"One Man and His Velo"
Day 4: From High to Low
Tuesday, 2nd July 1991
At 7.15 am I started the Velo and noticed with a little concern, the cloud of blue smoke that drifted up and away. The smoke followed me through the site but disappeared when I accelerated once on the main road. A couple of hundred yards later, the bike spluttered and died. It was no more than the fuel tap being off. It left me perplexed, how had I started it without priming the carburetter? If I had turned the fuel on, I could not recall pushing it off. The Velo started, this time with a puff of black smoke due to over enthusiastic use of the tickler. I moved off thinking that, if this was going to be the height of today's worries, it was going to be an easy one. As usual there was not a great deal of traffic on the A9, despite in theory, this was the rush hour. I crossed the Cromarty Firth again, via the same long bridge. The tide was out, revealing acres of black mud. The sky made a couple of attempts to frighten me but failed. On the bridge I wondered how this estuary would look from the air. At least the road would be conspicuous from above. A friend of mine has a small private plane in which he has taken me up a couple of times. It is a 1967 Piell Emeraud, in his words, a stick and canvas affair powered by an oversize Volkswagen Beetle engine. That is not too far from the truth, as it has a wooden airframe covered in Terylene, which is doped to make it shrink taut. Hanging out the front is a three and half litre, air cooled, horizontally opposed, four cylinder petrol engine, bearing an uncanny resemblance to a Beetle engine with twin spark plugs.
The second time we flew he let me navigate. I was chuffed, what a responsibility, what a challenge, what an odd map you've given me, Andrew! Unfortunately, there are no sign posts at 1200 feet, and the ground did not bear a resemblance to the map at all. Eventually I could just make a connection between a road below and a line on the map. Andrew navigated to Norwich by following the A140, with me feeling deflated. He would pick out features on the map, an airstrip, railway line, radio mast or other tower, and point through the perspex cockpit to them on the ground but I'm blowed if I could see them. After much studying of the landscape, I would say, "Yes, there it is." "I don't think so," Andrew would say, "it's behind us now." Probably practice makes perfect so, given time, I could hopefully improve but it was an eye opener for me, literally. His little plane would cruise at around 100 m.p.h. at which speed it consumed four gallons of four star per hour. Therefore, due to a plane's ability of flying a straight line between two points, unless I was navigating of course, 25 m.p.g. is quite economic. A head wind would slow the plane considerably and he told me of a time when he was following a road against a strong, say 30 m.p.h. headwind. The cars below were travelling faster than he was. When he let me have the controls (it can be flown from either seat) I found it extremely difficult to keep to an even keel. Only by holding the controls delicately between finger and thumb could I gain the sensitivity required, which was slightly different from the white knuckle method he employed as we, no he, attempted to land on the grass airstrip whilst being buffeted by a vicious side wind. Needless to say, we made it, even receiving a round of applause as the Club house emptied to watch. The Velo seemed gentle, quiet and safe on my return journey home.
At a quarter to nine, I left Inverness after refuelling. It had started to rain so, at the first opportunity, I stopped to dress up. It was a wise decision, as the rain came heavier, though not as heavily as Saturday and for an hour or so. I was on the A82 now, heading South West towards Fort William on the West coast, sixty eight miles distant. The road followed Loch Ness. No, I did not see Nessy. A girl at work told me about her sister and brother-in-law who, in the sweltering heat of the previous year's summer, found a secluded place on the bank of Loch Ness and decided to cool off by going "skinny dipping". On returning to their car, they observed the sun glint on something in the bushes. They dried, dressed and drove off. When they went to a nearby visitor centre, they learnt that the Loch is under twenty four hour surveillance. That day the cameras caught two monsters, not one! Loch Ness is twenty miles long and is linked to Loch Lochy by the Caledonian Canal which, in turn, joins Loch Linnhe at Fort William by a series of locks known romantically as Neptune's Staircase. I crossed the canal several times between Inverness and Fort William. The road ran through wooded areas, often dark, often hiding Loch Ness from view. It stuck out its elbow at Drumnadrochit and I wished I could turn right along Glen Urquhart and on to ever smaller roads into the Highlands but, alas, I pressed on.
