Tales from a Motorcycle Saddle. 

  "One Man and His Velo"

Day 2: Alone

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Sunday, 30th June 1991

What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.
No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.
No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars like skies at night.
No time to turn at Beauty's glance
And watch her feet, how they can dance.
No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.
A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

Whilst dreaming of things past, I failed to follow my route, attached to the "summons clip" on the windscreen. I missed, "A69 Left 3M, Right A68" and rode for six miles before noticing. I turned next right, it could have been the A6079, to rejoin the A68. What a road this was, the likes of which I have never seen before or since. Imagine taking an LE on a roller coaster with no bends and that is how that road rose and fell. "NO OVERTAKING". "BLIND SUMMIT. MAXIMUM 30 MPH." ; 30? They had to be joking! Full throttle, second gear, 22 mph was the most the hardworking Velo could manage. Once breasted, we shot down the other side of each crest, accelerating like a roller coaster, whipping through each gear as fast as my right foot could push the lever down. 50 at the bottom, 35, into 3rd, 25, into 2nd, 20 just over the top before plunging down to hit 50 and repeat the process again. On each uphill grind I was tailed closely by a long wheelbase Army Land Rover. Thinking that the Army would be well pleased at being reduced to 20 mph by a mere tourist, I was pleased when it overtook me once the road returned to sanity. Under the tilt covering the back, were several young soldiers, who gave me encouraging cheers and thumbs up signs. Thanks, lads, you don't know how much that bucked me up, and I was already on a high.

Continuing on, the road passed Hadrian's Wall, another structure I would have stopped at in different circumstances. If I were to stop here, I should stop everywhere, was my argument. I had no criterion to tell me what to stop at, so I pressed on. Earlier, I imagined I could hear a chuffing noise, like the start of a blown exhaust. By now, I was sure I could. To confirm this, the quiet little motorcycle was emitting the most horrendous backfire when decelerating, caused by the alteration in back pressure in the exhaust system. It was completely random, except that the higher the speed, the more frequent the bang. I passed a "gentleman of the road" towards the bottom of one hill. As I came from behind with a closed throttle there was an almighty BANG, which even made me jump. The tramp flinched but, with his head down and his hands gripping the ubiquitous supermarket bags, he plodded uncomfortably on, probably throwing a curse in my direction. If he did, it worked because, over the next mile or two, the chuffing turned into a full blown unsilenced bark from the offside exhaust pipe.

I turned off into the entrance to a forest track, alighted, put the bike on the stand and bent down to investigate the cause of the noise. The exhaust pipe was loose where it bolted on to the cylinder barrel. The securing flange was still bolted firmly in place, indicating that the pipe must have burnt away between flange and barrel. There was nothing I could do, so I removed my helmet, (I always think better that way) to ponder. Whilst downing a small carton of orange juice, I realised I had only one option, to continue and find a garage that was open, on a Sunday, in Northumbria and had someone with the ability to do a quick brazing job. Difficult? I thought it would be, but this was the first point at which I realised that perhaps Someone was travelling with me. I proceeded, sounding more Harley Davidson than L.E. Velocette for less than two miles. Descending a steep hill through a village, accompanied by a BANGBANGBANG BANGBANGBANG at eleven on a Sunday morning is not the way to endear oneself with the locals but, on the left was a garage. It had no name board but it was open! As the attendant, a stout man in his late forties dressed in overalls, put seven litres of petrol in, I asked tentatively where I could get some brazing done. He said he might be able to do it and what was wrong? I showed him the exhaust and, after some deliberation, he suggested I remove it and he would braze the flange to the pipe. This meant removing the oil filter again but I had no option. He was a quiet chap who hadn't, until now, said much. As I was removing the exhaust, he showed more interest in the bike and one question he asked was "What is its value?"

