Tales from a Motorcycle Saddle.

  "One Man and His Velo"

Day 1: Best Laid Plans

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Saturday, 29th June 1991

Time 06.05. After not an inconsiderable number of hours of planning and gaining promises of sponsorship over the past six months, it was finally departure time. I had awoken with a start, and a cat, at 04.45. Thank you, Mischief. The morning had a fresh damp feel about it, the sort of morning that hints of better things to come. The Velocette had been loaded the previous night with Father-in-Law's help, much to his intended's amusement. "You're like a couple of old women," she said scornfully. "Let me near." Tom sent her packing, not literally, and two hours later we had sussed out the best position for everything: tent, airbed, pump, food and drink, sleeping bag, tools and spares, camera, map, directions and waterproofs. With my personal bag on the pillion seat, I would be ready.
What a handy item the two compartment glove box is in front of the petrol filler cap. In there were small tools, Hedex, plasters, radio, charcoal hand warmer lent by a country-gentleman-type friend, films for camera, polarising filter - optimistic as ever for sun - bag of hard sweets, torch ...
Ignition on, choke on, petrol on, tickle carburettor, prod kickstarter, and away. I turned out of the drive, leaving Lynn, my wife, Tom, her father, Jan, his intended, and Veronica, a friend from work who dragged herself out of bed at 5.30 on a Saturday morning to see me off, and one disinterested Manx cat standing there. In eight days' time, if all goes well, there should be the cry, "He's back!"
But all did not go well and, half an hour later, there was the cry, "He's back!" It was like this, you see. I headed off, the motor cycle feeling and sounding fine, if slightly heavy with its load on the rear. After three miles I turned off the Chelmsford to Braintree road at Ash Tree Corner and commenced my quiet route to the A1, intending to join just north of Cambridge. Suddenly I was aware of a chuffing sound and, looking down, I saw with horror brown oily water forcing its way out of the radiator below the cap and on to my left boot. I quickly stopped, the engine died and I sat there, on the forecourt of this rather classy restaurant where 15 years previously I knew I had booked out of my price range when I had to park my Ford Escort van between a BMW and a Mercedes.

In the peace of the early morning I thought I must be having a bad dream. The water was boiling furiously around the cylinders and what was I to do? I had been told always to carry a spare cylinder head gasket as they can be prone to blowing, probably due to the different expansion rates of the alloy cylinder head and the cast iron cylinder. I had five with me, which I judged sufficient for a two cylinder engine and a 2000 mile journey. In the twenty months of ownership I had not before needed one. This was no consolation now, nor was the fact that they are easy to fit, the Velo having side, not overhead valves, which means the valves are in the cylinder block, not the head. The head is just a "lump" of shaped alloy.

I heaved the little bike on to its stand, took the sign off the back which announced to the world where I was going and why, and pondered my situation. My computer had made the journey 2,016 miles and I
had covered three. 2,013 to go. It wasn't supposed to be this way. I realised that returning home was unavoidable. I was concerned as to what had made the gasket blow in the first place. Once the water had stopped boiling, I turned round and headed for home. I knew there was a garage just down the road and as soon as it was in sight, I switched off and coasted towards it, pushing the bike the last fifty feet. The garage was closed but I could see what I wanted -the watering can. It never occurred to me to let the engine cool, I was so pleased to see the can was full. With the radiator refilled, the bike took several kicks to start before reluctantly chugging into life on one cylinder. It stalled. I kicked it again, it kicked me back (did you hear the one about the chap who walked into his local motorcycle club with a bandaged thumb? His Honda kicked back) and it eventually restarted on one, then two cylinders. I sped home as fast as I dared. Time was now 06.30.

"Tim's back!" I know, I don't need to be told. I could hardly bring myself to speak. I was experiencing anger, frustration and bewilderment. Several years ago a workmate left me instructions on how to bang my head. Step 1. Find a highly depressed individual. Step 2. Find a wall, preferably hard. Step 3. Face the wall and stand two feet away, feet together. Step 4. Drive head repeatedly into non-receptive surface. Step 5. Pass out after experiencing extreme pain. I did not proceed past Step 3. The cats must have sensed my mood, they stayed clear of me. Tom made me a cuppa. I changed into older clothes and set to to investigate the problem. The engine would not revolve at all by now and I had to remove both spark plugs before it would. A jet of water shot out of both plug holes and dribbled down my trailer on the left and Tom's car on the right. Both head gaskets had blown, presumably the second was caused by the shock of the cold water at the garage. I tackled the right hand side first. This necessitated removing the oil filter, not a modern screw on canister type but a cylinder with a felt insert, which meant undoing the oil pipes going to and from it. The unions can be weak but I had no trouble this time. This took only a few minutes and I was soon working on the left side.

