Tales from a Motorcycle Saddle.

  "One Man and His Velo"

Day 5: Getting Warm

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Wednesday, 3rd July 1991

I cannot recall how many times I woke with a start because of an especially loud lorry. At 6.15 I knew I would not sleep again and I prepared myself mentally for the day ahead. I had planned to visit the Police H.Q. at Birmingham where a press officer would take details, a photograph would be taken and, hopefully, an article placed in a periodical mainly read by retired police officers, with the idea that the Velo might be recognized by a past rider.   I visited the shower block, causing two dogs beside a mobile home to start barking. The entrance to the block faced a stream and the sight and sound of it reminded me of our walks on past holidays. When willl ever use my feet again? I had to wash and shave in cold water as the oversink heater was off. I switched it on for the next person. Breakfast was the usual muesli, orange juice and tea. The tea was drunk on the move as I attempted to pack everything away before the rain came. It never did but its threat helped me to be on my way just over one hour after rising. All loaded, I started the bike, watched the blue smoke blow away and fade. Round the hotel lawn, stopping to put the shower block key under the front, or was it the back? door of the hotel. I retraced my steps of the night before, through the village and on to the 87020, destination Annan.

I like mornings, the earlier the better. That is one reason I enjoyed the camping side of the trip so much. The air is so much sweeter at opposite ends of the day and I always think there is an air of optimism early in the morning. That is how it was this morning. The sky was cloudy but my initial fear of rain was unfounded. There was little wind and what there was was mainly to the side. The road was straight and devoid of traffic. I was in no hurry and the Velo seemed happy at a relatively slow speed of 42 m.p.h., the speed it always seems to travel at in still conditions on a tiny throttle. Maybe that is the speed where maximum torque occurs -the ability of the engine to produce pulling power, not maximum horse power. Our car, a 1984 Fiat, emits a characteristic Italian bark from the exhaust between 2700 rpm and 3500. At these revs, it pulls very strongly and is an ideal caravan tow car in that respect. There is simply no need to use more revs. 3,500 r.p.m. in fifth gear equals an indicated 80 m.p.h. which appears to be an economical speed and we are content with 35 m.p.g. from a two litre twincam Fiat with 120,000 miles behind it. Our previous Fiat, a low geared 1300, would only achieve 33 m.p.g. at 60 m.p.h. Older Fiats represent good value if you can accept poor bodywork. Ours was not quite four years old when we bought it for £950. With central locking, power steering, tinted electric windows, five gears, twin cam "sporty" engine, it was half the book price for such a car, and one quarter the price of an Escort XR3i, not that I would ever dream of owning such a vehicle. On the debit side, I'm the third owner and it is now getting brown round the edges. Overall it was a good buy, as this Velo was." A letter from a Newcomer Part 1" described how I became its owner, part 2 tells of how I got it going.

My first contribution to the LE Velo Club magazine ended with the words, 'The L.E. was mine!'. Now it was, what was I to do with it? The idea behind purchasing it was that I should give it a thorough going over and hopefully make it road legal without spending too much time or money on it. If it came to the point when it needed a complete restoration I would have to think carefully before embarking on such a task. I admire people who do spend countless man hours and pounds on a restoration, but feel that such a venture would not suit us. We, being my wife and I, both work full time and spend the majority of our free time in other activities, from caravanning to socializing. For one of us to spend a disproportionate amount of time and money in one (selfish) activity would upset the balance. Having said that, it was the generosity offered by my wife that enabled me to buy the Vulgar Velo in the first place and, even before her first ride on the pillion pad, she suggested we could use it as our form of transport in Ireland next year. I enjoy working with an aim, or target, and this Irish idea sounded good to me. So the Velo was at home and I was raring to spend a few hours on it to find out exactly how good, or bad, it was. It looked O.K., complete, no bodges or rounded nuts visible and a week later, I tried to get it going. The hoses were perished after six years of inactivity. Car heater hoses were used up top, and the top hoses cut down became lower hoses. Oil in sump, petrol in tank, battery from my C.Z. below the saddle, plugs cleaned and away we go. Wrong!  I like to think that if I had known that Miller points were unavailable I would have been more careful, but I guess the contact breaker spring would have broken anyway. What happened was that, after much frantic kicking, I decided I should investigate this no go situation. No spark. Points seized. No problem, except that the spring broke. Into the shed and out with the points from the spare engine. Spark but still no go. Compression? Yes. Did this really take two hours? Eventually (like a week later) I got it to run on the right cylinder. Obviously further inspection was necessary. Upon checking the left tappets, I found that one locknut was broken, and the other incorrect one was loose, resulting in the adjusters being loose and stripping the thread in the tappets. Back to the spare engine and off with tappets. Oh dear, wrong diameter adjusters, resulting in only half the area of valve end coming into contact with the tappet.  With the wrong tappets in place. it was time to try again. After psyching myself up to kick for a long time. I was not prepared for the Velo to start first kick! Surprised but delighted. It goes!

