"One Man and His Velo"
Day 1: Best Laid Plans
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.
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 rewed 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
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."
Mileage completed today: 251