On removing the cylinder head it was very plain to see where thegasket had blown, between the cylinder and a waterway where the cylinder wall was very thin. But why had it blown? I had covered several thousand miles like it before with no trouble. I soon found the cause. A stud over which the cylinder head is placed was loose in the cylinder, so when the head was tightened down, the stud pulled out of the cylinder. That, combined with a thin cylinder wall meant I had a weak spot where the gasket blew. A spare cylinder was checked over and was pressed into service. "£300 of junk." came the taunting call from my wife. Maybe it was when I bought it, but the trailer load of "junk" certainly came in useful at times. At this point I telephoned my cousin in North Yorkshire with whom I was staying that night. We don't often see each other which is why I had decided to leave at 6.00 am to enable us to spend a few hours together. Her brother happened also to be there, also on his way to Scotland. I had a chat with them both and estimated my departure time at 1.30 pm. Replacing the cylinder barrel was moderately straight forward. Fortunately the valves only needed a gentle lapping in. By noon I was ready for a test ride and 20 miles later I was mechanically ready for departure, again. A spot of lunch, a chat with a bemused neighbour, a quick phone call to Cousin and I was away, with a wave and a smile.

Time now 1.30pm. Only seven hours and 250 miles behind schedule. I kept to my original country route and soon reached Saffron Walden. I had been this way a month previously on the way to Peterborough to the British Motorcycle Federation Rally. Now there's an event no self respecting motorcyclist should miss. This time through the town I was not paying attention and missed my turning. I stopped to ask the way to Roydon. The passerby, a man in his forties, must have read my mind and my blank face, and asked, "Or was it Royston you wanted?" Of course it was. I thanked him, he wished me well and off I went again, past Audley End House, an impressive place with visitors milling around and punting on the still water. The sun was warm, the scenery pure English Sunday afternoon. I settled down and endeavoured to put some miles behind me.  I passed under the M11 and continued to Royston. The road was a minor one, bendy, but with a couple of sweeping hills that allowed me to touch the giddy speed of 50 m.p.h., the bike's advised maximum. Lest I should forget, the manufacturers fitted a plate inside the glove box lid which reads:
"Owing to the smooth running of the L.E. engine, it is easy to exceed the safe working speed of 5000 RPM. To ensure long life, the equivalent speeds below should not be exceeded ...Top gear 50 m.p.h."
Some consider the 5,000 r.p.m. limit cautious. In fact, the same bottom end of the engine was used in a more conventional looking motorcycle, which revved to 7,000 but, with 2000 miles to travel on a thirty year old machine, 50 m.p.h. was my limit. I had promised it I would avoid high revs and long periods of full throttle. I think the term is Mechanical Sympathy.
Eight miles past Royston on the A 1198, I passed Wimpole Hall. I had a fleeting visit there the previous year when I went on a ride one Sunday morning with some others as part of the L.E. Velo Club 4Oth Anniversary. The L.E. Velo Club was formed in 1950, 2 years after the L.E. Velocette started production. There is a Velocette Owners Club but the L.E. Velo Club went from strength to strength as a one model club, such was the enthusiasm of the owners for these small, quiet and reliable machines. Forty one years later, there are now over 1000 members, as far away as New Zealand, Japan and America. I wonder if Eugene Goodman and Charles Udal of Veloce Ltd had any idea their "Little Engine" would have such a following 20 years after the factory closed.
I was still feeling what I can only describe as slightly emotionally delicate. The inauspicious start did not bode well and it was to take two or three days before I was rid of the concern that the episode had left me with. Another incident within the first hour of leaving home also contrived to bring my spirits down and left me with a nasty taste in my mouth.
An elderly Ford Capri drove by with three or four youths in it. A hand came out of the passenger window, producing a sign indicating what kind of person I was. I didn't allow myself to respond, despite the knowledge that I would have gained a short lived satisfaction by doing so. If the sign on the luggage behind me gave them an opportunity for immature fun,then let it be. Anyway, a following motorist may have seen me respond and I didn't want Dreams Come True to receive a letter thus: "Dear Sir, I wish to complain most strongly about the behaviour of a motorcyclist whilst fund raising in your name ..." A small thoughtless action, it is true, but I very nearly stopped and threw away the sign. 

From Chelmsford to JOHN O'GROATS to LAND'S END and back to Chelmsford for DREAMS COME TRUE CHARITY

Over the following week, however, I was glad I had not disposed of the sign. Once on the A604 near Huntingdon, it was only a short distance to the A1. A fill up with petrol at 3.50 and I was away again, enjoying the benefits of a tail/side wind. Then came my favourite roadsign, no, not Public House 1/4 mile, but A1 THE NORTH. What an evocative statement. I'll say it again THE NORTH. (See "On a Wing and a Prayer).