He thought I underestimated it and went to his car, to return with the latest copy of the Classic Bike Price Guide! Methinks the initial reservedness was to avoid being caught with a pig of a job on a Sunday when the workshop was closed. He wasn't the governor but an employee. I removed the exhaust and the bell end of the pipe fell free, completely burnt away from the pipe. We took it into the workshop where I was surprised at how large it was, say 100ft by 40ft. Inside were several vehicles of no particular note, e.g. Metro, Range Rover and a Honda 400 bike but also a Bull Nosed Morris and an Aston Martin. There was a chassis and several other components of -I think -a Lagonda. I had time to inspect these as it appeared that, no sooner was the oxy- acetylene torch lit than a customer would require petrol. After four or five attempts, the flange was successfully brazed to the exhaust pipe, all semblance of Health and Safety being blown out of the window. There were several vices but he had me hold the pipe. No goggles were used but he did put his glasses on. I closed my eyes, gritted my teeth and turned my head away. The brazing rods were replaced in the boot of the Morris, the workshop having been broken into twice recently. I refitted the exhaust pipe, the only problem being that the flange was not spot on and the exhaust pipe was jammed hard against the lower radiator hose, a far from ideal situation. The mechanic, whose name I never did enquire, cured this with a large tyre lever.

On fitting the oil filter, the same problem occurred, the exhaust pipe not allowing the oil pipe to be refitted. A further judicious application of tyre lever technology sorted out this minor problem, the exhaust pipe no longer bearing any resemblance to an '0' section but quite flattened. I was afraid it might have an adverse effect on performance but I did not notice any. One of the oil pipe unions seemed weakened but did not appear to leak. Two pints of paraffin cleaned the oil away nicely and I was ready for the road. The helpful mechanic refused to take a penny for his work -the sign on the luggage rack had its uses -so I made a note in my pocket book and told him I would add an extra £5 to the money raised.

A little mishap then occurred. The garage forecourt at one end had quite a slope and I was standing, holding the Velo across it. Suddenly the extra weight took control and the bike fell away from me, hitting the ground with a sickening crash. I was able to right it myself, (try that Mr Honda Goldwing Owner) with little effort. A few extra scratches on the leg shield and a few on the edging of the windscreen had appeared but no real damage. A couple of days later I discovered that full lock to the left was impaired, the fall having bent the windscreen brackets slightly. Another job for when I return home. When? If? The thought entered my head that this was Day 2 and twice the bike had needed attention. "Come on," I thought, "We can do better than this". Luckily we did.

An elderly gentleman in a new large Mercedes then called in for petrol. He took an interest in the bike, having previously owned one (how often do we L.E. owners hear this -but where are the bikes now?) He was impressed with the "four speed, foot change and kickstart conversion". "Mine" he said, "had a damn fool hand gear change and pull starter. Silly idea, but I do like your conversion." I started to explain but the mechanic returned with oil for the Merc. I noticed that a top up of oil for the Merc would have been ample for a complete oil change for the Velo. For those not familiar with the L.E. Velocette, a word of explanation might be in order. Much time and money was spent to produce a quiet motorcycle to a very high standard. If BS5750 had been around in the late 40's and early 5O's, the British Standard that deals with the management techniques appertaining to quality, then I feel Veloce would have had no problem achieving it. It was released in 1948 as "the Everyman's Motorcycle". In order to make it less like a conventional motorbike with its inherent poor weather protection and the need to operate the starter and gear lever with one's foot, the bike was started by a pull on the lever on the right side of the bike, and the three gears were selected by another lever. I have never ridden a Mk I or II (mine is a Mk III with a kickstart, four gears and a foot lever) but in traffic one would have be content with restarting if it stalls, gear selection, operation of the throttle, operation of the front brake and a hand signal, all with the right arm. The bike stayed with these features for ten years, but perhaps an earlier update might have assisted sales.

I set off having promised to send a card when I had completed the journey. It was now approaching one o'clock, this little hold up having soaked up nearly two hours. The garage was deep in the valley, I had now to ascend the other side. I made second gear, but to my alarm, the Little Engine spluttered and died. It was no more than having forgotten to turn the petrol back on. Away again but the hill was too steep to allow a decent speed in second so I took pity on the knocking in the gearbox and slowly ascended in first gear at 12 m.p.h. It would have completed the climb in second but both it and I preferred the smoothness and silence of first gear. Three miles later I was back on the A68, the bike felt and sounded fine, we had a full tank of petrol and the sun was shining. If only the wind would drop or do an about turn! There is no pleasing some people.

