Tales from a Motorcycle Saddle.

  "One Man and His Velo"

Day 3: J..J..John O'Groats and B..B..Back

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Monday, 1st July 1991

I awoke at 5.50 am, wishing I hadn't. Being awake means action and I was too comfortable and warm for that. I unzipped the entrance and peered out. At rabbit's eye level the grass looked very wet, covered in little drops of rain although, thankfully, it was not raining at the moment. Looking further away I could see no mountains but they were definitely there when I fell asleep. The cloud and mist obscured the view, as it was to do nearly all day. Ten minutes passed before I crawled out, during which time I recalled a National Geographic article about a handful of men, 5 or 6, who trekked across the Arctic. It took five months and one of the main problems was boredom, coupled with the sheer hard, repetitive grind of survival in these conditions. The most dramatic incident in my eyes was when one man went to check the dogs in a blizzard. He became disorientated and could not find the tents. Instead of wandering aimlessly, he curled up on the ground and let the snow cover him. Thirteen hours later he emerged when the blizzard subsided and he heard his colleagues calling. Now that's survival!

My remaining milk was off, so there was no tea or Alpen. Breakfast, therefore, was a roll, apple and small carton of apple juice. Working slowly and methodically, it took one and a half hours to tidy up, pack up and ride away. At 7.30 there were only two people about, so I rode gently through the site and back up to the A9. I was dressed as yesterday, in trousers, boots, shirt, pullover, cardigan and anorak. I had been too warm at times yesterday so I did not deem it necessary to wear my thermals. After all, it was summer! As the Velo picked up speed, I realised there was a chill in the air but it was still early. That chill never went and I spent my coldest day's motor cycling ever, in my twenty two years of using two-wheeled transport. I had been colder -and wetter -even dangerously so once, but never for as long. I made quite good time to Inverness and filled up with petrol at nine o'clock. I did not feel too cold when riding but, once off the bike, I felt shivery. There was nothing I could do, save finding a toilet and undressing, to don thermals and then redressing. On reflection, I should have done that as the day never warmed and I became colder which, in turn, dampened some of my enthusiasm. I was still on a metaphorical high, but I altered my plans on two occasions later on in the day.

The decisions were probably correct ones but I had planned two diversions from riding later on. I left Inverness, forever Northwards, the A9 crossing a substantial bridge with the Moray Firth to my right. I was now on the Black Isle, an area of land between the Moray Firth and Cromarty Firth. A while later in the distance I could see the latter with a long low sweeping bridge across it. The bridge must have been a mile long, and I did not stop to count the arches.  If I had paid more attention to navigating, I would have turned off the A9 six miles later, on to the A836 and through Ardross Forest, thus saving some twelve miles as the A9 followed the bank of the Cromarty Firth and then Dornach Firth. I didn't but it was of no consequence when the journey is viewed as a whole and water always makes for pleasant scenery. By 11.15 I had covered 122 miles and still had an estimated eighty to John O'Groats. My lack of a substantial breakfast was telling, as was the cold. I found a layby that was private and secluded, being lower than the road, and pressed the stove into action. I was between Golspie and Doll, having just passed Dunrobin Castle. Later I was to see the Dunroamin Hotel. I had always thought that such a name had been conjured up by writers of sit-coms, like the address, Chez Nous, Acacia Avenue.

My lunch was lengthy, a small tin of Beanz, chicken portion, roll, yoghurt, apple and tea which filled me up nicely, thank you. I watched a late middle aged couple cycle by, on a pair of multi geared touring bikes. The hill behind me would have slowed an L.E. -don't they all- and gone hardly noticed in a car, but these two cyclists must have owned the lowest geared bicycles on the market. Their reasonable rate of pedalling appeared to give practically no forward motion. I took two photographs, entered the word SHIVER in my log and took to the road. No wonder the cyclists were in a low gear, the Velo stayed in second. All credit to their stamina. The wind was side to head, but did not have the strength of yesterday, so the miles slipped by without too much of a struggle. The road was narrower and more devoid of traffic the further I continued North. I was getting there.

Wick was reached one and a half hours later. The road had been high at times, with cloud reducing visibility considerably, making even an L.E. rider slow down. The windscreen was covered in fine droplets which created a strange pattern round the L.E. Velo Club badge. The arms of my jacket were darker, indicating dampness, although I remained dry. It was not my favourite ride of the trip but I was still enjoying it immensely. The Velo had always been pleasant to ride, which was one of its endearing characteristics. When I bought it, in October 1989, it was very much an unknown quantity . Its early time with me has been chronicled before, in the L.E. Velo Club's magazine, On The Level, affectionately known as 0. T.L. It is a six weekly magazine, well produced to a tight budget but full of stories, help, fixtures and advertisements. It is a credit to the Club and the Editor, who compiles it alone, and has spent a great deal of his spare time over the last twenty years as Editor (1991). I wonder if Colin Roberts, at the age of 25, knew what he was taking on! The articles covering 861 AWK were written under the heading, "Letter from a Newcomer, Parts 1,2 and 3. This is the first part: PREAMBLE AND PURCHASE.

