. We spent an amusing afternoon of our two week holiday taking it in turns to file off the head of the rivet, in order to remove a link, so that the tension could be adjusted correctly.
All too soon it was time to head for home. The journey back was made difficult when the map disappeared and we ended up in the centre of Edinburgh where everyone in Scotland appeared to have congregated and there were hundreds of traffic lights to negotiate on criminally overladen bikes.
Both bikes started to overheat, the Commando’s tickover went up and down like a whore’s knickers, whilst the Hesketh’s clutch refused to work, making an already agricultural box very nasty indeed. After much gnashing of teeth and gears, we emerged from hell and set off on the open road again.
We stopped at a pub for dinner where we spent most of our time trying to adjust the Hesketh’s clutch - we didn’t have the correct spanner for the nut. Sixty miles later, travelling down the A1, wondering whether our buttocks would ever fully recover (nothing, absolutely nothing, is that comfortable after ten hours) when a petrol station loomed. Phil indicated and braked, I tried the same but nothing much happened and only a very firm grip on the front brake lever and mucho engine braking scrubbed off enough speed for me to make the turn off. The rear disc refused to work because it was covered in oil thanks to a cracked oil tank. We eventually made it back home safe but sore.
I kept the Norton for six years and 70000 miles. The Hesketh’s clutch seized and the bike was eventually written off by a car but rebuilt, ridden for a while and then sold, after continuing to leak oil, going wrong and generally being a bitch.
Scotland is still there waiting to be experienced and explored. The only problem with the place is down to luck - the state of the weather, if it’s good then it’s a great place to visit, if it’s bad it's the kind of hell you want to avoid.
Gary P. Pledger