Early adventuring

Adventure motorcycling, once a niche that was the preserve of a hardy few, is now a well established and mainstream part of the industry. Many people take to the roads on machines capable of dealing with a vast array of circumstances, in search of that elusive term - an Adventure. In reality most don't go beyond the public road and the local cafe so adventures are fairly benign. I've owned four such bikes that in reality are so good that in most cases you don't have an adventure, although you will probably enjoy yourself.

It wasn't always like this, and if I were to apply the term 'adventure' to my motorcycling escapades, I'd have to go back long before it became a marketable thing.

I was notionally part of the Edinburgh Uni Motorcycle Club, a bunch of students, ex students and other hangers on, trying to run a variety of old bikes on a limited budget. Runs were a regular feature, typically to regular biker hang outs: St. Andrews, North Berwick, Moffat or Tyndrum. Overnighters were done during the summer - A group of us would head for some suitable destination on some highly dubious machinery, the idea being that we would find a quiet spot near to the road to camp, have a fire and alter our mental states via various means. On every trip at least one bike broke down, several had bits fall off, someone always got lost and progress was hardly faster than my days of cycling thanks to the golden rule of faff:- the amount of time spent faffing is an exponential function of the number of people in a group. Adventure? oh yes...

One trip in particular stands out. Myself and another guy were on fairly sorted 650 BSA's and another lad had a Triumph T140 that despite having been rebuilt sprayed oil everywhere. Night one was on the back road to Braemar, a popular roadside camping destination. Unfortunately we only had one tent between us and three large blokes didn't really fit in it. Just as well we were good friends!

The next day we headed north then west, the weather alternating between rain and shine. The first intimation of doom came on the road out of Inverness. Chris's T140 was misfiring at low revs. The solution seemed to be to ride it fast so off we went on a mad thrash west. I well remember going down the Torridon road and getting sprayed by gravel as Chris gunned it round the bends in a bid to keep going. Eventually we made it to Kishorn and a promising dead end road, at the end of which was a track which provided a fine place to camp. The midges were fierce but a fire kept them at bay. 

The next morning Chris's bike wouldn't start. Just back along the track we'd noticed a seemingly abandoned car which on closer inspection was unlocked but seemed to be in use as there was some change on the dash and stuff in the back. There was no sign of the owner so we popped the bonnet, attached a couple of wires from its battery to Chris's and then had breakfast. Thereafter his bike started and off we went. It was clear that Chris's bike wasn't charging properly but he just hared off; me and Niall adopting a more leisurely pace. Sure enough at Loch Carron there he was with a dead bike and a glum look. We set too removing the primary chain case to have a look at the alternator. Oh dear. The rotor nut had come loose and the rotor was busy smashing the stator to bits. Chris bolted it all back together but he hadn't located the rotor into its driving pegs so unbeknownst to him, the rotor went on squint and bent the stud on the end of the crank. Of course this meant the rotor would further destroy the stator. So it proved and at Inverinate garage he gave up and phoned the AA.

So on we went, until Spean bridge that is. As I pulled into the car park my bike died. We had food and then set off but pretty soon it was clear that I now had charging problems. Any use of lights killed the engine and it would only run if I gunned it. So it was my turn to ride too fast, this time down the famously bendy Lagan road. Eventually it died just by a house by the road. Annoyingly as I waited for Niall I noticed a Golf GTi approaching at speed and recognised the driver - another biking mate Derek out for a thrash in his parents car. But he sped past with a wave. Bugger. Niall appeared and we wandered down to the house in order to use the phone. The guy who answered the door looked highly dubious about letting two bikers in to phone the AA. Niall wanted to get back before dark so he left me too it. The AA man turned up quite quickly as he was based in Kingussie and soon enough I was being trailered down the road. Not for the last time....

