'We slumped like leather trash'
I awoke the morning of the quest proper having only succeeded in fitfully sleeping and then luggaged up, rode to work. Work started at 9.00am and I was due to finish at 6pm.
Ed rang during the day saying he had difficulty locating his passport, but he had printed of an AA web guide - know where you are and where you are going every fifty yards of the way, fifty page dossier with pull out guide to the best breakfast etc etc blah blah boredom bullshit…’ I pointed out that, that’s what maps were for and I wasn’t stopping every few miles to turn the fucking pages and figure out if we’d gone past the stunted Oak etc etc. Town to town at a glance was the way to go. I vowed to buy some up to date maps on the ferry or at least in the way stations where we would be fuelling up our supercharged beasts of V-twin thunder. Somehow I knew we were going to need them.
At 5.30 pm the lads arrived at the shop awaiting the end of my working day. Eddie had not found his passport, blaming his wife for tidying up, but he had found his previous one, full up, the corner clipped off and only a year out of date. He was relying on the basic laziness of customs officers just cursorily glancing at the docs through glassy eyed boredom and waving us on. Once in Euro land there were only lines on the map to impede our progress.
6PM Time to split the workplace and bomb off to Dover to catch the ferry at 8ish heading for Dunkerque, with the time difference we were due to land at about 11.30pm.
The ferry journey was a bit of a compromise. On one hand I had to work that day so we had no choice but to take the night ferry, but what it did mean was less traffic, so hopefully swifter progress, we could get a move on and then find a B&B or summat on the other side once we had a few miles under our belts. The only problem was slightly impaired vision (i.e. Eddie would not be able to read his bullshit sheaf of papers). Luckily I had bought a map and committed to memory our most practical route town by town. From France it was a short hop into Belgium, through Brussels and then into Luxembourg.
It was drizzling and dank in Dunkerque and the proposed ‘steady as she goes’ intent was binned within 5 miles. Naturally (as all true red blooded two wheelers released from the leash that is UK roads) we went for it, negotiating the way as quickly as we possibly could.
It soon became evident that Phil’s TLS needed gas a lot sooner than Ed and I’s TLR’s. Consequently we were assured of a coffee and cigarette break every 100 miles.
Brussels came and went and we were deep into Luxembourg territory before we decided to take a longer breather, with a pocket full of three different currencies (oh yes my friends before the Euro sorted all that nonsense out) it was early morning. We decided to try and find a place to kip for a few hours. I don’t know about the others but my eyes were starting to strain and the onset of neck ache was starting to impinge upon my riding comfort.
We were close to the border of Belgium and Germany at about 5am before we found a suitable establishment on the side of the motorway in which we hoped to get our heads down.
The nadir of the night had passed and though it wasn’t wet it was still very cold. We pulled in, creaked out of our saddles and tried to get into the motel. First we had to get through the outer defences, mashing the button for reception we were met with words to the effect, ‘sorry no room at the inn’, sorry we are not even going to let you in the lobby; sorry we don’t open until 6.30am - Bastards!!
Cold, hungry and by now pissed off we slumped like leathered trash on the steps finding whatever shelter we could in the entrance porch cursing their Teutonic mothers and their shit attitude. I think Eddie managed to close his eyes for half an hour and Phil looked crumpled up enough to grab some extreme ZZZZZZ’s. Alas they bagged to the best corners and though tired I was restless, the bastards were not going to let us in and we were wasting time. As far as I was concerned we might just as well carry on.
I had now been awake for 24 hours but had enough energy reserves to continue for a while yet. A hour later just after dawn with fresh morning sunshine spilling it’s early glow over the horizon we set off again, the morning would bring some welcome warmth and riding at high speeds in daylight was also considerably easier than squinting through sodium punctuated Stygia.
We stopped for gas next in Germany. This must have been a well known way station because it was full of travellers buying up large quantities of cheap cigarettes. We stopped and ordered some brekky in the café nearby to recharge the failing batteries.