The road continued in a North North Westerly direction. The wind continued blowing from North North West. Today was going to be a slow day. The area was very much guide book material, with the Border Forest Park on my left, Northumberland National Park on my right and the Cheviot Hills ahead. The gentle speed gave me time to consider my aches. Nothing serious. Just knees which I was aware of yesterday but bothered me no more, my backside which was now sitting on a square of foam given to me by my cousin and twinges in my shoulders, which every bike, powered or not, has always given me. The foam got wet and was ditched later and I never missed it. The shoulders I was aware of all week but never to any great extent. Exercises helped the muscles as I travelled so, all in all, I had a comfortable trip. At no time did any part of me cry "Stop, I want to get off!" which was commendable considering the number of hours I spent in the saddle each day.

I entered Scotland at Carter bar, at 1.35pm on my knees. I stopped the bike, alighted, parked the bike on its stand, only to watch the wind blow the foam away. Like the schoolboy trick of tying a monetary note to a thin piece of cotton, each time I bent down it tumbled over and was away again. I did notice that it was being blown Eastwards, maybe a change of wind direction was on its way. The tall stone plinth bearing the name SCOTLAND had a piper in front of it for the benefit of the tourists. I unashamedly put some silver on his plate and took his photo, thinking that I was glad to be in jeans. I celebrated reaching Scotland, a mere 342 miles from home, with a cup of tea from the refreshment trailer. When it was downed I found myself for the second time chasing objects in the wind as it took the plastic cup from my hand before it reached the bin.

As I moved off, the rain had abated slightly, as I reached top gear it stopped altogether, although the road was awash. The running boards coupled with the huge front mudguard did a good but not perfect job of keeping my boots dry. A little wet came up between the engine and the running boards. For perfectly dry feet a scooter is required. I had always turned my nose up at such a vehicle but, having sold my Triumph Bonneville to help purchase my first house, I was missing greatly the fresh air to and from work. I cycled up to three days a week but the thirty five mile round trip was tiresome at times. What I needed was something small, cheap to buy and run and practical. The answer came in bright orange, with a 90 cc two stroke motor and a Piaggio badge. This 1974 Vespa was magic! 100% reliable, with no chains, battery or engine oil to worry about. It never gave less than 140 m.p.g. no matter how hard I rode it, it cruised at 45-48 m.p.h. despite its book top speed of 42 m.p.h. out cornered bigger bikes in the wet, carried excessive weights on the rear carrier, and if the truth were known, I was a born again teenager. Mother made yet another spare wheel cover.

"NEVER again, Timothy! That material is RUINING my sewing machine." Long suffering Singer and Mother made six in total- Minivan, Ford Anglia, Ford Prefect, Ford Escort Van, Dutton Sierra, Vespa and also they repaired our current caravan's spare wheel cover. Both were relieved when we bought a Fiat with the spare wheel in a well in the boot.  I came a cropper once in the year with that scooter. I came off at Curry Corner, a sharp bend on a country lane, so named because of the Travellers camped there, surrounded by washing machines, fridges ...I was not going fast, in fact, quite slowly but the front wheel went and, with a crash, I was down. I wasn't hurt and after being lent a hand by a passing motorist, I rode off ...straight on to the verge and into the hedge. I backed out and looked down at the front wheel. It was 45 degrees out in relation to the handlebars. I rode very gingerly the remaining fifteen   miles home, at one point being overtaken by a cyclist. At home, I loosened a bolt on the handlebar stem and lined the front wheel up. Because of the favourable year with the 90, I decided to buy a brand new P200E Vespa. It was expensive but a good buy. A goodbye was said only fourteen months and 8000 miles later though. See both machines in 'Preamble'.

By now on the A68 I was approaching Edinburgh. The hills each side were attractive but not impressive. The spot heights showed them as miserable little pimples until I realised they were metric hills, not imperial ones. Suddenly the A720 Edinburgh bypass appeared. Seeing the Forth Road Bridge signposted, I headed west, realising I had missed Bonny Rigg from where an L.E.Velo Club member had written to me, offering help, or just a cup of tea. I had intended to call in but I missed my chance. The twenty odd miles round Edinburgh seemed interminably long. Five miles to my right lay a fascinating city with enough history to keep any buff engrossed for ages. My wife and I had one impromptu day there a couple of years ago. It was Festival week and we found the city alive, cosmopolitan and absorbing. One day is sufficient for only a taster -we plan to return. To get a feel of the city in the middle of the last century, read "Greyfriars Bobby" by Eleanor Atkinson. It makes compelling reading and describes the city as well as Dickens did London. The incredible true story is about a Skye Terrier who was faithful to his master even after the master died and who slept on his grave every night for fourteen years.