As time went on the bikes became more reliable (or we got better at fixing them) and runs became more regular and less fraught with breakdowns. After too many group rides involving someone being left behind, someone holding the rest of us up due to a bike running badly, someone getting lost and highly dodgy overtakes trying to follow the leader; we figured on just setting meeting points and all heading up at our own pace. Cries of "I'll just follow you" were ignored. If you didn't have a map, you were on your own.

I suppose the most epic of these trips was to the infamous Dragon rally, held in mid February in Wales. The ride down became the usual mix of mad thrashing, getting lost (we were trying to avoid the motorway as much as possible) and horrible weather whilst trying to navigate the famously lumpy and twisty Welsh roads in the dark. We'd all got split up and then Me and Rick encountered a couple of Ural outfits, one towing the other which had expired. They were doing about 20mph with a huge queue of traffic behind and Rick suddenly decided we should follow them as the rearmost bike didn't have any lights. This lasted for about a mile before I got fed up and sped off. Rick soon followed as he had no idea where he was. Finally we got to Betwys-Y-Coed, had a pint and food and sussed out where the rally site was.

On arrival it was clear we were in for a hard night. It was windy and raining and I suddenly realised my tent was seriously lacking in strength and water-proofness. Rick's tent would blow flat everytime the wind gusted so we both ended up in mine, which really wasn't big enough. After a very rough night we were damp and cold as the tent had multiply leaked. Rick had a total sense of humour failure and decided there and then he was off home. The rally didn't officially start until that afternoon so I was reluctant to leave with him but my wrecked tent and wet bag was of concern. Eventually I just thought 'fuck this, I'm going home.' So off we went followed by the jeers of our fellows. We didn't muck around, just followed main roads to the M6 and headed north.

Now I was on an ex army BSA B40 - a 350 single which cruised at about 55 - 60. Rick was on a rough BSA A10 which ran OK but used rather a lot of oil. As we progressed north it got colder and colder with sleet and then snow showers increasing. I took the decision to use the A7 as it would get us off the motorway and hopefully away from the black skies to the north and west. It did until the hill after Hawick where the snow came in, in earnest. We made it over to Selkirk but after here it got worse and worse. The snow finally stopped but as the skies cleared the temps dropped alarmingly and the road was covered in snow. Ricks bike then started icing its carb, resulting in it cutting onto one cylinder (or out) and then firing on both with much wheelspinning as a result. Every so often he had to stop to allow heat from the engine to thaw out the carb and then off we went again. I was actually OK as the B40 had trail tires and wide bars and being a nice soft 350 thumper, the ideal tool for snow riding. It was now dark of course and progress slow. At one point I noted Rick's bike slowing so I pulled up behind him, leaned forward to place a hand on his top box and gave him a shove until his carb thawed once more. Finally we descended down to Edinburgh and out of the snow. We were both freezing so headed straight for the pub, hot food and beer.

In 2002 we decided on an expedition to the Western Isles, following on from some of the gang having done a trip there the previous summer, with tales of long sunny evenings and fab roads. The goal was Calanish stone circle in Lewis, along with lots of hippies and tourists. 

The run up was good fun - Kate met me at Crieff where I'd been at a training course and we then headed north to join the others at a hostel in Nethy Bridge. The weather was dry and sunny hinting at fun times to come. From there it was north and west to Skye as we were getting the boat to Tarbet from Uig.

It was a good start, weatherwise. If only we knew what was coming...

Other bikes were at the port, belonging to a club from Edinburgh who some of us were part of. Also noted were various desperate looking hippy campers and some bemused normal tourists eyeing us up with a small degree of concern. The ferry trip went without incident however the weather got progressively gloomier, the nearer we got to the island.

It rained from the moment we arrived to the moment we left. We hammered the fab road from Tarbet to Calanish and pitched up on the hillside next to the stone circle, the rain falling continuously. Fortunately one of the group had brought 50kg of coal which proved to be a life saver (along with whisky, beer and other herbage). Thereafter followed a damp and slightly bizarre three days during which time the rain never let up...