Food is fuel (as well as a shit waiting to happen) it tends to make me drowsy, a weird one. I knew I had to eat to grab some energy but the very act of eating and digesting it makes me feel tired. However heartened and slightly plumper we set off again. After another four hours or so on the road the tiredness was starting to really bite, my vision was starting to wander and blur and I could feel my reactions slowing down. I was desparate to close my eyes, my body was getting close to shutdown. The next fuelstop would have to include some R & R otherwise the ‘crash & burn’ scenario after a silly mistake would rear it’s ugly head. We were still riding at over 100mph whenever possible with this pretty much our minimum pace
Tuesday 28 August 2007
Thursday 23 August 2007
Chapter - 3
When I first met Eddie
he was packing a black and gold ltd editition Gixer 750H, sported a moustache only he and Freddie Mercury could get away with (though in Eddie’s case it was not a statement of his sexuality) and the propensity to swear and smoke more than any one person I had ever encountered . This endeared me to the man, he was just a normal geezer at heart who lived for bikes and resolutely refused to ride them slowly. He came in once and announced that he had got away with flashing a police car with his main beam ‘to get the fuck outta the way’ at over 100mph. Like most motorists with a high powered missile up their arse, they did, it was only then when Ed cruise missiled past did he realize it was the fuzz, but he just carried on, he was after all late for work. I’m still not quite sure to this day whether this is the bare faced truth of it or when it was first recounted loaded with embellishment. However it was a cracking story that further cemented the nascent bonding process, it was official. ………..Fast Eddie!
Phil had owned his TL for approximately two years, so he was sorted. I had owned a VTR Firestorm and trackdayed it a little and then flogged it to lie in wait for my next purchase. The mighty TLR.
Eddie the flash git had a 916, went to China for two years work related, came back and bought a ZX6R J1 then flogged it to buy his TLR. A little red number sporting the ubiquitous race cans from Kerker.
I knew one would come up for me, it was just a case of remaining patient and not allowing the few bob I had as a deposit to burn a hole in my motorcycle emptiness.
It came up, oh yes lord it arrived and sent me telepathic messages from its warm oily heart. ‘I need a new home, buy me, cosset me within the environs of your sumptuous garage’ I did and promised to only thrash it white hot when absolutely necessary. It was a classic blue and white liveried model equipped with a tinted double bubble screen, a pair of nishe high level Yoshi RS-3 cans and a neat little colour matched undertray. It sounded awesome. I knew together we could achieve great things.
THE TL ROAD TRAIN WAS READY FOR TAKE OFF
But,alas…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
Some filthy fifth element virus mongering swine infected fair Albion with foot and mouth disease, or Apthovirus as it’s known to true germ mongers. In the months leading up to our trip there was a mass culling and huge black bulldozed charnel heaps, smoking mounds of ovine and bovine death stench seemed to fill the nations lungs. The television foretold doom. Worried ministers looked stern and nonchalant in equal measure, mostly with despair and denial, some even forced their unwary offspring to chomp on triple 1000% pure beef burgers free of the bacillus (or so they hoped) raising their eyes to heaven selling their political soul in the hope that whatever mocking demon or angel that heard their silent pleas would protect their child in order to say ‘I told you so’ whilst hopping up the next rung of power to wash their hands of it when the shit really hit the fan, It was fair to say there was a lot of burning and slaughter afoot, and would you credit it, the scare stories rife throughout all known forms of media actually matured into the cancellation of the entire TT festivities since inception during peace time. The Bastards!!!!
We had to have a plan ‘B’. I endured many hours of heavy glugging until we were decided three. It was ‘Bollox’ lets go to Italy instead for the Grand Prix at Mugello, we all wanted to watch the boychildprodigy Valentino Rossi and Ming the moustachiod merciless Maximillian Biaggi at work in the cauldron of Italian motor sport and ‘fuck it’ none of us had been to Italy. It was only a few days ride away, we could tool around there or take our time arriving
Sorted!
THE TT IS DEAD. LONG LIVE SPAGHETTI LAND.
I made a list of all the shit I had to attend to. The only major drawback that I could see was that we were going to be hoovering up a few thousand miles in a relatively short time on sports bikes. This wasn’t going to be a comfort or horsepower issue but one of paring necessary equipment for the trip down to the bone. We all had race cans, as mine were high level that immediately ruled out panniers, didn’t want a molten mess of PU smearing the sheen of my pipes (it can be a bastard to get off you know, I speak from previous bitter experience). This left me with the choice of a rucksack allied to a tailpack. Well the rucksack was pretty much a non starter (I refused myself the luxury of the extra capacity – read greater burden). The bike was supposed to kick out 125horses (tame by today’s litre bike standards) but more than enough to haul me down south, I’m not a great fan of rucksacks on bikes, it would only add to the strain on my upper body and create drag.