All through my journey I had been afforded a greater degree of respect as a road user than I'm used to on a small motorbike. I made myself as conspicuous as possible, always riding with lights on and a bright safety belt. The sign on the back was probably a contributory factor, something which was graphically proved the first time I ventured out without it on my return. It was not a serious incident, just an inconsiderate car driver who wanted MY piece of road at a junction. As soon as she was able, the young driver raced by, only to brake hard to turn left in front of me. Perhaps 2000 miles of near incident free motor cycling had made me complacent. The need to take care at all times and anticipate others was brought home along this pleasant stretch of road. My speed was 40-45 m.p.h. and as the road was quite bendy, I considered I was not unduly causing a delay to following traffic. The occasional vehicle that did overtake did not leave me far behind, as they slowed for bends more than me. I suddenly noticed in my mirror a large Renault with caravan in tow start to overtake, with a bend not so far ahead. The Renault driver was attempting to bend the rev counter needle against the end stop as the outfit struggled by. A vehicle appeared around the bend, I decelerated and pulled nearer to the rock face. The outfit pulled in barely before it cleared me, causing a tremendous gust of wind to hit me as it came between the rock face and the caravan. At the same moment the bike went over a couple of bumps, or holes, I could not tell which and, for two of three seconds I simply was not in control, not a vast length of time but worrying enough. The following car and caravan did not attempt to pass. Half a mile later we all came to a halt at roadworks. I resisted the temptation to ride to the front of the queue. It would have been antagonistic and selfish, not to mention dangerous if Mr Renault had tried again to overtake.
I was still not happy with the weak oil pipe union. I kept glancing at it, expecting the oil to go away but it never did. It was hardly a leak, just a weep that after so many hours running, was staining that area of the motorbike. At 10.00 am I rode through Fort Augustus and spotted an AA Approved sign pointing to a garage. I called in and asked if anyone could solder a copper oil pipe. A chap asked a few questions then told me to remove the pipe, which I did. A group of mechanics huddled around two massive oxygen cylinders as one ran some solder round the union. Meanwhile there was one Velocette owner quietly having kittens outside. I had made a similar repair at home with a hand held gas blowtorch, here they were using gear capable of melting sheet steel. Heads started shaking and two mechanics walked towards me. They handed me a hot misshapen lump of copper, muttered apologies and turned their backs.
"Give this a try". The voice shook me from my day dream and I was handed a gleaming copper oil pipe with a beautifully neat ring of shiny solder around the joint. I refitted it and ran the Velo at fast tick over for a couple of minutes. "Perfick!" At least the oil pipe was but the engine was emitting quite a quantity of blue smoke with every revolution. There was also a vague tinkling sound. Piston rings? The foreman allowed me to dip my hands into their bucket of hand cleaner and showed me to the washroom. I studied a Fraser Nash in the corner of the workshop. It was an open top tourer, complete, but in poor condition. A note on the dashboard read: "Replace clutch and try to get going." Once this was achieved, there was much work to do. I hope they succeed. As two days earlier, they would take nothing for their labours, so I thanked them profusely and promised to put an extra £5 to Dreams. No one, or at least no one visible, watched me pull away. I was relieved, as I was leaving a cloud of blue smoke in my wake. There definitely was a mechanical tinkling sound from the engine. Performance was unimpaired and, after half a mile, the smoke had all but disappeared. The tinkling had gone too -I moved the ignition key fob away from the headlamp shell. It was all systems go.
The A82 led out of town. Suddenly there was a horrendous shriek of rending, seizing metal. I barely had time to close the throttle and pull in the clutch as an Air Force jet fighter screamed past overhead, at what seemed an incredible speed and low altitude. My helmet tends to dull some sounds and amplify others. This, combined with my worries of a minute or so earlier, plunged me straight into panic mode, which left my heart pounding and my ears ringing. Obviously I was still prepared for a mechanical failure. The odds of completing the trip without serious mechanical problems I thought to be in my favour. The gearbox, the bike's only suspect area, had covered 3000 miles in my use, and with 42,000 on the clock, why shouldn't it do 2000 more? The ignition circuit had been upgraded with contact points from a Ford Cortina, a Club "approved" modification and an ignition coil from a Honda 175 (another "approved" mod,) replaced the Miller coils, which have been known to deteriorate with age. So, was 2000 miles out of the question? At around 11.30 I arrived in Fort William. I rode slowly through the town, still familiar from our fleeting wet visit two years ago. I passed McTavish's Kitchen, a restaurant we went to, where they put on a Scottish folk band and a dancer. Pandering to tourists they may have been but we enjoyed it. I parked in the car park on the edge of Loch Linnhe. The sun shone briefly so two photographs were taken. Unusually for me, not many were taken this trip. The ones I did were: Velo and tent at first camp, ditto second and so on, so a view of hills and lochs made a refreshing change. I purchased a car park ticket and stuck it to my windscreen, wondering if it would be pinched as has happened before. If it was, I would be grateful that nothing else had gone; I had enough on the back, unsecured.