I have always believed that my interest in motorcycles started when I was 15. A new friend showed me his 3 year old D7 Bantam, and insisted I ride it around the field. I did, and that short wobbly ride was the start ofwhat is now a 22 year (1991) period of owning a two wheeler, from a Vespa 90 to a Gold Wing. The favourite (and much missed) was a T120V Bonneville, sold in 1980 for £450 to help a house purchase. As I said, I have always believed that Bantam to be the first motorcycle I noticed but, in reality, I can go back a few years more, as I have recollections of watching the local Police purr by on those small, silent motorbikes. I can't recall ever giving them another thought from childhood to a year or so ago when I found myself, whilst reading an occasional copy of Classic Bike, checking two prices, L.E.s and Bonnevilles. The latter were becoming rather expensive, £1800 appearing to be the amount required for one of these. A while ago, our neighbour's Grandfather passed away and she informed us that her father had his two motor cycles to sell.

One was a 1955 Triumph Speed Twin, the other a 1961 Velo L.E. Price dictated which to go for, as they were hoping for more than I could justify spending for the bigger bike. The L.E., complete, original, 'should be a runner', with loadsa spares (Ioadsa being an understatement) seemed good value at £300, so we arranged to view it in Birmingham on the way home from our holiday in Scotland. The sun was shining when we arrived at the vendor's house. We were shown to the garden where both bikes were standing on the lawn. If I f could have had both, I would have done. It was then that my wife enquired which one she was lending me the money to buy. She appeared surprised when I pointed to the Velo, and she exclaimed:  "That one? It's horrible! It's vulgar!" ; and from then on, 861 AWK has been known as 'The Vulgar Velo'. Despite this outburst, we are still talking. I agreed to buy this 'vulgar motorbike' and even, for a second, wondered if it would fit in our caravan, so eager was I to get it home. I arranged to come the following weekend and trailer it the 150 miles back to Essex, which I did. The L.E. was mine!

At Wick, six and a half litres of petrol were put in and I was ready to cover the remaining seventeen miles to the "start" of my journey. The A9 now was windier and narrower still. Some hairpin bends required dropping the speed to 20 m.p.h. and then plodding uphill again. A couple on a K series BMW caught me up but did not overtake. With them as protection I rode faster, using all of the width of the carriageway. ' Normally, I kept to the left but at certain times such as descending a bendy road, I would use the "proper" line, from white line to nearside and back as I took the curves. I have never been a "scratcher" but the Velo is low and holds the road well, consequently my boots and shoes are showing scuff marks on the underside. Eventually the BMW came alongside and the rider called out something. Through a full face helmet and balaclava, all I heard was a mumble. He repeated it, this time with his visor up. I think he said "See you at John O'Groats". I did, anyway.

I arrived at about 2.30 pm and quickly calculated I was 724 miles from Chelmsford. I had a few pressing needs, namely toilet, postcards, warmth and food -in that order. Despite the importance of John O'Groats to this trip, my recollections of the place are hazy. The Velo was parked on the unsurfaced car park, in front of the First and Last House. To the left was a gift shop, then the harbour with a ship, and then the Sea View Hotel with the famous octagonal room. Having satisfied my first need, I ventured to the gift shop. I was very cold and, once off the bike, I could not stop shivering. I spent little time and even less money in the shop. It was attractive and well laid out but I bought what I went in for and left, postcards, windscreen sticker and a bookmark for my wife, Lynn. The owner served me. It is interesting that often the owner of a small business is so easily recognised. He (or she) is the one who is the most polite and helpful and always makes suggestions to supplement one's purchase. The owner of last night's site was more canny. He kept me talking, so I ended up by buying a book of stamps. I then fancied some chocolate and wouldn't a spare gas cylinder be handy? It was with pockets bulging that I left.