If I couldn’t fit my gear into the pillion pack it wasn’t going. Phil and Eddie just crammed as much stuff in their respective tote bags which had a rigid base and then bungee’ d them to oblivion, all the time taking the piss out of me because I had a checklist
When I first met Eddie
he was packing a black and gold ltd editition Gixer 750H, sported a moustache only he and Freddie Mercury could get away with (though in Eddie’s case it was not a statement of his sexuality) and the propensity to swear and smoke more than any one person I had ever encountered . This endeared me to the man, he was just a normal geezer at heart who lived for bikes and resolutely refused to ride them slowly. He came in once and announced that he had got away with flashing a police car with his main beam ‘to get the fuck outta the way’ at over 100mph. Like most motorists with a high powered missile up their arse, they did, it was only then when Ed cruise missiled past did he realize it was the fuzz, but he just carried on, he was after all late for work. I’m still not quite sure to this day whether this is the bare faced truth of it or when it was first recounted loaded with embellishment. However it was a cracking story that further cemented the nascent bonding process, it was official. ………..Fast Eddie!
Phil had owned his TL for approximately two years, so he was sorted. I had owned a VTR Firestorm and trackdayed it a little and then flogged it to lie in wait for my next purchase. The mighty TLR.
Eddie the flash git had a 916, went to China for two years work related, came back and bought a ZX6R J1 then flogged it to buy his TLR. A little red number sporting the ubiquitous race cans from Kerker.
I knew one would come up for me, it was just a case of remaining patient and not allowing the few bob I had as a deposit to burn a hole in my motorcycle emptiness.
It came up, oh yes lord it arrived and sent me telepathic messages from its warm oily heart. ‘I need a new home, buy me, cosset me within the environs of your sumptuous garage’ I did and promised to only thrash it white hot when absolutely necessary. It was a classic blue and white liveried model equipped with a tinted double bubble screen, a pair of nishe high level Yoshi RS-3 cans and a neat little colour matched undertray. It sounded awesome. I knew together we could achieve great things.
THE TL ROAD TRAIN WAS READY FOR TAKE OFF
But,alas…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
Some filthy fifth element virus mongering swine infected fair Albion with foot and mouth disease, or Apthovirus as it’s known to true germ mongers. In the months leading up to our trip there was a mass culling and huge black bulldozed charnel heaps, smoking mounds of ovine and bovine death stench seemed to fill the nations lungs. The television foretold doom. Worried ministers looked stern and nonchalant in equal measure, mostly with despair and denial, some even forced their unwary offspring to chomp on triple 1000% pure beef burgers free of the bacillus (or so they hoped) raising their eyes to heaven selling their political soul in the hope that whatever mocking demon or angel that heard their silent pleas would protect their child in order to say ‘I told you so’ whilst hopping up the next rung of power to wash their hands of it when the shit really hit the fan, It was fair to say there was a lot of burning and slaughter afoot, and would you credit it, the scare stories rife throughout all known forms of media actually matured into the cancellation of the entire TT festivities since inception during peace time. The Bastards!!!!
We had to have a plan ‘B’. I endured many hours of heavy glugging until we were decided three. It was ‘Bollox’ lets go to Italy instead for the Grand Prix at Mugello, we all wanted to watch the boychildprodigy Valentino Rossi and Ming the moustachiod merciless Maximillian Biaggi at work in the cauldron of Italian motor sport and ‘fuck it’ none of us had been to Italy. It was only a few days ride away, we could tool around there or take our time arriving
Sorted!
THE TT IS DEAD. LONG LIVE SPAGHETTI LAND.
I made a list of all the shit I had to attend to. The only major drawback that I could see was that we were going to be hoovering up a few thousand miles in a relatively short time on sports bikes. This wasn’t going to be a comfort or horsepower issue but one of paring necessary equipment for the trip down to the bone. We all had race cans, as mine were high level that immediately ruled out panniers, didn’t want a molten mess of PU smearing the sheen of my pipes (it can be a bastard to get off you know, I speak from previous bitter experience). This left me with the choice of a rucksack allied to a tailpack. Well the rucksack was pretty much a non starter (I refused myself the luxury of the extra capacity – read greater burden). The bike was supposed to kick out 125horses (tame by today’s litre bike standards) but more than enough to haul me down south, I’m not a great fan of rucksacks on bikes, it would only add to the strain on my upper body and create drag.
