Road burning

My love affair with British bikes was in full flow. The B40 was blatting me about the country in fine style, looked cool, sounded cool and required zero maintenance. Then it's big end went. Having just had the A65 do the same thing the previous year, I was less than impressed. Of course it was just a case of pulling it apart, fixing it and rebuilding. But I was hankering for something which was less like a hand grenade looking for a war....

Being part of a gang of friends with a whole range of machinery, it was likely that something would be available to suit my needs. First up was a fire breathing Norton 650SS owned by Andy. He was needing to sell it as he'd just bought something even more lairy -  a Norvin no less, i.e. a 1000cc Vincent lump shoe-horned into the inevitable Norton Featherbed frame. The 650 seemed a far better thing to my mind but was probably more than I could afford. Worse, it had a persistent niggle in that unless you gave it a handful, it would drop onto one cylinder. This reduced the price but buying something for top dollar that would need a load of faffing was less than appealing. It went like the clappers though.

My mate Rick suggested his ageing 500 Triumph. His then Wife had one which was a fine machine so I was tempted. His was a bit of a rat but went OK and did indeed draw me into the joys of Triumph twins. But I was hankering for another 650. So he gave me a shot of his Trophy and I was utterly smitten. Not quite as gutsy as the 650SS, but quick, smooth, good handling and easy to live with.  

1998 saw an absolute roaster of a Festival of 1000 bikes at Brands Hatch. We'd trooped down there with various bikes (in a van) and I spent the weekend idly looking at other peoples machinery, whilst R & A did laps of the race track. Languishing in the Autojumble was a 1970 TR6 looking decidedly sorry for itself. Rick had a closer look and determined matching numbers and most of the right bits there. A deal was done!

This was the stuff of dreams

Ignoring the vendors assertion that it needed a full rebuild before riding it, we lashed it up into something resembling a complete bike and fired it up. Horrible noises ensued but it went well. A rebuild was done that winter, a cheap spray job done on the body work and we were off. Well, not quite, as it still made a horrible noise. New pistons and rebore, no change (but it did go better) "Did you check the small ends?" says Rick. "Errr..." new small ends later, and it went like a dream. 

This was two weekends out from the Manx Grand Prix so it was a case of get it run in, change the oil and set off. I'd done another few hundred miles by the time we arrived on the Island so screwing a ton out of it on day 2 seemed a perfectly sensible thing to do. So it began....

Me and a mate Ian, who was on a 650 BSA and like me, a bachelor, would head out most weekends on one of a variety of circuits North, West and South. Distances were anything between 150 to 350 miles. Despite the age of the machinery we never broke down and had some epic thrashes around the many quiet and bendy roads in the Highlands and Borders.

The Trophy got more and more sorted as time went on, eventually looking quite flash. It also got nailed. At any available opportunity I did a ton on it and the footrest rubbers were permanently chamfered from excess cornering. Every Manx Grand prix saw me riding it harder and harder in a bid to keep the many sports bike riders at bay. To be clear we weren't mixing it up with the fast folk, more the wannabees riding too much bike. The way we were out gunning them on the twisties became an embarrassment and sometimes you were able to out run them as most didn't fancy riding above 90. Of particular note was hitting the ton down the hill from Kates Cottage to the Creg, leaving the braking as late as you dared (Twin leading shoe drum brake was surprisingly powerful) and then riding the creg bend with the footrest on the deck to an appreciative crowd. The joys of youthful exuberance.

Which wasn't to say it was all about high speed jinks. During 2001 I temporarily gained a pillion passenger who'd never been on a bike before. After some persuasion we did a tour of the West of Scotland and Skye. The Trophy was a peach handling the pillion and her extra luggage with ease. 

By this time I'd got the B40 re-built (and re-created as a scrambler) so it was getting thrashed over the bings in West Lothian. Biking nirvana by any measure. Then I bought a new bike....

Ah yes, the early 2000's supermoto fad. Everyone was expecting sports bikes to be banned and these seemed to be the next best thing. This wasn't true, they were better. What led me to this was a visit to the Scottish Motorcycle show. A local back street dealer was trying to make the jump to the mainstream and had secured dealing in MZ motorcycles, of '70's and '80's two stroke fame. These things had all but died out when MZ surprised everyone by launching a couple of super motos based on a Yamaha XTZ660 lump. They were already doing a road bike with a rotax 500 engine but as was typical in the UK in those days, no-one was interested in anything but a sports bike so they didn't sell well. These things caught peoples eye, mainly due to them being four grand new, 2 less than the nearest rival, a horrible lash up from CCM. 