My eye caught a large Land Rover disgourging bike after person after bike after person. They must have had an  uncomfortable journey I thought. Next stop was for food in the octagonal room and what a disappointment -no heat! I found out later that there was -I had been too cold to notice. Whilst waiting for my cheesy jacket potato and salad, I tried writing postcards but my incessant shivering made the writing look like a young kiddie's. Eventually I did warm up, and I enjoyed the food and tea. Once outside, I came to the conclusion that the weather was not bitterly cold but the wind had a sharp edge to it. The B.M.W. was parked beside the Velo. From a distance they gave the impression that they were an adult's bike next to a child's bike. All the Velo needed was a set of fairy wheels. We had a quick chat, the couple were from Northumberland, Bed and Breakfasting. They were interested in my ride, the chap telling me that some members of his motorcycle club were planning to do the trip in 24 hours next year. Good luck, I thought, it is 874 miles. They plugged their intercoms in and sped off, clad in layer upon  layer and topped off with expensive motorcvcle suits. I zipped up my anorak, and wiped the oil off the leaky filter feeling definitely second class. Cards were posted in the shop, in order to get a John O'Groats postmark and then it was decision time. I had planned some "time off" here but I was keen to be away as usual. I had the notion I might get some exercise by walking past John O'Groats, not into the Inner Sound of Pentland Firth but East, one and half miles to Duncansby Head which is a truer start to the journey than the popular John O'Groats.

In the end I chose not to, but moved my bike in front of the First and Last House and grabbed the first person who showed interest to take a photograph of me on the Velo. How trite! He appeared willing but disappeared quickly as soon as he handed back the camera. I hoped I had not upset him. Seconds later he returned with his own camera to take one for himself. I'll be giving autographs next, I thought. I left John O'Groats at 3.45, sad that I had not explored more and gone walkabout but elated that the most important part of the journey had begun. A Postcard home read "Let the journey begin".

I did not do an about turn and head back along the A9. Instead my plan was to travel West from John O'Groats along the A836, through Thurso and past Dounreay nuclear power station. If it was open to the public, I might have visited. I'm in two minds about nuclear power. I approve of an alternative to burning fossil fuels but the thought of masses of spent fuel rods, radioactive for generations to come I find horrifying. Nuclear power was supposed to be the answer to man's power needs, but it has created too many lethal problems. My father, a retired headteacher, remembers a text book over twenty years ago that stated, "When electricity is produced by nuclear energy, it will cost so little to produce, it will be free". If that is the case, why does it cost as much to light our house, boil a kettle and occasionally tumble dry with electricity as it does to cook, heat all the water and seven rooms by gas? Despite my reservations I find nuclear power stations have a strange calling, like the edge of a cliff. Frightening, but one still has to look. I have been on a guided tour of Bradwell twice, at one time standing on concrete with the fission process only twelve feet below. Both Sizewell and Dungeness we have been close to, aware of their awesome size and strange ambient humming. A paperback called "Dome" graphically describes the agony, fear and panic when a fail-safe device did not work and the film "The China Syndrome", based on fact, had me on the edge of my seat.

When will a film about Chernobyl appear? For me, no film could be as gripping, and as fantastic, as the BBC's Horizon documentary. To see inside the "sarcophagus" as the entombed reactor is called, was pure science fiction. The sight of the melted fuel rods, now twelve feet below the level the reactor was on, cooled into the shape of an elephant's foot was unbelievable. Also unbelievable was the protection worn by the scientists. Whilst the Western film crew were in hermetically sealed suits, the Russian scientists had ...cotton wool face masks. Despite, or because of all my reservations, I had thought I would take a look at Dounreay even if it were not open. I did not get that far, however. As mentioned, my route was to take me along the North coast as far as three miles past Bettyhill, where I was to turn left on to the B871 and B873 through Strath Naves to rejoin the A836 at Altaharra, then South to Bonar Bridge and back on the familiar A9 to Inverness. This route was planned to avoid the transport industry jargon of R.R.R. -Return Reverse Route, something which we always try to avoid.

The B871 on the latest A.A. road atlas is shown as "a narrow B road with passing places", which in the warmth and security of one's home was exciting and challenging, with only one place of habitation in the twenty five miles of Strath Naves. In that cold afternoon, at 4.00 pm, I was not looking for further adventure or challenges. My mind was not numbed, but the edge of excitement and enjoyment had been smoothed off. A small oil weepage from the suspect union was giving me cause for concern, the wind was strong, head to right side and so, after twenty miles, and arriving at Thurso, I stopped to reassess my plans. The direction sign in front of me read INVERNESS to the left, which was on my route.

For only the third time on the journey so far, I removed the atlas from its plastic bag on top of my load and soon decided to forget narrow B roads with passing places and head for Inverness. Off I went, with the wind now side to tail. The road in places was wide and open, with flat land which looked as if trees had recently been felled. Large earthmoving equipment was visible so something was afoot but I could not tell what. I passed under some high voltage power lines which I do not find displeasing to the eye, as some people do. They are a symbol of civilisation, feeding power from city to city, even if it is produced by nuclear energy. Someone asked me how electricity is obtained from a nuclear reaction. It is not. The reaction provides the heat that boils the water that produces the steam that turns the turbines that turn the generators. Quite a simple process when put like that.