If I couldn’t fit my gear into the pillion pack it wasn’t going. Phil and Eddie just crammed as much stuff in their respective tote bags which had a rigid base and then bungee’ d them to oblivion, all the time taking the piss out of me because I had a checklist
Tuesday 21 August 2007
Chapter 2 - The IOM would be a 1,000 mile round trip
The Isle of Man would be at least a 1000 mile round trip with a huge three day party in the middle, and the prospect of ‘Mad Sunday’ thrown into the heady mix. We were all looking forward to it. It’s not everyone who could say they rode as fast as they possibly could around the historic course with no speed camera or Old Bill to hassle you and spoil the fun. (Though most in my opinion should at least aspire to fulfilling this achievement).
I was hoping to secure a TL1000R in the quickest possible time that funds and opportunity allowed. I’d made my mind up that I wanted one whilst in the States at the annual Oktoberbikefest at Daytona Beach Florida the previous year. Don’t get me wrong the Harleys were awesome, swathe after swathe of the chrome eagles circled round and around……and around the Main Street circuit 24/7. The place never closed, but with the amount there, it was hard to remain interested. They infested the place, they were too clean, the riders well trimmed generally, the majority of these bikes had been trailered in not ridden, just ridden whilst there and then trailered back home again.
The bike that stood out for me the whole weekend was the aforementioned TL ridden by one of the Starboyz, loitering in a car park away from the madding crowd. His tyres were worn, it had a bit of rash on the side and the guy obviously rode it a lot! I wanted one,
I don’t know why Ed wanted one but our desires were the same, both of us had set our hearts on this quirky little number. The styling was mostly hated by everyone else; they all raised their eyebrows, tutted and warned us of the unwholesome porkiness associated with this bike. In some ways I agreed, it did look big and heavy, even ponderous, but for me it didn’t matter. It actually had a slightly shorter wheelbase than the previously established and seminal ‘S’ model and also had the added advantage of twin fuel injectors for some meaner and more efficient fuel burn, lastly it had a better fuel tank range than the ‘S’ which would be an advantage on our trip.
Phil owned an ‘S’ model with a full stoating Yoshimiura system bolted on to accompany the flowed heads fettled by the shadowy figure of ‘Mr. Burn’, he’d chalked up a few track days under his belt to good effect and it was fair to say that Phil had got the measure of his mount.
I first met Phil when he wandered into the bike shop I was working in at the time, the man looked like he should have been on the front cover of any late punk album, but I knew that he was obviously a serious biker. At the time he rode a Moto Martin framed big bore Kawasaki Z1100R with loadsa home made bits ‘n’ pieces on board. To look at frankly it was a fucking mess. I’ve never seen him or heard him confess to cleaning his bike unless a particular component was practical for the essential running of the machine (Sorry Phil I did see you with a cloth in your hand threatening to clean the ZX-10 once). Over the months he kept coming back for this or that, only really fixing it when it broke, usually haggling for a deal, bemoaning poverty etc, but it was all good humoured bandinagerie. The Moto Martin finally ended up with a single side swing arm, suspension and wheel from a random early VFR750, he was hoping it would cure the handling problems which he perceived were the cause of the stock spindly swing arm. I’m not sure if the single sider cured the problem, but as it probably weighed about three times a s much as the original, it probably kept the bike more firmly planted..
Finally he gave up on the long term ongoing Project Moto Martin and bought his first new bike. The Mighty TL1000S.
This was the age of the spectacular 916,996 Ducati V-twin dominance. The whole package was an overnight success, from the launch of the 916 V-twins were suddenly popular, very popular , everybody wanted one, not many could afford one let alone keep one running.
Thankfully those crafty men of Nippon know how to rapidly engineer, copy and in some cases exceed the original they are plagiarising, then sell it for half the price of the Italian number. The TL is still talked about today, most of the ones I see these days are streetfightered and are beloved by their riders who in the main don’t look like the original crop of sports riders who first flung their leg over. But the hooligan element is still lurking, with the motor only until recently withdrawn. Up until then it was a donor lump for many machines. It was the perfect bike for Phil he wanted a piece of that. The moniker ‘TL Phil’ was born.