I walked into town and put my Barclay's Connect card into a Bank of Scotland dispenser. Out came £50 of Scottish money. "Of course, it's funny money", said the Sassenach behind me before covering her mouth, as she realised I was probably Scottish. I smiled as I turned away, keeping her guessing. I wandered down the main street, buying milk, a sandwich and a small cake for my lunch. I walked through a souvenir shop wondering what to buy Lynn. All I left with was a small white furry "thing" with bagpipes and a tartan cap. Oh dear, I must have been on the road too long. Back at thecar park,1 filled my milk container, drank the rest and prepared to continue. It was 12.25 and I had only covered 109 miles. This fact decided my next action. My other cousin, Robin, (we're a small family) and his wife were having a week's holiday staying on the Isle of Seil, (South of Oban and turn right at Kilninvery). I had a message from him when I phoned home one evening. "Key for chalet 5 under dustbin. ".. Come if you like, not expecting you." Because of my schedule I had to cover around 250 miles a day and so therefore, did not want to lose half a day's travel, as much as I would like to have seen them. If it had been early evening I would have diverted as a bed was available if I required it. Another reason to press on was that I was looking forward to Glen Coe and Rannoch Moor which I would have missed if I had rerouted to Oban.
The furry thing was making a bulge in my pocket and I had the idea of fitting it to the front of the bike as a lucky mascot. Whilst wondering how to do this, it occurred to me that if one believes in God, surely one does not need good luck charms and the like? To a Christian the answer is obvious but I have only just started to attend church on a regular basis after a gap of several years. As a child, and youth, I went but did not enjoy it. I found the services tiresome. I felt nothing, despite an occasional very real effort on my part. At no time did I ever say that God did not exist but I came to the conclusion that all I had to do to be a Christian was to be nice to children and animals and help old ladies across the road. Then, several events compounded to alter my opinion. Lynn had a powerful, vivid dream one night, so clear that it stayed with her for eighteen months before she put pen to paper and wrote 24,000 words about it. "Nobody Writes to Cliff" has been typed (it took me sixty hours with two fingers!) and heralded a change in her attitude to life. Although not a fan of Cliff Richard -Lynn found this dream so real, so vivid, so memorable she knew she was being called by Jesus into the Christian way of life. Countless hours have been spent talking, listening and reading about the Christian faith and she is soon to be baptised, (Oct 91) an event which she cannot wait to happen. This is only the beginning of her response to being called.
Then a couple of friends invited us to their church. They had become regular attenders, mainly to give their children an opportunity to experience the church. Our friend, Linda, was becoming a member that day and it happened to be the first service I understood and enjoyed that I can remember. Although Linda's husband Jim had not recognised him, the minister was someone that Jim and I were in the same year with at grammar school. Lynn decided she needed a local church. I continue to attend our friends', twelve miles away although I reckon I shall attend Lynn's soon. A few months ago I admitted to someone that I did not like "going to church". Now we have both found churches that suit us and are being involved in the fellowship and warmth that they exude. A short while ago we both would have said it was impossible. The furry "thing" went in my bag and stayed there.
STOP PRESS (Dec. 91) A great deal has happened on the Christian front since penning the paragraph above. We both now attend Broomfield Road Gospel Hall in Chelmsford, Lynn had become a Christian by committing her life to the Lord Jesus Christ in April, and I followed suit on the October 1st. We were both baptized, (by total immersion) on 17th November along with two youngsters from the church. Several people were touched by God's presence that morning, a morning we shall never forget. We both spoke for a few minutes about how we came to the Lord, and were amazed to be invited to three other churches to say the same to their assemblies. Praise the Lord!