The wind was helping me along, the Velo now back up to 45 m.p.h. on a small throttle. The tappets were not so audible, the oil was still visible around the pipe union, and the rear brake had lost its sharpness; probably oil from the final drive had reached it. Apart from that, all was fine. My bag on the pillion seat was providing an excellent support to my lower back and I was beautifully at ease. Now all I needed was the sun but, "God, I'm not complaining. Thank You for keeping the rain at bay". Although designed as a town bike, the little Velo was doing a good, if slow, impression of a long distance tourer. What does one require of such a machine? Comfort -I have it. Economy -the Velo was achieving a consumption in the high 90s. Reliability -hopefully but it still had to prove itself. Range -up to 150 miles or four to five hours per tankful. Carrying capacity -fine for one person, the bike having two panniers and a carrier. I was, and still am, exceedingly happywith the bike but if someone offered me a newer, better handling Goldwing, I would accept. I assume most people, even outside the motorcycling fraternity , have heard of the Honda Goldwing. Now 1800cc and six cylinders, it was originally 1000cc and four cylinders. On paper, there are similarities between a 'Wing and an L.E. Both have water cooled, horizontally opposed engines, shaft drive, stepped dual seats and weather protection, which is where the similarity ends. I owned one once, a three year old, early model. I sold it after three weeks. I had longed for one as a change to my Triumph Bonneville but it was not me. It was too ...too. Too heavy, too thirsty, too characterless, too difficult on bends, too everything. This was 1979 when, seven years earlier my parents had purchased a new Hillman Imp for £800 on the road. Imagine their horror at their spendthrift son when a voice on the phone asked "Has the £1100 Goldwing been sold yet?"I sold it for £ 1050 to a chap who wanted it for his wife, as his had a large sidecar attached to it. That, at least, is one thing you won't find often on an L.E.

Twenty three miles from Thurso, I rejoined the A9, with its security of petrol, camp sites and traffic. There was not an over-abundance of either but I felt more at ease. The A9 was hilly; several 13% gradients, 1 in 7 or 8 I guessed, slowed my progress to 20 m.p.h. Often I found myself backing off the throttle rather than holding it flat out all the time. I also noticed that the gearbox knocking was audible at higher speeds. I had been riding for seven and a half hours today and I intended to do a further two or three, something that would have been impossible seven months earlier. It took a year of riding the Velo for me to crack the one hour barrier. I considered it a mental rather than a physical barrier and it left me perplexed. I found this quaint old motorbike comfortable and easy, but impossible to ride for periods longer than one hour. Without a break I felt confused and dazed and I could not concentrate. I was unsafe on the road. On the Club's Fortieth Anniversary Run which I attended, I had no option but to continue. I followed the MZ 175 in front of me religiously, painfully aware that there was a Policeman on an H15 Norton following me. (I did not know of his profession until the lights at some roadworks changed to amber, then red, as we reached them. I followed the others, he stopped.) To improve my senses, I chewed gum and rode with goggles up, the screen doing a good job of lifting the wind clear, but all to no avail. I felt drunk. Later that year on the way to the Club's annual rally not far from Rugby, I experienced the same, at one point completely failing to see a mini roundabout. I pulled out in the path of a Volvo, a true case of role reversal. I struggled with this handicap until winter when, one morning, with the thermometer at 1 degree C, I rode to work. After three miles, I had to stop. The cold air, coupled with the chill factor, was so intense on my forehead it was painful. There was a small gap between goggles and helmet and I had to rub my forehead vigorously before I could continue. This set me thinking about windscreen heights. I fashioned longer brackets from aluminium strip and raised the windscreen one and a half inches. The result? Bliss! Unbeknown to me, the displaced airfrom the screen was hitting my forehead with sufficient force to cause a numbing effect. From then on, there was no stopping me! Sitting lazily in a slouched position, I look through the screen but, sitting upright, I look over it, in perfect comfort and peace.