We nearly got lynched by the locals after one of us shouted at their kids for nicking valve caps off the bikes. After some diplomatic discussions from one of our group he became good friends. The feral children belonging to some of the travelers scared even the hardiest of us and this group of stereotypical crusties provided much amusement to all with their dilapidated campers, tramp like dress and total disregard for any form of personal hygiene. Maybe they saw us as kindred spirits as we had not changed out of our leathers all week. 

At one point a soup kitchen turned up, run by the local Free Church of Scotland. By this time we were damp and fed up so hot soup was a life saver. None of us converted however! In fact we heard them commenting how popular their kitchen was that year as a constant stream of local young people came and went. Only later did we twig why as it turned out that one of our party was selling ecstasy and word quickly spread round the islands youth population. 

The solstice itself was something of a let down, given the weather. The hippies and various locals all tried to commune with pagan spirits apparently resident in the lumps of stone but we crouched round the fire, vowing never to come here ever again.

Not sure the stones cared one way or another....

Finally we left, all terrified of getting stranded as the next day (Sunday) meant no ferries. The rain didn't let up so we ended up in the Hostel in Portree on Skye. After the continuous rain of the last three days it was bliss to relax in warm and dry comfort, reading the paper and venturing out to the pub for food and much recuperative beer. It rained all the way home as well.

2003 saw us visit foreign climes (Ireland) and much welcome sunshine. In a bid to avoid any chance of damp campsites we'd pre-booked Donegal hostel. This signified a change of fortunes as we were all earning now and the desperate wrecks we used to use on runs were all getting replaced by more modern tackle, or in my case a British bike that was now thoroughly sorted. Plus camping had fallen out of favour after the washout of the previous year. Much guiness was drank, fish caught and fine wee roads ridden.

Midsummer 2004 saw us heading further north to the Orkneys. Me and another guy (Zack) pre-empted the others with a few days buzzing around the highlands before we hit the Northern Isles. I'd first explored these roads the previous year on a trip by myself and was hoping for better weather as I'd managed to pick the only wet week of the summer back then. Inevitably, after a good start, The weather was once again horrible. Staying in bunkhouses meant we could dry off at night but the only problem was that as we were tending to cut short our day rides due to the weather, and end up in the pub from 3pm to midnight. One of the bunkhouses was a set of railway carriages in a place called Rogart. Best of all there was a pub next door and the guy behind the bar was most welcoming as we were the only folk in but spent a fortune eating and drinking.

We met the rest of the gang at a very gloomy and damp Gils Bay, just along the road from John O'Groats. A private outfit ran a couple of clapped out rust buckets between here and St. Margarets Hope on South Ronaldsay. The crossing was much cheaper than the Northlink boat from Thurso plus you went right across the roughest bit of the infamous Pentland Firth. At one point the pilot seemed to aim for the biggest wave in the violent currents leading to much leaning over of ship. This was a taste of things to come. The first night was in Kirkwall YHA - a former barracks and as appealing. 

After too many beers in the pub we were forced to get up at 6am for the early boat to Westray. It was slashing rain and blowing a gale. The guy at the ferry port said some immortal words: 

"Right lads, its going to be a rough crossing and we can't guarantee your bikes'll be in the same number of pieces at the end as the start"

Given that we were now up we couldn't be doing with waiting for the afternoon boat (which we'd been told may be too busy for us all to get on) so carried on. Much tying up and padding of bikes in the cattle pens ensured they'd be largely fine. The crossing was indeed rather rough..... 

Arriving in the small town of Pierwall was a bit like a cold and wet version of that scene out of the Wild One when Marlon Brando and his gang rock up to a quiet American town to the consternation of the locals. Everything seemed to be shut (it was only 8.30 am) and some of us needed fuel. We pulled up outside a petrol pump and stood in the rain looking for evidence of a kiosk or garage. Then a very elderly lady peered out of the next door house and it turned out she was the petrol station owner. After filling up we headed up to our digs. 