Back to this morning; my only concern was lack of motion lotion. Very little fuel was visible in the tank (it slopes back) and there is no reserve. Perhaps the only way that my CZ scored over the L.E. was that it had  two petrol taps and two reserves. In the nearside pannier I had a tin containing a pint of petrol, enough for 10 to 12 miles. Lochmaben yielded no petrol so it was on to Annan. The tank holds one and a half gallons, giving an absolute maximum range of 150 miles, although I allow 120 for a margin of safety. This sounds very little but when looked at from a time point of view, 150 miles could take five hours, so the little bike's range is not so restricted. My progress was slowed by a herd of cows on the road, being led from a farm to a pasture. I was waved through and very gingerly I passed them. They were much bigger than me. Do you remember the drunk who arrived home with a cow pat on his head? When his wife complained, he said that his cap blew off crossing the farmer's field and, in the dark, he had to try several before he found a cap that fitted. I reached Annan at 8.20 and, thankfully, put 1.37 gallons into the nearly dry tank. The attendant was cheerful and asked a couple of questions before she wished me well.

A few miles later I was heading South East on the A74 towards Carlisle. At this point in my route planning I realised that had I been in or on a faster vehicle and had no desire for 'A' roads, the next 280 miles or so would have been very easy from a navigational point of view, if a trifle dull. The route would have read: "Carlisle, M6 to Birmingham, M6 to Exeter." Approximately 280 miles, or 4 to 5 hours. Instead, I had nearly a page of directions, including my detour to Birmingham and an option of "pass storming" in the Lake District. The sky was darkening and I knew I would not escape the rain this time. At Carlisle, I derived great pleasure by ignoring the M6 signs and was soon riding along the wide, open and quite traffic free A6. At 9.15 I reached Penrith and decided against my detour along the A66 and through the Lake District. It was a beautiful part of the country and I was sorry to miss it but, as always, I felt the need to press on.   A few drops started to fall just South of Penrith so I found a layby on the right of the wide, three lane A6 and "togged up". Hardly too soon either, for as I crossed over to the left lane and started plodding up a long hill, the rain came down. It was not as heavy as in Scotland on the second day but heavy enough. Dense traffic can make riding in the rain miserable with the spray and muck being thrown up by the traffic but, luckily, there was very little.

The road continued up and I realised that the rain had not dampened my spirits. Presently I passed the village of Shap, which immediately got me thinking of another form of transport, that of railways and mainly, of steam. Shap, to a steam enthusiast is like Mulsanne to a Le Mans follower. Shap Fell, by rail is only 1 in 75, nothing to a road user but it is the most arduous railway gradient anywhere in England at four miles long. The ascent from Ilfracombe is twice as steep but only half as long and even express trains were restricted to three coaches unless helped by a second engine. Shap was THE train spotting location in the days of steam, where enthusiasts could watch Stanier and Pacific Class locomotives thunder up Shap with a load of several hundred tons behind. It was only the skill of the driver, the stamina of the fireman and the sheer power of the external combustion engine that made this possible. My favourite story concerns the trains travelling North, whose drivers thought they might need assistance from a second loco. Passing Tebay they would give the "assistance required" sign on the whistle, which was the cue for an engine, normally a 2-6-4 tank to chase the train and assist from the rear. What sometimes happened was that the train requiring assistance would steam up Shap, breasting the summit before the assisting loco could catch up, a trick that did not please the crews at Tebay.

At the next layby I stopped, alighted, and took a look about. The clouds were low, obscuring the hills on both sides. To my left, but unseen, was the railway and the M6. Before my trip commenced, I had worried about times like these. The road was almost completely free of traffic, the rain was quite heavy and I was miles from anywhere. Mist or cloud was moving across the hills, aided by a strong North wind. My load under its plastic had steamed up in places and the sky was a uniform Velocette grey. But I was dry, warm, happy and content. Shap marked an important point on my joumey. I had passed the half way point without realising and I suddenly knew that I would, God willing, complete the trip. I had not given a thought to mechanical failure for a couple of days and I was totally confident that the trip would be a success. A little rash, perhaps, with about 900 miles and four days still to go but it was a very strong feeling. I stood in the rain for only a few minutes, not even removing my gloves. I was in peaceful surroundings, and at peace. The rain added to the splendour and calm. A car went by, the driver warm and dry and comfortable. Apart from a wet face, so was I. I had absolutely no wish to exchange places at all. The hills still had a calling, although for practical reasons we would have stayed off them in this weather. Motorways are fine for those in a hurry: they are a fast direct route. For those not, they often leave the replaced trunk road wide and open, and with better views than on a motorway. The M6 on a day like today, on a motorbike like an L.E. would have been ghastly -and dangerous. I took one last look around, started the bike and rode off towards Kendal.