The impressive Forth Road Bridge was reached at 4.20 and I stopped to get some money out for the toll. I grabbed some, put my gloves inside the windscreen and rode to the booth. Motorcycles -Free. I'll second that. I am often impressed by man made structures and I wished I could be nearer the rail bridge to experience its grandeur. Down river, in the sun, it looked as if it were painted in a red lead primer. Once over the bridge I refuelled, bought some milk, postcards and sticking plasters. I filled a small container with the milk and drank the rest. In the late afternoon sun I was a touch too warm but kept both pullover and cardigan on. Riding without a scarf appeared to be a good way to regulate temperature. I was now on my first stretch of motorway of the journey, the M90. The wind was more side than head, the traffic was extremely light -my impressions of the motorways are based on the M25, the London "Ring" road: 120 miles of never ending, dense traffic. This was more like the uncrowded roads of France. I noticed several new FSO cars and wondered if there were an importer near by. Has anyone noticed how many Skodas there are around Kings Lynn? Or Vespas around Witham (that's Witt-ham) in Essex. That is where my new X registered P200E came from.

I ran it in and soon retumed it for its first service. The dealer was amazed that the clutch or brakes needed no adjustment. "Usually the kids knock them out in no time." he explained. I could not have been so slow, as the back tyre was bald after 5,000 miles. It was well made and reliable but did not have the charm of its little brother. It ran out of steam at 50 m.p.h., probably aided by the large screen. It never achieved more than the mid seventies per gallon, and pushing it over 50 m.p.h. brought the figure down to the high fifties.

I met my wife that year and it provided excellent transport for both of us until my Dutton Sierra was built. In the November of that year I was on my way to work when I caught up with a white Ford Escort that came round the roundabout from my right. Realising I was too close, even at 20 m.p.h. I closed the throttle but did not brake. Just as the gap increased, a horrific sight appeared ahead. An articulated tanker was in the process of jack knifing as it came towards us round a bend. The Escort hit the double wheels of the tanker trailer, the Vespa hit the Escort and I hit the road. Thankfully I was not badly hurt, the lady driver of the car was in more pain than I was. The resulting traffic jam reached past my bungalow and past my parents'. My Mother pushed her bike to work and came across a familiar looking scooter, bent in two. Whilst looking at it, she was approached by a policeman who confirmed her fear that it was mine, but I was O.K. Not a pleasant way to find out about your only child's road accident. My right wrist was fractured and I had to have some stitches in my chin, where, incidentally, no beard grows any more. That evening my gir1friend came to see me but left as my fiancee. I had intended to propose on February 14th, three months later, as we had met on Valentine's Day that year. The rest, as they say, is history.

The lorry driver was charged with driving without due care and attention. I felt that the milkman who parked his float just around the bend was a contributory factor but, as the police said, the tanker driver should have driven with the knowledge that bends are not always clear. The insurance company offered £175 for the Vespa which, including accessories, had cost me £850 fourteen months previously. I can't remember the final figure but it paid for a great part of our wedding. The dealer from whom I bought the Vespa had never seen one bent in that manner before. He thought I must have ridden into a wall at 30 m.p.h. which, in effect, as the tanker pushed the Escort backwards, I did.

The M90 continued Northwards for about 30 miles to near Perth. It was quite a pleasant trip, sunny, not to windy or busy. At 5.30 p.m. and with Inverness 120 miles away, I knew I would not reach it today so my plan was to travel until felt tired and then take the first campsite I came across. I joined the A9 at the end of the M90, a road I was to stay on for the next 250 miles. I enjoyed the time on the A9. It varied in width, sometimes single, sometimes dual carriageway, it had beautiful scenery each side and helped me believe I really was in Scotland. Later, I was to see huge barriers, gates in fact, that can be shut to close the road when snow makes the road impassable. I have seen gated roads before, narrow country lanes, not dual carriageway trunk roads! Occasionally in the weeks before I commenced the journey, I would pick up a road map and study my route north of the border. This was the part of the trip I expected to be the most demanding but the most fulfilling. In our "hobbies" room at home -a small bedroom with a worktop in place of a bed, is a laminated map with small pins indicating places visited and large pins indicating overnight stops. The upper third was rather devoid of pins. Britain is a beautiful country of contrasts and on this trip I was going to experience a few. We have been to Austria and found it beautiful but we both want to know Britain better.

