I’m not sure if it was the sound of the rain against my bedroom window; or the dread of it, that woke me on the morning of the Three Spires Rally. A dejected glance under the blinds at the shiny wetness confirmed my worst fears.
Wet weather, even very wet weather, doesn’t normally concern me. Indeed, it rained for most of the 1986 National Rally and my enthusiasm remained absolute, if perhaps a little damp towards the end. But this day was different. I needed a spot of dry weather in what had been an altogether wet summer, because of inches or lack of them...
I was entering into this event on a new bike with a seat height more suited to a giant than a stunted Londoner. This example of Japanese fiendishness (and wishful thinking when you consider the height of your average oriental) caused the simple manoeuvre of stopping to be changed into an elaborate pirouette requiring intense concentration. With practice, a fair degree of success was achieved in normal riding gear, but when the limbs are clad in the motorcycling equivalent of a divers suit things become alarming.
I can normally control this anxiety about my lack of stature, but I was entering a safety rally which would need mountain goat agility around some cones at some stage of the proceedings. It’s one thing to knock over a couple of cones, it’s something else again to be impaled beneath ones machine, rendered inanimate by its weight while 99 competitors look on.
With impressive resolve, and an upturned apple box to help me get on the bike, I headed towards Litchfield. My first mistake of the day (if you disregard the foolhardy act of getting out of bed in the first place) was to take the motorway. The rain was coming at me in sheets. My bike pretends that it’s a Paris Dakar replica or something similar; in certain conditions it can even get away with it. Part of the charade is an upright riding position intended presumably to aid balance during delicate manoeuvres over the Tenere desert or the Pyrenees.
As it would take a more fevered imagination than mine to compare a wet, cold M42 with these exotic places, this riding position served only to locate me precisely in a position to absorb everything that the road and weather of Warwickshire could inflict.
Finding the start at the Litchfield station was my first test of navigational aptitude. I passed with flying colours, going directly to the venue... behind a girl on a Honda Melody who showed me the way. A brief glance at the competition left me unimpressed, their mounts exhibited the usual excesses of BMWs, seasoned with racing machines and some boy racers.
There was a Portacabin with two parts - one for receiving a bib and map, the other for imparting what knowledge one had of the Highway Code. The questions were a total irrelevance and served only to widen the gap between those who couldn’t care less from those who do.
There were two caravans. One had Royal Life Insurance stickers all over it (of which we shall learn more later) and the other contained two scout ladies serving tea and coffee. It occurred to me that scouts ought to be boys, but as the tea was free I let them keep their secret.
The rain had just stopped, but I wasn’t fooled. I knew that just as soon as I removed my divers suit, down would come the rain. I kept it on; it didn’t rain for the rest of the day! That was my second mistake.
I was ready to start. I had a pretty bib, a map and a key fob compliments of Royal Life. More lady scouts checked everyone out through an impressive starting gate, making sure to note the time of each contestants departure. We left at minute intervals. This was intended to prevent those who couldn’t read a map from following those who could. Hmmmm... this was getting serious.
Two lefts and a right, and there was the first observed section, a massive roundabout guarded by a lone officer in a jam sandwich. This was going to be easy. If all the controls were going to be observed by uniformed officers in marked cars then all I had to do was stay on the bike (no mean achievement in itself), look out for Staffordshire plod, and make sure that I made no mistakes whilst they had their beady eyes on me.
Sure enough, at frequent intervals throughout the route there were uniformed officers in cars and on bikes for all to see. My confidence was growing at an alarming rate. I began to tell myself "I’m going to win this," when the route took a sharp turn down a green lane. Yes, a green lane complete with mud, potholes, rocks, everything... it wasn’t even funny. I had to concede that I was on just the bike for these conditions... but what about the guys on the race replicas riding on slicks? That was their problem, I was on my way to a win and I couldn’t tire my mind with such trivia.
The scenic route ended at a tent which contained the first special test. This was an electronic test of reactions, performed on an apparatus constructed to resemble a car. As a light on the dash came on, the contestant had to move his (or her) foot as fast as possible from the accelerator to the brake. This movement was timed to a split second - in my case 0.4 of a second.
While travelling to the next control, I exercised my mind with the calculation that it would take about forty odd feet to reach the brake at 70mph. I slowed down, wondering if my fingers would work any quicker than my feet. The road route was very long; too long I think. More junctions, bends and attendant policemen until the next test. This time a hill start. No problem. A bike width test was next and then a long series of questions on a questionnaire - what was the last road sign you passed? Eh... that’s not fair, I was concentrating on the road. I have always thought coppers were sneaky.
I was just beginning to think I was into my second week of the rally when I stumbled upon the inevitable manoeuvrability section. Have you ever wondered about the relevance of wobbling around cones to every day motorcycling? The fact is they don’t have any relevance whatever to normal biking. Ask any London despatch rider how many times during a working day he has to ride a figure of eight. The truth is, it’s the only thing that your average bike cop can do better than the rest of us.
I have attended a number of these slow riding contests and I can say without fear of contradiction that sooner or later the following conversation will be heard. Competitor: "This is too hard, the cones are too close.” Officer: "Oh no they're not, one of our lads set them up on a faired bike with one hand tied behind his back and a pillion." I wouldn’t doubt the veracity of this officer, or all the others who keep telling us how clever they are with monotonous regularity. All I would suggest is that as I contribute to the 10000 notes or so they make for riding a bike every day, I am entitled to some display of proficiency even at this almost pedestrian level.
As I waited with feverish anticipation for my turn to make a fool of myself, I was constantly reminded by my fellow cowards that it would be easier on my type of bike. When my turn came, I set off, resigned to my fate, only to be confounded by a half decent performance. I wouldn’t admit this to everyone, but it was easier on this bike than on any other bike I have competed on. Now I knew I was on a winner.
Pegasus like, I finished the course and returned to the police car park. As I rode in I was directed towards the insurance caravan to have my photograph taken. This must surely have meant my riding superiority had been acknowledged. Small doubts began to invade my mind only when I noticed that everyone else also had their picture taken.
Attempts to convince myself that the rest were having a picture as a consolation prize soon evaporated when it became apparent that this was nothing more than an exercise in potential customer list building by a salesman from Royal Life. We later received the pic with the once in a lifetime opportunity to take out a Royal Life pension. Full marks to the guy who dreamed this one up. I wonder if it worked?
A simple, but none-the-less pleasant lunch was included in the entry fee, together with the ever rewarding activity of talking bikes to other bikers, passed the time while the results were compiled. The police equivalent of a general was recruited to present the awards. I didn’t mind. As long as I received the outright winner’s cup I didn’t care if it was presented by Neil Kinnock/ Margaret Thatcher/ Peter Bottomley (just chose who you dislike the most).
Finally, Sir got to the actual results. I think he was more accustomed to presenting prizes for beauty competitions than bike rallies, as the awards were announced in reverse order. The suspense was killing... and then I knew, I had come third... from bottom! They had obviously confused my entry with a lesser mortal. I didn’t mind really, it’s only another pot for the sideboard.
Trouble is, I don’t actually have any pots on the sideboard; not yet anyway.
The day mellowed into a typical summer evening, and gritting my teeth against the icy blasts, headed towards home consoled by the belief that I was once again the victim of a wicked plot to keep me out of the results.
Colin Edwards