A motorist below was studying the mountains with a pair of binoculars. I used to have a pair, ex Grandfather's, but I passed them on to my father. They were too cumbersome and heavy to carry all day. However, I could use a pair of the modern, light miniature ones ... I spotted several motorcyclists travelling slowly along the road. Motorcycling is a good form of travel. Ecologically sound with their low fuel consumption and small size, they knock travelling by car into the sidelines. One can experience the air, smells and temperatures. A drop into a valley in the evening can be surprisingly cool and refreshing. The warmth of riding into the sun when cold is gratifying. In "Gulliver's Travels", a book written by Ted Simon about his three year trip around the world on a Triumph, he says that to see the world, you must crawl over its surface, getting dust in your face and hair. For some, motorcycling is about power and speed, for me it is about being outside, experiencing the occasional hardship which is compensated for a hundred times over by a heightened awareness of one's surroundings. That is no criticism of the occupants of the frequent Wallis Arnold or Searings' coach I saw.
We went by coach to Austria once. The holiday was comfortable, easy, pleasant and inexpensive. It was also lacking something for me. All good things come to an end, and so must my lunch break. Glen Coe can be dark and foreboding in poor weather conditions; Charles Dickens described it thus, "Glencoe is perfectly terrible. The pass is an awful place ...the very recollection makes one shudder ...". For me, the opposite was true. The road began to rise from this point so it was 32 m.p.h. in third again. The ski lift was open, on the slopes of Meall A'Bhuiridh. How does one pronounce such names? The pass opened up as I made my way over Rannoch Moor Summit, at 1,141 feet, only one third of the height of the mountains to my right.
My speed was reduced to below 40 m.p.h. and vehicles were passing on each side of me. I was decidedly unhappy at this road and longed to be back on the empty roads of the North. The M8 led to the M73 which led to the M74. The traffic thinned out and reached its normal motorway speed. The hills became longer, the Velo became slower, and I became more ill at eases and unhappy. Vehicles were thundering by at over twice my speed and I cursed my stupidity at ever considering I could travel on motorways. The emptiness of the M90 north of Edinburgh had lulled me into a belief that I could travel comfortably and safely on them. Something had to be done. I was at the lowest point of the whole trip. I turned into Bothwell Services to assess my position. A cup of tea seemed an attractive idea but the sight of the commercial world with reps on mobile phones, and the bright garish decor inside was alien to me. I needed green, I needed peace. The map showed how ideal a route the M74 was. Any other would mean preparing a way-list of towns and roads and then following them. I gave myself a jolly good talking to and pulled myself together. Off I rode and back on to the motorway. Oh dear, what a mistake! All the previous emotions came flooding back. There was no doubt in my mind, I HAD to leave this motorway. The next exit came along in minutes and I was going to take it. I had no idea where it would lead me but anywhere was preferable to the M74. Motorways never before had aroused such distaste in me but never before had I enjoyed for three days the open grandeaur of Northern Scotland and then been pitched headlong into the mad noise and mayhem of a motorway. A large brown sign loomed up. It read: CLYDESIDE SCENIC ROUTE SOUTH.
I could hardly bear to look away in case it was a mirage which would disappear. Did I deserve such help, such luck, such good fortune? I still don't know. I followed the brown signs, not knowing where they were taking me. The important facts were that I was riding South, along wide, near empty roads, with green fields and distant hills visible. Bliss, sheer bliss. I wanted to get off and kiss the signs every time they appeared. I was thankful I did not have music available, otherwise I would have been dancing on the saddle. Memories of this section of my joumey are a little vague. I did not make any record of the route taken and, in fact, did not even look at a map either during or after the Clydeside Tourist Route. All I remember was pleasant surroundings, little traffic, a couple of towns and a tail wind. The wind had assisted me often since leaving John O'Groats and I compared the lack of headwind with a disappearjng headache. When it is there, it is annoying and uncomfortable but once it goes, its disappearance is often unnoticed. This was how it was with the wind. The Velo would be singing along effortlessly at around.45 m.p.h. and I would notice the silvery underside of leaves as the wind turned them in the direction of my travel. By now, on this sunny Tuesday afternoon, I realised I was a little tired. I still wanted to complete another two hours riding if I could; my original itinerary dictated Carlisle tonight but I knew that was out of my reach. I rejoined the A74 at Abington, the M74 having finished eight miles north. The road was still dual carriageway, however, and very busy. Lorries thundered by giving me, as always, a great deal of room.