We'd booked the whole of Bis Geos hostel which was real luxury after previous trips. We weren't due in until 2pm but the owner was happy for us to use the facilities for the day, given the weather. The current occupants didn't seem to happy with this but we were too wet and tired to care. So we spent the rest of the day watching the weather improve whilst checking out the views. By this time the entire island knew that a dozen bikers were in town and we added to their fears by all riding in to check out the shop and source beer. The shop stocked everything but beer so we bought food and then headed to the craft shop which had an off license. The two rather attractive middle aged women who ran it were very pleased to see us as they had a couple of crates of out of date Orkney Red Macgregor which they sold us cheap. 

Westray proved to be a gem of a place. Much fishing, riding without lids (there are no Police on Westray) and generally relaxing followed. The first night we all rode the bikes down to the Pierwall hotel, had a fab meal of locally caught fish and quite a lot of beer. We debated walking home however it was clear the locals were arriving and departing by car, in view of the lack of Polis; so in the event we jumped on the bikes and rode back to the hostel up the (empty) road, thoroughly over the limit. This continued all week and was quite enlightening really as it dispelled any myth you can ride a motorcycle whilst drunk unless you are on an empty road doing 5mph in first gear with one eye shut... Further bemusement was caused when we aired a film on the pub DVD player that a few of us had made earlier that year for a local borders film festival - 'Fowl Play at Midnight' The last night saw us and various befriended locals having a beach party to the wee small hours.

These were happy days. We were generally doing a trip in the spring, Midsummer and Autumn, plus regular day rides. Perthshire, the Borders, Dumfrieshire, Mull, Skye, the Northwest - all providing a seemingly never ending series of empty, twisty roads. Roadside camping had become verboten thanks to armies of neds spoiling it for everyone else at places like Loch Lomondside, Loch Rannoch and Loch Earn so we were tending to use campsites or hostels, plus even the odd B&B!

A key feature of these trips was the Friday evening run up to Glencoe. You'd previously been able to camp outside the Clachaig but the NTS put a stop to this, which left the scuzzy red-squirrel campsite. This was a midge hell hole so off limits other than in Spring and Autumn. Given that and the weather we would generally stay in the equally scuzzy bunkhouse, head to the Clachaig and have a few pints. This pub had changed beyond all recognition from the week in 1987 when I'd been up here with the school mountaineering club. Then, the bar was a poky whitewashed stone room selling Tenants or McEwans. Now it was a large and airy (smoky in those days) space with a line of hand pumps. The next morning often saw a slow start...

We did go back to roadside camping in later years as we sussed out quiet spots away from prying eyes. Hostels were now expensive and we were becoming sensitive to other occupants views of a bunch of blokes turning up on bikes, getting wrecked and crashing about in the night. After too many unfriendly receptions in B&B's we'd also given up on them. The next years midsummer trip was being planned. Where next? Further north? Now that sounds like an adventure!

Introduction - why and how I ride motorbikes

Sometime in the mid seventies, aged 5, I caught the motorbike bug. No one knows why - Mum, Dad, brother, other rellies or me... Suddenly (according to Mum) I was motorbike daft - if one went past, I'd stop and stare. If one was parked up at a place we were visiting, I had to be physically dragged away from it. When we went walking, I'd quickly forage a suitable bit of stick, which became a pair of handlebars, and off I went, my lips rasping a creditable impression of the big banger scramblers of the day. Of course this was the hey day of motorcycles - lots of lovely Japanese fours, a good number of well used British machines, occasional Italian exotica, worthy Beemers and the odd eastern European desperation machine seemingly filled the roads between a vast array of incredibly dull (and largely brown) British made cars.