At over 30 m.p.h. rain tends to give one facial acupuncture and in order to avoid it I sometimes ride leaning forward with my face quite close to the screen. That was not necessary today as the wind was behind me which lessened its impact. It occurred to me that if I were in such a good frame of mind, a song might be in order, except that I cannot sing. What would be appropriate? "Singing in the rain"? Perhaps. "Let the stormy clouds chase everyone from the place, Come on with the rain, There's a smile on my face ..." Pity there was no lamp post to swing around. Or "Little April Showers" from Bambi? I think not; this was more than an April shower. I preferred a less well known song, sung by Curtis McPeake and the Nashville Pickers featuring Dick Curless. I kid you not. Not being a Country fan, I am not sure how I came across this song but, at least, it was apt. With two words changed, the chorus runs: "Look at that rain, look at them clouds roll by. I can't tell if there's more water in the road or the sky. When we get to the top, we'll have a nice cup of tea, But coffee might help ease the strain. When I pull into Kendal, I ain't riding no more, Velo, look at that rain."

The rain had stopped by the time I reached Kendal and I circled the town twice. It did not look familiar at all. Where was the house on the stone bridge? I must have been picturing Ambleside. I continued south pleased that the rain had stopped, and even more pleased that the sun was breaking through. At 1.30 I decided to treat myself to a cooked lunch. Within minutes a Little Chef appeared. I pulled in, parked with the back of the Velo (and therefore my signboard) towards the building. I took my waterproofs off, rolled them up and secured them under luggage elastics. I did not know then that this would be the last time I would need them. Whilst waiting for my mixed grill and salad, I was approached by a man from a table on my right who laid £10 in front of me. He had read the sign on the Velo and had a whip round With his three companions. I took his name and address in order to send a thank you letter and inform him of how much I had raised. There is much generosity about, especially when someone comes up and presents £10 to a stranger. As I wrote a couple of notes in my log, the other gentleman in the group came across to tell me he was a Methodist Lay Preacher and that a member of his church had walked from John O'Groats to Land's End and raised over £8000. Averaging 25 miles a day, it put my little effort into perspective. I had to ask the waitress where I was, something I was hesitant to do. It would have been just my luck to be served by a waitress who was staunchly proud of her beautiful home town and what did I mean I didn't know where it was? Huh! Unfounded Worries. I was in Bolton Le Sands. The map showed the sea as being less than half a mile away but I never saw it. I said goodbye to the Methodists, "..including Grandma who will be 95 in two weels time."

At the till another diner asked which way I was going, up or down. I replied, "Down, towards the sun." I did not realise how right I was. The day had warmed up appreciably and I discarded my scarf. The wind was still side to tail and was helping my progress. A quick stop to refuel took only a few minutes and I settled down to a few more hours riding. By mid afternoon, I had passed a Blackpool 7 miles sign, the M55, Preston, and I was on the A49 to Wigan, having covered only 160 miles so far this day, a fact which surprised me as I thought I had been making better progress. I came to a small suburban roundabout and, not knowing which exit I required, I stopped and perused my atlas. I failed to notice a Daihatsu 4WD type vehicle do a complete circuit of the roundabout and pull up beside me. "What's this Dreams Come True, then, Mate?" The chap who called out over the clatter of the diesel engine was the driver of this outsize Tonka toy. A lot can be said about this charity, but a good short summary is: "It's for sick and terminally ill children -a sort of Jim'll Fix It type charity", I replied, hoping that Dreams would not mind being described as such. "Good job!" said the BRISE worker (the name was across the front of his hard hat) "I'm a biker, so here's a fiver for them", he said, handing me a five pound note. I took his name and address, we had a chat (I have forgotten how many bikes he has) and he asked where I was headed. He gave me directions to Birmingham and which roads to follow to get Shirley, and was on his way.

I was not able to get on my way so easily. By now the afternoon was very warm indeed and so was I. The Velo did not want to start, probably the heat and facing downhill was too much for it. Instead of one or two kicks it took at least a dozen before it chugged into life on one, then two cylinders. The black smoke from the exhaust indicated flooding, but a few seconds later it cleared and off I went. Travelling along the A41, I noticed that there was more traffic about, probably as I was on a main road to Wolverhampton and Birmingham. At around 5.00 pm I knew that it would be pointless to contact the Police H.Q. today and when a large filling station with a little shop appeared, I pulled in, refuelled the bike and bought some cold Lucozade to refuel myself. Unfortunately condensation formed on the bottle and, as I entered the Gents, it slipped through my fingers and smashed. The Asian proprietor seemed less concerned than I was. After buying another, I took the Velo to a corner of the huge forecourt and parked it beside a telephone box. I was going to phone a Club member who I had met the Sunday before my trip at the Club's A.G.M. near Coventry. He gave me back his sponsor form with his telephone number on it, saying I should give him a ring if I wanted accommodation. I only spoke to him briefly that day and now was slightly hesitant to phone him up out of the blue and ask for a bed. The heat inside the phone box nearly drove me out and onwards. Damart, two pullovers and an anorak are not ideal clothing to be worn in a phone box that is in the sun, in summer. I'm glad I persevered, as this stopover in Shirley with Derek and Joan proved to be a most enjoyable interlude in my trip. So much so I was reluctant to leave the following day.