 I'm not the only person to have been inspired by it. The progress northwards was good. The newly fitted cylinder with its unmatched piston seemed fine, a fact that helped the engine use only one pint of oil every 800 miles which, so I've been told, is creditable for this type of machine. Soon after joining the A1 I realised that I had settled down, after about two hours riding in fact. I felt calm, relaxed, warm and happy. The road was straight and smooth, not too busy and the wind was helping me cruise at 45 m.p.h. on a very small throttle. I had planned to rest for a few minutes every two hours and at 6.20 after 177 miles, I pulled in for more petrol. A quick mental calculation gave me just over 100 m.p.g., the first time I had ever reached that figure.

The sky had become darker with clouds under more clouds rolling by. At my speed, I was able to look each side of the road instead of just the road ahead. The A 1 has never been a favourite road of mine but this time I could see more. The immediate ground was flat with hills in the distance. Shafts of light were visible to the west as the sun shone through thinner cloud. My spirits were climbing. I was feeling happier with each mile. They were taken to new heights when a Bedford CF minibus passed, full of teenagers, all waving and smiling. That little incident served to put me on a high, ten times as great as the low caused by the youth in the Capri. From that point on, I remained ecstatically happy and buoyant, despite the extremes of British weather thrown at me, tiredness, and an enforced call into a workshop. The gigantic smoking cooling towers near Brotherton appeared and seemed to take an inordinate amount of time to reach. As I passed by the huge structures, the smoke confirmed what I suspected, the wind was more side than tail. A problem appeared, which was to be annoying then and several times throughout the journey. The dual carriageway was coned off to one lane, one very narrow lane in places, which meant that following traffic was reduced to my speed. Where possible I'd move over to the hard shoulder to let them pass but, quite often, there was none, just two rows of cones to drive between. Incidentally, the cones look light, but try lifting one and you'll be surprised -they are weighted with sand.

Around Wetherby and Knaresby, I could see some cyclists ahead of me. When I finally caught them up I continued past them at 45 m.p.h. With streamlined helmet and all the paraphernalia that the modern racing cyclist has to aid him in the quest for speed and his ambition to shave a one hundredth of a second off his timed trial, I realised that on this slight downhill section, they were travelling at only one or two miles an hour less than me. I left a good distance between each one and me as I overtook but a couple looked surprised as I 'whispered' by. "Whisper" is not my word but the Police's "The Law" periodical's. They printed an article about my intended trip with details supplied by the Officer husband of a work colleague. I found the cyclists vaguely amusing. I love cycling, but for the pleasure of fresh air and admiring the countryside. These chaps looked as if pleasure was the last thing on their minds. The bikes were unlike touring bikes too. Some had a larger back wheel than front, a solid disc rear wheel and handlebar extensions, which meant that their arms were quite close together, pointing ahead of the bicycle. The solid rear wheel ones made a strange whooshing sound as I rode by. Weird!
I experienced my first rain of the trip. Nothing heavy, not even enough to warrant my stopping to don waterproofs but I noticed that the road was very wet as if I were not far behind a heavy fall. At around 8 pm I turned off the A 1, slowly made my way around some very damp but green and pleasant lanes to my cousin's house, a detached former gate lodge to a large estate. A quick toot on the twin Fiamms brought Juliet outside and she greeted me with the words, "How's my soggy cousin, then?" She could hardly believe I was dry; she had had some pretty heavy rain a short while before. This occurred several times on the way to John O'Groats. I would notice that the ground was wet, oncoming motorists would have their lights on or even the wipers working but I often saw no rain falling. I parked the bike in her doorless double garage, grabbed my bag and went inside. We had a pleasant healthy brown rice vegetarian meal, followed by a tour of her "estate", one acre of garden, vegetable plot and meadow. A handwritten sign visible to people entering her house read,

"A guided tour of the estate lasting a full two minutes leaves here every half hour. Please obtain your ticket from the booking office."
Below, a suggestion list is pinned for ideas as to what her meadow can be used for. Uses range from banger racing to a Certified Location for the Caravan Club. I phoned home, and to my parents, as I was to do every night. My Mother said that my Father spent quite a few happy hours following my intended route on his new atlas. We both have a strong interest in maps, so I gave him a copy of my proposed route. Each night I had to say EXACTLY where I was.

In Devon I caused him great frustration by saying I was at Uffacombe when it was actually Uffculme. Sorry Dad! By 11 p.m. bed was calling and we had to draw a halt to our chats. I had originally intended to be up early (5 a.m?) and be quietly on my way, but I had some checks to do on the Velo, including tappets on the new cylinder. They appeared to be slightly noisy so I agreed to have breakfast made for me at 7.30 a.m. after I had completed the chores. Up to bed, a few notes scribbled in my log and I was asleep in minutes, a pattern that was repeated each night the following week.

Mileage completed today: 251

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