A mate acquired an old Suzuki TS50 for use round his parents back field. He offered pillion rides but refused to let us up front. It fell apart eventually but then he replaced it with a gem of a trials bike -  a Cotton no less, albeit with a mallaguti lump rather than the trad villiers offering. I actually got to ride this a couple of times before it got nicked. Of course my parents resisted all my attempts at persuading them to get me a similar thing. "Where will you ride it?" "who will maintain it?" " who will pay for it" were imponderable and un-answerable questions. 

Of course like all kids in those days I was knocking around on various bikes - old shonks that my Grandad had salvaged from the tip, then a Raleigh Grifter which quickly became a pretend motorbike. This was a British made pre-bmx and actually quite a good thing. The down side was a very heavy sturmey archer 3 speed gear adding to it's overall heavy weight. Most people bang on about Raleigh choppers as a cult bike back then but they were utter rubbish. Grifters were by far superior and far more fun. When the BMX thing happened my grifter was all I had but another bike revolution was about to happen.

In my late teens the first mountain bike appeared and I fell in love, starting out on an obsession that continues to this day. Thoughts also turned to getting a car license (mainly to carry the mountain bike around) and my interest in motorcycles waned somewhat, despite the ascendance of all those lovely early days sports bikes - GPZ, to GPX to ZXR. GSX to GSXR, FZ to FZR et-al going on around me.

Scroll forward a few years to uni. My room mate and to become long term friend Niall acquired a banana yellow Yamaha 'Passola' step-through moped for commuting purposes. At school, if you had turned up on such a thing, you'd have at least got a righteous slagging, or possibly even a doing. For us enlightened Uni students, it was an expression of alternate freedom away from Lothian busses or crabbit black cab drivers. I was cycling in and out of town to Uni and out every weekend with the cycling club. But the thought of powered two wheel transport started to re-awaken. It would compliment the bike rather than replace it as it would be nice to be able to head to college on something that didn't require pedaling, on those wet and windy days.

The first summer saw me back home and in gainful employment at Northumbrian Water, with a need for transport. Cue a Tomos moped, as available from Kays catalogue (about £300 new) for £100 from a local private sale. Not exactly the stuff of dreams but I was off on a journey that would shape my life. I didn't know it at this time of course and had persuaded my Parents that this would be it, motorbike-wise, and it would only be for commuting. Little did I know... A key moment:- walking up a narrow lane in Durham city a guy appeared at the bottom of the hill on a Guzzi. He gunned it up the hill leaving a trail of wailing car alarms and alarmed adult faces. One day, I too would do that.

Back at Uni that year and the Tomos was dragged up with me in a borrowed trailer. But now Niall had gotten a real bike - A Kawasaki KC100 2 stroke, with shades of those 70's killers, the KH's; and it would do 70. My tomos suddenly looked like what it was - a cheap and nasty, gutless death trap. I did once pass a youth on an AR50 but other road users just road over the top of you. My previous assertion to my long suffering parents that a moped wouldn't lead to stronger things (much like many drugs) was quietly forgotten. I needed something bigger and faster. Two Wheels, now large Honda and Triumph Dealer, used to have a place at the bottom of Dalkeith road. I wandered in one day and saw it -  a fine condition Honda CB100N with few miles and a mere £500. A deal was done for the tomos and off I went. It was slower than Nialls KC but went vroom instead of vring, and revved to 10000rpm! (And did 130 mpg.) The phone call to my parents when I told them what I'd done was a bit strained. It's always easier to ask forgiveness than permission...

They first saw it when they were up for a visit staying in a hotel in Livingston. I rode out to meet them, despite it being freezing and there being snow everywhere. I managed not to drop it despite riding round endless frozen slush covered roads in Livingston looking for the hotel. To be fair to Dad he was mightily impressed so that was OK. In fact I rode it home that Christmas and he had a shot, leading him to much thoughts of buying a bike himself!

This photo was taken a long time ago.....