About this point I was overtaken by an American Motorhome -you know the sort -as big as a British sited mobile home but with an engine. It was left hand drive but British registered, with an "A" plate, I think. As with smaller vehicles, this R.V. (an Americanism - Recreational Vehicle) had something fixed to the rear. Not bicycles, or even a trail bike or two but a Ford Escort Cabriolet attached by a rigid towbar. No wonder the R.V. was powered by a burbling V.8 petrol engine. It might be interesting to see the For Sale advertisement for the Cabriolet. "25,000 miles on clock, only 10,000 covered with engine running."

Approaching Pitlochry, on a dual carriageway section, the sky became gloomy, then grey, then black. The next layby saw me pulling on the waterproofs - careful with the zip - to avoid a repeat of lunchtime's soaking. It was not a moment too soon. As I pulled away a few drops appeared on the windscreen and then, as before, the clouds let go of everything they held. I continued at 30 m.p.h. leaning forward close to the windscreen.

The road was high and a couple of miles later I reached the summit of the Pass of Drumochter at just under 1400 feet. It was here I saw my first snow of the trip, not a great deal but quite a sight for me, as it lay high on the hillsides. To my right and slightly behind lay a higher summit, that of A'Bhuidheanach Bheg at 3,064 feet. I had passed it unawares, the cloud was far too low to admire such height and beauty .The rain had stopped for a while now and I decided I could not put off any longer something I had never done before -find a site, erect a small tent and spend the night in it, probably in the rain. I did not have to wait too long before a caravan symbol appeared. I rode by, then stopped and turned around and followed the lane to the site. Of course it took tents, the site owner said. There was a tent symbol! Perhaps I missed it in my tiredness.

The site was probably the largest, most attractive, well kept site I have ever stayed on and certainly the best and cheapest at £2, of the trip. I arrived at 8.p.m. Reception and shop was open until 9. p.m. The person who booked me in was the owner, a young man (younger than my Velocette, he told me) who had great enthusiasm for his site. As he was a local, I believed him, albeit sadly, when he looked at the sky and said of the rain now falling, "Aye, that's set in." He waved his hand vaguely towards an area a couple of hundred yards away which was reserved for tents. It was the size of a small field, so I rode over, parked on the edge of the field near the pine trees and worked out a plan of how to erect the tent without getting anything wet, including me. Luckily I was being looked after and the rain decreased to a drizzle. I kept my helmet and waterproofs on and pegged out the inner tent. In went the poles, up came the inner tent, over went the flysheet, in went the pegs and all was fine. After I paid great attention to ensuring the flysheet did not touch the inner tent, I stood up and yes, it had stopped raining. On removing my over trousers, I realised my jeans were damp and that the over trousers had acted like an older style wetsuit, i.e. keeping me wet but warm. The next job gave me the greatest satisfaction. On with the stove and out with the tea. The stove was a small Camping Gaz model I found by chance at a boot sale I stopped at a month earlier. The chap wanted £1.50. I did not haggle. It came in an aluminium box, a well made one that itself was worth £1.50. This mug of tea was one of the best ever. I sat on the stove box and looked around. The site was very large and mine was the only tent. In the distance I could see hills, and I could just hear the traffic on the A9. I walked to Reception, inspected the new shower block en route and phoned home. But where was 1? I had turned off the A9 in Glen Truim, some five miles past the A889 turning.

My main bag I left on the bike, the tent was small and I was still concerned about items pressing the inner tent to the flysheet. I did not wish to wake up with the airbed and me afloat. I wrote my first postcards of the trip, lying on the sleeping bag. "...523 miles covered, a quarter of the journey completed ...Could someone please tell God He's left the lights on? ..." The time was 10.15 and light enough to write in the tent. I considered taking a stroll before settling down but decided against it. Tiredness came over me quickly once I relaxed, so it was into the sleeping bag. I played with the radio but could hear very little. At 10.30, I zipped the front of the tent closed and prepared myself for my first night of the trip under canvas.

Mileage completed today: 251  Total so far: 523