I wound along the A9, at times riding as if I were on a bigger bike. A tail wind and a descending road allowed me to "turn on the power" (note the inverted commas) as I exited from bends. I hit a deep hole at one point which I had failed to notice. I was looking further ahead and so I failed to stand up to allow the bike to pivot about its centre. There was a crash as the rear suspension hit the hole but everything held together. I glanced over each shoulder to check that nothing had come adrift. All appeared in order. When I looked forward -HORROR! The Silhouette caravan that had been pulling away from me for several miles, was suddenly in view again, brake lights blazing. I slammed on both brakes (oh, why wasn't the bike equipped with a twin leading shoe front brake?) but my progress was not being retarded at a high enough rate. The slight descent, the load and the less than perfect rear brake had combined to give me my first heart stopping moment of the trip. The brakes seemed particularly ineffective until it dawned on me that, in my panic to grab the front brake lever, I had opened the throttle at the same time. I closed it, grateful for the first and only time on my journey of the bike's lowly eight horsepower. The caravan's brake lights went off and I thankfully realised I was not going to end up a silhouette on a Silhouette.

More sedately, I continued along the A9. I was still cold and I shivered occasionally for the first time whilst riding. Past my lunch spot, Loch Fleet and back along Domoch Firth. Despite my dislike for R.R.R. the scenery did not look especially familiar. A gallon of metric petrol showed I could be achieving 100 m.p.g. again. Soon after Bonar Bridge I said, "The next site is mine". I did not have to wait long. I found a site near Tain, at a place called Meikle Ferry (No Ferry). I noticed that the owner's name was Urquhart, a name that always looks more odd than it sounds. At £4, it was the least attractive site of my trip. There was nothing wrong with the site; it was clean, tidy and well cared for but I had had a standard set for me by last night's. This one was very small by comparison, wedge shaped, with the A9 the other side of the boundary wall. On the opposite side was a railway line, a field and then Dornoch Firth. Because of its location, I was concerned about getting a good night's sleep but I had no worries. The A9 was very quiet, possibly helped by the low wall, and no trains went by.

I phoned home before I pitched, using the small new coinbox in Reception. I could hear my Mother but she could not hear me. Remembering to Press Button A, she assumed I was in a very old call box. She worked for British Telecom as a telephonist until her exchange became STD. When it closed, staff were allowed to bid for equipment and fittings. My Mother proudly cycled home with the instruction sheet for a button A and B type call box in her bicycle basket. Still glazed and in the original frame, it now resides beside their domestic telephone in my parents' hall. On leaving reception I walked past an old red telephone box in very poor condition that appeared to have been placed, almost dumped, just outside. I assume it was a new acquisition awaiting restoration. It certainly was proving of great interest to the two Germans who were intrigued by its presence.  I rode to the narrow end of the wedge, noticing several large caravans with a "long-stay" look about them. Beside them were unwritten vans. The women all seemed to know each other and the men always spoke whenever we met. I noticed a similar situation on a later site, the caravans having the tall domestic size gas cylinders beside them and awnings with full size cookers and fridges. I assumed the men were road or construction workers but I never found out. I was now an expert in erecting the tent, this being the third time, the first a test run in the back garden five days previously. I then showered in a freshly painted but very old shower block, the rusty coin meter giving a lengthy hot shower for 10p. As I was dressing, including thermals, someone tried the door with such force the frame sprang and the bolt undid. He mumbled an apology and I relocked the door.

I enjoyed hot soup sitting on the stove box beside the tent. There was no other pitch in use around me so I knew I could sneak away quietly next morning. It was very windy, the flysheet occasionally emitting a whipping sound as the wind caught it. I was content and warm, now having five layers of clothes on, but the wind, mainly North West, had a chill to it. I decided at 9.0 pm to walk to Meikle Ferry (No Ferry). The wind was surprisingly cold and I was the only person about. I crossed a cattle grid, peering down to see what treasures were below. Unfortunately it contained water. My best find was a Mole wrench, a type of clamp, not an instrument of torture for small furry pointed nosed animals. It had weld marks on it so I assume it fell free from a passing car. The scenery was pleasant but not outstanding, gulls were visible, indicating the closeness of the sea. After the riding, it was peaceful and quiet which probably helped the tiredness show itself. On rounding a bend, I met several cows who eyed me cautiously. The lane appeared to sweep the wrong way and I decided to leave Meikle Ferry (No Ferry) unvisited. I returned to the tent, as by now it was quite cold indeed, and crawled in. I wriggled into the sleeping bag with all but my boots and anorak on. A couple more cards were written and Radio Five listened to for a while before I zipped up and settled down for the night. I went over the day's activities. I had covered 321 miles and considered I had a right to be tired. The Velo had not missed a beat and I remembered I had not carried out the usual evening checks. I was no longer disappointed about my abbreviated stop at John O'Groats. In my mind it remained unexplored, somewhere for Lynn and me to visit together one day. Despite the dark sky, it was still uncannily light but, after putting my scarf over my neck to stop any errant draughts, I was asleep in no time.

Mileage completed today: 321  Total so far: 844

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