Now Edmund or ‘Fast Eddie’ (no relation to the once Motorhead guitarist) as he was called in the early years was a different kettle of fish. He also started visiting the shop after his wife had cared for the proprieters wife when she was ill
Eddie and his wife had exported themselves from Northern Island to seek fortune in life elsewhere. Eddie was a keen biker and needed a bike shop to frequent, he checked us out and I’m glad to say he kept coming back.
Eddie worked in telecommunications and was a true rock n roller (though he kept it under his hat well), he usually commuted to and fro work 60 miles a day donning his suit in the middle of the day.
Ed’s hero is the great but sadly late Joey Dunlop. Growing up in Larne on the east coast of Ireland he smoked about on the tarmac of the emerald isle, the Irish love their bikes and are known for how tough, tenacious and talented they are when on two wheels, typified by Dunlop. It was hard for Eddie not to be interested in bikes from youth to maturity.
I was hoping to secure a TL1000R in the quickest possible time that funds and opportunity allowed. I’d made my mind up that I wanted one whilst in the States at the annual Oktoberbikefest at Daytona Beach Florida the previous year. Don’t get me wrong the Harleys were awesome, swathe after swathe of the chrome eagles circled round and around……and around the Main Street circuit 24/7. The place never closed, but with the amount there, it was hard to remain interested. They infested the place, they were too clean, the riders well trimmed generally, the majority of these bikes had been trailered in not ridden, just ridden whilst there and then trailered back home again.
The bike that stood out for me the whole weekend was the aforementioned TL ridden by one of the Starboyz, loitering in a car park away from the madding crowd. His tyres were worn, it had a bit of rash on the side and the guy obviously rode it a lot! I wanted one,
I don’t know why Ed wanted one but our desires were the same, both of us had set our hearts on this quirky little number. The styling was mostly hated by everyone else; they all raised their eyebrows, tutted and warned us of the unwholesome porkiness associated with this bike. In some ways I agreed, it did look big and heavy, even ponderous, but for me it didn’t matter. It actually had a slightly shorter wheelbase than the previously established and seminal ‘S’ model and also had the added advantage of twin fuel injectors for some meaner and more efficient fuel burn, lastly it had a better fuel tank range than the ‘S’ which would be an advantage on our trip.
Phil owned an ‘S’ model with a full stoating Yoshimiura system bolted on to accompany the flowed heads fettled by the shadowy figure of ‘Mr. Burn’, he’d chalked up a few track days under his belt to good effect and it was fair to say that Phil had got the measure of his mount.
I first met Phil when he wandered into the bike shop I was working in at the time, the man looked like he should have been on the front cover of any late punk album, but I knew that he was obviously a serious biker. At the time he rode a Moto Martin framed big bore Kawasaki Z1100R with loadsa home made bits ‘n’ pieces on board. To look at frankly it was a fucking mess. I’ve never seen him or heard him confess to cleaning his bike unless a particular component was practical for the essential running of the machine (Sorry Phil I did see you with a cloth in your hand threatening to clean the ZX-10 once). Over the months he kept coming back for this or that, only really fixing it when it broke, usually haggling for a deal, bemoaning poverty etc, but it was all good humoured bandinagerie. The Moto Martin finally ended up with a single side swing arm, suspension and wheel from a random early VFR750, he was hoping it would cure the handling problems which he perceived were the cause of the stock spindly swing arm. I’m not sure if the single sider cured the problem, but as it probably weighed about three times a s much as the original, it probably kept the bike more firmly planted..
Finally he gave up on the long term ongoing Project Moto Martin and bought his first new bike. The Mighty TL1000S.
This was the age of the spectacular 916,996 Ducati V-twin dominance. The whole package was an overnight success, from the launch of the 916 V-twins were suddenly popular, very popular , everybody wanted one, not many could afford one let alone keep one running.
Thankfully those crafty men of Nippon know how to rapidly engineer, copy and in some cases exceed the original they are plagiarising, then sell it for half the price of the Italian number. The TL is still talked about today, most of the ones I see these days are streetfightered and are beloved by their riders who in the main don’t look like the original crop of sports riders who first flung their leg over. But the hooligan element is still lurking, with the motor only until recently withdrawn. Up until then it was a donor lump for many machines. It was the perfect bike for Phil he wanted a piece of that. The moniker ‘TL Phil’ was born.