That summer (1991) I did a particularly epic cycle tour which involved excessive distances, running out of money and far too much suffering. The worst day involved doing 95 miles into a headwind and burning sunshine on busy roads. That evening in Carlisle YHA I met a couple of Dutch lads on Tomos mopeds. They too were touring Scotland and Northern England and despite their machines restrictions to 30kph, (i.e 10kph less than mine had been) were doing big distances. Largely due to the pain and suffering I had just endured, it's fair to say this made me think - touring without pedaling, headwinds slow you down but don't burn you out. So it began. 

A photo taken after my last cycle tour for a very long time...

Soon after I passed my bike test. I was up against a dead line as they had introduced Compulsory Basic Training that year and if I didn't get my license that summer I'd have to do CBT. I'd already sailed through the part 1 test out at Livingston (no ice this time) so applied for the part 2 as soon as I got home. It was slightly stressful in that I hadn't bothered getting any lessons given that I'd been riding for a year and had my car license; and I nearly blew it:

"Where's the biggest hazard when turning left?" (Examiner)

"A car turning right into you" (Me)

Examiner looks askance. "What about from your left?"

I look askance. "Err? like what?"

"Cyclist, other motorbike, narrow car" 

I'm still looking confused - nothing is coming up your inside when you are turning left. Turns out I wasn't doing the 'lifesaver' look over your left shoulder which is a standard thing to teach, apparently. For the avoidance of doubt, the last place you want to be looking at when turning left is over your left shoulder. All your problems will come from in front. 

I figured that would be that - FAIL! But in fact he passed me, probably due to the confident way I'd hacked through Darlington rush hour traffic and screwed the bike up to 60 on the bypass.

The L plate was ceremonially ripped off and... no real change as I didn't fancy riding on motorways and at that point had no willing pillion passenger. 

Back in Edinburgh, the CB was mainly used for commuting and messing around the streets with Niall but this proved to be hugely entertaining. Other bikers waved at you, car drivers shook their fists at you and pedestrians scattered as you roared (hummed) down the street past them. I'd put a couple of quid in the thank, after a couple of days it would go onto reserve where it would stay for the next week or so before another couple of quid went in. 

Next up came a rat of a Suzuki 250 X7. Niall had originally acquired this and got it running fairly well. He'd even acquired another one for spares. Soon after he had fallen in with the Edinburgh Uni motorcycle club, a few of whom were running old British bikes on a budget, and inevitably ended up with one himself - a BSA 650 project - and needed the cash to do it up. The X7 was a total liability and the last thing I wanted at that point. I bought it anyway and passed the Honda to another uni pal who needed a commuter. 

Heh heh! This was the machine that heralded the death knell for learners riding 250's in the late '70's as it could do the ton. Unlike the contemporary RD's, it was super light so accelerated like a scalded cat. Of course the LC's were the final nail in the coffin for learner 250's but for the likes of us, such things were an easy way into speed. Over the next few years I did various things too it and thrashed it everywhere, to the accompaniment of the traditional two stroke howl out of the allspeeds. 

Tank paint seemed like a good idea at the time...

I also became a member of the EUMCC and soon enough we were regularly doing runs around Scotland's fab road network, mixed up with meet ups at the various biker pubs in Edinburgh, bike shows and rallies.

So when I was thinking getting a bigger bike, an old Brit seemed to be the way to go. This lead me into a world of pain and suffering but ended up being surprisingly successful in terms of miles ridden per hour spent in the shed (or in fact a series of lock ups around Edinburgh) It also avoided the inevitable descent into the 'bigger and faster' trap many motorcyclists fall (or run) into...

Authentic '60s cafe racer, i.e. a nail...

Over the subsequent years we rode all over Scotland, stayed in a variety of places, in a variety of weather. Being skint, we avoided official campsites and pubs, only starting to use these as we got older, wiser and richer. Machines came and went, runs became longer, we visited far flung places (Ireland, Western Isles, Northern Isles, Isle of Man) but all my youthfull dreams had come true. In fact, motorbikes were such a big part of my life that they weren't really a 'lifestyle,' they were my life.