Birmingham was not on my original route and, journeywise, itwould have been easier to stay on the A49 to Hereford and then on to the Severn Bridge. I was glad I did divert. A little inconvenience can reap great benefits. I had to pump coins into the phone faster than Derek could tell me how to find his address. In the end, after buying yet another Lucozade in order to obtain more change, I estimated my E.T.A. at 7.00 pm and quickly left the phone box before I melted. As I put on my helmet, an Italian articulated lorry backed in towards the fence next to the telephone box. I called out when I saw what was going to happen but to no avail. With a splintering sound, the rear of the trailer hit the wooden fence. The lorry moved forward and the engine stopped. The driver threw a glance towards the now leaning fence and walked towards the shop, perhaps wondering if he should mention it. I did similar with my Ford Escort van a few years ago, luckily causing no damage. I was surprised to learn that such a vehicle is longer than a Bedford CA Dormobile. The governor of the coach company who was watching appeared to hand over the keys to one of his fifty three seaters with a little reluctance ... The remaining fifty miles through Wolverhampton and West Bromwich to Birmingham presented no difficulties. Near the city centre, I asked a teenager the way to Shirley but she couldn't help. I continued on and a sign pointing to the National Exhibition Centre jogged my memory. The Brise man had told me to follow that route.

Once in Shirley, I was soon directed to the required road, a quiet, very pleasant area, seven miles from the city centre and three from the M42. It was still very warm and sunny when I was welcomed into Derek and Joan's home. Joan was on her way to a church fund raising event, but had gone to the bother of preparing a meal which only needed a few minutes in the microwave. I was still concerned I was imposing but they made me so welcome the feeling soon subsided. I was told I would hardly be noticed. With five bedrooms and having brought up several children, they told me that they had always enjoyed having a busy house, with their children, and their children's friends always coming and going. This family atmosphere was apparent as soon as I entered their house. It is impossible to define, in fact I put it down at first to having spent the previous three (albeit highly enjoyable) nights in a tent but it was far more than that. I soon realised that it would be a struggle to leave. Joan remarked that when I did, she would be standing on her husband's foot to prevent him from coming with me, such was his enthusiasm for my trip. Having showered, eaten and tidied my belongings, Derek and I went for a walk in the evening sun. How pleasant it was to be in shirt sleeves, without a piece of thermal clothing near me! We headed towards the local Police station, our intention being to find the exact address of the Head Quarters.

Passing St. James Church, I was told to look for a gravestone on which is a name I would recognise. Derek pointed to one and the name meant nothing to me. If my host sighed in despair, he kept it to himself. Rem Fowler, I had explained to me patiently, won the first ever Isle of Man T. T. race in 1907 on a Norton Vee Twin. Now I know. I tried to account for my ignorance by claiming I was not a dedicated motorcycle enthusiast. I had no friends who were motorcyclists and the L.E. Velo Club was the first motor cycle club I ever joined. I don't think Derek understood. He runs a Honda RS 250, a popular single and has boxes of parts he intends to build up into two Velocette Valiants, rather more conventional looking motorcycles than an L.E. but sharing the same running gear and similar engines. Having just retired early, these restorations will commence once Derek and Joan have moved to a smaller house. We passed a card phone so I took the opportunity of phoning home. I could not speak to my wife but her father told me she was at Badminton, a usual Wednesday evening pursuit. He enquired when I was likely to reach Land's End. I told him it would be around Friday lunch time and he made me promise to phone on Thursday evening, which I would have done anyway.

Once back at Derek's home, we spent a pleasant two or three hours chatting about motorcycles, Derek's Army days, motorcycles, my trip, motorcycles, caravanning (we are both members of the Caravan Club), motorcycles, church and anything else that came our way. At 10.45 the television was switched on for the boxing. It was live from the Brentwood Centre, just a few miles down the A12 from where I live. Not being a fan of boxing and feeling tired, I retired to my room, scribbled a few notes and settled down for the night. Surprisingly, sleep was not immediate but when it did come, I heard nothing until six the next morning.

Mileage completed today: 279   Total so far: 1410

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