Now Edmund or ‘Fast Eddie’ (no relation to the once Motorhead guitarist) as he was called in the early years was a different kettle of fish. He also started visiting the shop after his wife had cared for the proprieters wife when she was ill
Eddie and his wife had exported themselves from Northern Island to seek fortune in life elsewhere. Eddie was a keen biker and needed a bike shop to frequent, he checked us out and I’m glad to say he kept coming back.
Eddie worked in telecommunications and was a true rock n roller (though he kept it under his hat well), he usually commuted to and fro work 60 miles a day donning his suit in the middle of the day.
Ed’s hero is the great but sadly late Joey Dunlop. Growing up in Larne on the east coast of Ireland he smoked about on the tarmac of the emerald isle, the Irish love their bikes and are known for how tough, tenacious and talented they are when on two wheels, typified by Dunlop. It was hard for Eddie not to be interested in bikes from youth to maturity.
Friday 3 August 2007
Chapter 1 - Well learned friends of the online biker community, the time has come to blog up and as the present incumbent in this lofty position time to put up.
In a previous life elsewhere friends and colleagues were very kind and forthcoming in their praise for my muttered rantings and jangled scribbling, telling me I should have a wider audience, I’m not sure if they were humouring me or not (being of an anxious disposition) so here goes.
There now follows a rather long (hopefully not long winded and tedious) account of the greatest ride of my life. Thus far the greatest adventure I have undertaken on two wheels with two friends for most excellent company and three sturdy steeds. Now it was originally written just over four years ago so is not fresh but hopefully is a tale of derring do and will paint a picture in your mind.
Who knows it may encourage you to saddle up and set controls for the heart of the sun, to burn a bit of fuel and use your bike for the purpose intended, perhaps visit countries and gaze upon wonders that are not outside your back door or the usual same old same old you would usually encounter on a Sunday run.
I apologize to the more faint hearted in advance for the odd profanity here and there but at least it is in context and is in the vernacular after all. I’m not a trained journalist so have no hang ups about editorial style etc. It’s how it was with no embellishment and only the tangential stories missing.
The people involved are real and know who they are and I thank them once again for their company and comradeship.
As I mentioned it is rather long, so I’m going to serialize it to conclusion over the next few weeks. It’s not a daily thing, but it will give me some breathing space to ponder the world of two wheels and bring you various dark utterings from the real world.
Fingers crossed a few kind souls will read this to its conclusion and I may even persuade one or two of you to do the same ‘The greatest ride of my life’ (And I don’t want any predictable innuendo from this title, all you wags out there).
Chapter 1
‘Road tripping with my two favourite allies. We’re fully loaded, we got snacks and supplies. It’s time to leave this town, it’s time to steal away……..’ Red Hot Chilli Peppers – Kalifornication
‘Twas the summer of 2001, not a bad June that year, this is when the tale proper begins. The first turning of the wheels towards my most memorable ride ever.
Months of talking about this trip enabled us all (my compadres and I) to drink much ale, yellow beer and Guinness in the planning stages and whetting our appetites for the task ahead. The plan afoot was to immerse ourselves in the heady cocktail of bikes, beer, racing and any other nefarious activity we could find or stumble across at the legendary Isle of Man TT.
Phil, Ed and I were all road riders predominantly. We had all indentured ourselves in the school of two wheels over the lost years of our youth from the earliest age, riding in all weathers. Getting soaked for hours. The freezing cold, creaky knees and bloated with cold fingers and the odd crash or two. Trying to dry hideously inadequate sodden gloves on mate’s radiators as well as the rest of the usual shoddy and completely useless riding gear that was around at the time.
We all appeared to be from a similar mould and were obviously not destined to be gentlemen motobicyclists. None of us were content to leave alone, throwing our money down bottomless pits in order to squeeze a little extra performance out of our mounts, not really knowing any better at the time. This was the age of the stiinkwheel, of bendy frames and skinny wooden tyres. Somehow for us (unlike most of the fey youths of today) car’s didn’t cut it, they after all were invented for shopping not thrills, they didn’t get your heart pumping every time you approached your favourite corner aiming for that extra mile an hour or so with which to boast of your outlandish feats of speed and daring. You couldn’t buy pipes or lovely shiny braced swing arms from such hallowed names as JMC and Metmachex. This was the hey day of Harris performance and Spondon. Bimota were probably still making money before the sly sons of Nippon cottoned on, copied and ultimately beat them at their own game, driving their products into semi oblivion many times
Our lives revolved around bikes and to this day generally still do; we strode through biker life content.