There was much evidence of road improvement visible, as the A74 is being upgraded to motorway status. Several sections were coned off to one lane, one of my pet hates of the trip. No one pushed by and I felt surprisingly at ease. If I was holding anyone up, they kept their impatience hidden. A RAMP sign made me stand and the bike crossed it with a slight jolt. An unseen bump then caught me unawares and we careered over it, my goggles falling down. Clipped at the back of the helmet, they would not come back up, the strap being caught under the sides of the helmet. Not knowing this I tried in vain with one hand to bring the goggles back to their rightful place but failed. I then used two hands -the Velo normally proceeds along with no help from me -forgetting the load on the back had given the bars a twitching when not held. The twitch began to take on the makings of a "tank slapper" and I left the goggles around my chin. At the first layby I put them back up on top and rejoined the A74. It was 6.30 and I was ready to stop. I was a little indecisive. Did I fancy Bed and Breakfast? Yes, but they are more restrictive but give good breakfasts. Will this site do? Don't know, so I carried on. The road sign read "Beattock". It listed its services which included camping so I turned off and under the A74 and towards the village. Beattock House Hotel Carnping and Caravanning Site lured me in and, at 7.00 pm I rode slowly along the driveway, lined with white painted kerbstones spaced each side.:, The drive led beside and round the house to the back, or was it the front? I came off the old A74 so I thought I was at the back but it looked like the front.
I parked beside a Mercedes with private plates and combed my hair before walking up the half dozen steps and through the large front door. The hall had the atmosphere of grandeur on a small scale. Reception was behind a small window on the left. A gentleman whose appearance matched the surroundings perfectly, booked me and my tent a place on his front, or was it back? lawn. He said the bar was open and home cooked food was available. I promised to return later. I chose a spot halfway between some distant caravans and set to. A dog walker wandered over to take a closer look at the Velo. Most people who take an interest know nothing about it, for example, "Velocette. Is it French?" or, with a flourish of Italian accent: "Bellochette" "No" says I, "Vell-o-set, made in Birmingham" This man was, in good Liverpudlian terminology, gob smacked. "...haven't seen one for twenty years ...used to own one ...unbelievable ...". The Velo inwardly smiled, dripped some Castrol from the final drive and settled down for its third night outside. I can't endow inanimate objects with feelings or even a name -Betsy does not sound right anyway -but I had acquired a certain affinity with this little machine over the last few days and 1131 miles.
The houses were small, neat and gave a cosy feeling to the street. It was, in fact, the old A74 which must have made Beattock a noisy place to live in. As I approached the end of the village, the road turned slightly to the right. The roadsign was of the type I had not seen for many years, square, with black lettering on a white background. It said A74. What a contrast to the current A 74! Only one vehicle passed whilst I walked along the road. I crossed the Y junction and started to walk back. A teenager had a radio controlled model van which bounced and flew over the bumps of an unmade side road. I asked the only other person I met where the post box was. It was at the Post Office further along which I had missed. It was small and I felt as if I were trespassing on someone's drive when I went to find the box as it was not visible from the road. Opposite was the garage so I ventured a further look. A handwritten notice which I had failed to see before had come unstuck from the window. OFFERS OVER £27,000 it invited, which probably explained the smart outward appearance. It did not say what £27,000 bought - obviously no goodwill of the business -so I could not say if it represented good value or not. If it included the adjacent bungalow -definitely. The lady who served my pie and veg. drove by as I entered the grounds of the house. It was 9.30, still very light -and noisy -but tiredness had taken over, so it was into the sleeping bag. The day had been one of contrasts and a slow day with not a high mileage covered. To complete the journey in eight days' had to cover 250miles each day, so in that respect I was ahead of schedule, but doubted I would be in Birmingham the next day as early as I needed to be. Despite the traffic noise, I was asleep in no time and slept reasonably well.
Mileage completed today: 287 Total so far: 1130