In the beginning there were eight, gradually the excuses appeared and there were just three left. Doing the Dragon seemed like a brilliant idea at the time. We'd read reports in other mags and decided to have a go. So, we assembled at the arranged hour only to find that the Triumph didn’t want to go. This cowardice was eventually traced to a faulty fuse; an hour behind schedule we set off.
We found ourselves a free site for Friday night as camping was only available on Saturday at the rally itself. Not only did we lack water and toilets, but were in the shadow of a huge power station. From the size of it, we guessed it powered the whole of North Wales. It was at this site that we had our first taste of camping in Wales - all three of us got bogged down in the field and, of course, I dropped my bike. I would never have thought that 550lbs of metal could be so heavy. The Triumph managed to shrug it off with few problems.
The next morning we set off full of high spirits to find the control caravan in deepest Wales. It was only supposed to be 40 miles away, but what miles; a cold, damp misery made the road go on for ever. Eventually, though, I succumbed to the magnificent scenery and playing the hard man to the curious locals. We started to see more and more bikes, which helped cheer us up, especially as I was beginning to think we were lost. We decided to follow some bikers but ended up deep in a one way system when they decided to stop for a pint.
A few miles down the road the inevitable happened. It start raining (hands up everyone who expected to read that the Triumph broke down). Well, it was Wales. Whilst we were donning waterproofs an elderly woman came out of her house to chat to me. This highlighted the difference between England and Wales, wherever we went in Wales that weekend, we met nothing but friendliness - from old boys who wanted to know more about the rally to a cafe owner who didn’t mind three very muddy bikers in her establishment.
Eventually, the rain became too much for us and the Triumph’s electrics, so we stopped in a pub which had a few bikes outside. After the usual questions we found that the owners of the bikes were rallyists and were joined by an owner. The poor old landlord couldn't understand the camaraderie that bound a bunch of complete strangers so strongly. He eventually gave up and invited us to us to stay in his barn. We refused his offer, but I bet I wasn't the only one to wish that we hadn't.
The pub, as it turned out, was only a few miles from the rally caravan. The formalities completed, we got to the site. It was still raining as we erected the tent, then took it down and put it up properly, utilising a dry stone wall to hold the madly flapping canvas down. Then it was down to the marquee for badges, beer and warmth. This didn’t last long, as a sodden marquee full of sodden bikers wasn’t much fun compared to the warmth of a pub - the landlord wasn’t too happy having his pub taken over, but soon made the best of it by letting out rooms at £20 a night for people who had their tent collapse. Anyone who still imagines that bikers are an unintelligent lot would have been surprised at the cross section of people that night - from artists to supermarket managers.
On the way back to the tent, I noticed that the rain had stopped but the wind was getting up. The people who had camped on a small hill to escape the all pervading mud were now in a worse situation than those of us down at ground (or mud) level. Later that night, I felt sure that at any moment the tent was about to take off.
The arrival of the morning was heralded by anxious owners making sure their pride and joy would start. Despite all the rain, few people had any problems. The array of bikes was quite interesting. There were loads of BMWs but these were dwarfed a number of MZs. Two wankels made an interesting comparison to a Norton Commander. There were a few chops, a lot of old and new Brits, and of course, any number of Jap bikes. The Wop contingent consisted largely of Guzzis.
Apart from electrical problems, the morning saw another problem - mud. In some placed over a foot deep. Not as bad as last year, apparently, but bad enough to make people help each other to push the bikes out of the field. Perhaps it should be called the Wellington Rally. The combos were either towed or exited on full throttle, grass track style. How the trike towing a caravan managed I didn’t stay around to find out. The trailsters annoyed every one by whizzing over the mud as if it didn’t exist.
Damp and cold, the lure of home and a hot bath made us change our plans and try to cover the distance home in one day. I felt sorry for a group of frogs rumoured to have come over on mopeds! Riding away from the field I recalled a comment I'd heard earlier - We'd paid six quid to come and camp in a muddy field, we must be mad.
The run back home didn’t go without incident. The AA were called out for the Triumph near Chepstow. They found a loose we that we missed. The Triumph owner eventually beat the remaining pair back home, passing my stricken bike as we were waiting for the RAC near Bristol. A flat tyre saw me getting back home on a large recovery vehicle. Of course, the only member of our party not to have AA or RAC membership didn’t need them, though his clutch gave out a couple miles from home.
That night, nursing a badly bruised thumb, I thought back to the comment made earlier. It sums up the Dragon, really, but don't let that stop you going - all three of us will definitely be there next year.
Tim Fernand
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