For this trip we had progressed from youthful high spirits on old shitters to fat tyred horsepower hungry beasts of brushed aluminium and streamlined plastic. Time to use them in anger, set a purpose, head for the sun, head for the hills, hit the road and keep on rolling.
In a previous life elsewhere friends and colleagues were very kind and forthcoming in their praise for my muttered rantings and jangled scribbling, telling me I should have a wider audience, I’m not sure if they were humouring me or not (being of an anxious disposition) so here goes.
There now follows a rather long (hopefully not long winded and tedious) account of the greatest ride of my life. Thus far the greatest adventure I have undertaken on two wheels with two friends for most excellent company and three sturdy steeds. Now it was originally written just over four years ago so is not fresh but hopefully is a tale of derring do and will paint a picture in your mind.
Who knows it may encourage you to saddle up and set controls for the heart of the sun, to burn a bit of fuel and use your bike for the purpose intended, perhaps visit countries and gaze upon wonders that are not outside your back door or the usual same old same old you would usually encounter on a Sunday run.
I apologize to the more faint hearted in advance for the odd profanity here and there but at least it is in context and is in the vernacular after all. I’m not a trained journalist so have no hang ups about editorial style etc. It’s how it was with no embellishment and only the tangential stories missing.
The people involved are real and know who they are and I thank them once again for their company and comradeship.
As I mentioned it is rather long, so I’m going to serialize it to conclusion over the next few weeks. It’s not a daily thing, but it will give me some breathing space to ponder the world of two wheels and bring you various dark utterings from the real world.
Fingers crossed a few kind souls will read this to its conclusion and I may even persuade one or two of you to do the same ‘The greatest ride of my life’ (And I don’t want any predictable innuendo from this title, all you wags out there).
Chapter 1
‘Road tripping with my two favourite allies. We’re fully loaded, we got snacks and supplies. It’s time to leave this town, it’s time to steal away……..’ Red Hot Chilli Peppers – Kalifornication
‘Twas the summer of 2001, not a bad June that year, this is when the tale proper begins. The first turning of the wheels towards my most memorable ride ever.
Months of talking about this trip enabled us all (my compadres and I) to drink much ale, yellow beer and Guinness in the planning stages and whetting our appetites for the task ahead. The plan afoot was to immerse ourselves in the heady cocktail of bikes, beer, racing and any other nefarious activity we could find or stumble across at the legendary Isle of Man TT.
Phil, Ed and I were all road riders predominantly. We had all indentured ourselves in the school of two wheels over the lost years of our youth from the earliest age, riding in all weathers. Getting soaked for hours. The freezing cold, creaky knees and bloated with cold fingers and the odd crash or two. Trying to dry hideously inadequate sodden gloves on mate’s radiators as well as the rest of the usual shoddy and completely useless riding gear that was around at the time.
We all appeared to be from a similar mould and were obviously not destined to be gentlemen motobicyclists. None of us were content to leave alone, throwing our money down bottomless pits in order to squeeze a little extra performance out of our mounts, not really knowing any better at the time. This was the age of the stiinkwheel, of bendy frames and skinny wooden tyres. Somehow for us (unlike most of the fey youths of today) car’s didn’t cut it, they after all were invented for shopping not thrills, they didn’t get your heart pumping every time you approached your favourite corner aiming for that extra mile an hour or so with which to boast of your outlandish feats of speed and daring. You couldn’t buy pipes or lovely shiny braced swing arms from such hallowed names as JMC and Metmachex. This was the hey day of Harris performance and Spondon. Bimota were probably still making money before the sly sons of Nippon cottoned on, copied and ultimately beat them at their own game, driving their products into semi oblivion many times
Our lives revolved around bikes and to this day generally still do; we strode through biker life content.
For this trip we had progressed from youthful high spirits on old shitters to fat tyred horsepower hungry beasts of brushed aluminium and streamlined plastic. Time to use them in anger, set a purpose, head for the sun, head for the hills, hit the road and keep on rolling.
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