What a hoot I had on this thing, even if it was heavier and weirder than the inevitable KTM's (which were pretty horrible things in those days....) Single track roads were my favourite - no traffic, no Police and no need for high speeds to have fun. Hump-backed bridges and other tarmac imperfections lead to much front wheel elevation. A-roads were cruised by and large however I discovered one which appeared to have been designed by a supermoto riding Engineer - the A814 between Garelochhead and Arrochar - a winding strip of tarmac resembling a motocross track more than a primary road. The MZ fairly flew and even the Trophy got airborne!

One of two bikes I regret selling....

And the other one....

Yes, I did sell the Trophy, albeit to a mate; but for dubious reasons - it was too reliable. Over the time I'd had it, it had clocked up around 30k with only a new set of pistons required, engine wise. The epitome of a British bike was a big thumper and I wanted something that was the epitome of the epitome - a 500cc Ariel, better still, a trials one.

Then I compounded this by swapping the MZ for a Beemer. Much more road burning followed...

Rock and Roll

Every May and October, the Hemsby Rock 'n' Roll weekender took place at the Pontin's Holiday camp in Hemsby, Norfolk (near to Great Yarmouth). Friends had been going for a few years and it had gained a reputation as a great mix of R'N'R music, drinking and motorbikes. You stayed in chalets in the camp with two dance halls featuring DJ's and bands. 

The first year I went was 1995. I'd gotten quite into Rock 'n' Roll (The pukka '50's variant that is) and went to a monthly do in Edinburgh. A number of the EUMCC guys were into the music and the bikes reflected this - some seriously dodgy '50's machines that were in an authentically wrecked state and run on a shoe string. 

I was in the middle of building a 650 BSA, acquired the previous winter as a basket case, and riding it down to Hemsby seemed the ideal way to test it out. My mate Niall was going to take his fairly sorted A65 and Rick and Angie would be on, respectively, an original (and somewhat decrepit) A10 and a very shiny Triumph T100. Also heading down were Tombo and Scott, on dodgy A10 cafe racers, but they were leaving a day later. I left a few days early as I wanted to spend time at my folks place and needed to do an oil change on my newly rebuilt and run in bike. I'd got it on the road a few months previously but soon after the engine seized solid - a typical BSA bottom end balls up. So it had been a rush to get it rebuilt and ready and as usual I was still working on it until the early hours of the morning of departure. It went fine down to Mum and Dads, I changed the oil and figured it would survive the remaining 600 odd miles of riding.

Rick, Angie and Niall turned up at mum and dads place the next day. We didn't leave until 3 but only had 120 miles to do to Lincoln where we were to stay with Niall's girl friend. In the event, the weather was fine, the bikes ran OK and we got there in good time. The next day was a leisurely run along the A17 and A47, roads I would become very familiar with over the following years. The landscape down there is pan flat and somewhat featureless but at least makes for easy miles. The weekend was a hoot with lots of good music, dancing, riding of bikes round the site and general tomfoolery. Scott and Tombo had made the run in one go with only some minor parts loss an issue. 

Made it one piece, just have to get back now...

Heading home was a more leisurely affair. Rick and Angie were going to do it in three days but I needed to be back to work so was going to head back up to my folks and home from there. Scott, Tombo and Niall decided to join me. Apart from Niall's colossal hangover, the run home went well.

The next year was very similar although Rick and Angie took the car! That year we fell in with a bunch of guys from Germany. They had similarly dilapidated bikes and were of like mind when it came to music, dress and attention to restorative detail. Steve, a guy from Belfast but actually one of Ricks London mates had also joined our gang. He too had a bike being run on a tight budget (a T100) and soon enough we had set ourselves up as a gang of scumbags, in sharp contrast to the lot from London who were all immaculately turned out both in terms of dress and their bikes. These all seemed to be mint restorations of various '50's road burners but all had been trailered up, despite the short distance. We'd already gained a reputation as hard nuts having ridden our machines from various far flung destinations and we were sure to milk this for all it was worth. On the day of departure, Niall was again horribly hung over so left me to ride home in one go.

1997 saw me riding my recently acquired BSA B40 (from Rick, I should have known) gingerly down the road, it having just had a new piston fitted. It snowed on the way down then rained rather a lot. The bike became progressively louder, the farther I went, and by the time I arrived it was smoking ominously and making some horrible noises. Undeterred I removed the top end to discover a loose big end and a piston that had hit the head, bending the ring lands, hence the smoke. The AA came to my rescue (a popular trick at the time was to 'break down' a few miles away from the site in order to get a free run home) and needed little convincing that my bike was dead. So a two day epic journey became 7 hours in an AA van.

1998 and a gang of us were going. I'd borrowed a works van and we had several bikes and bodies in the back. The B40 had been properly rebuilt and was now a full on trail bike so as well as the usual music, beer and bikes, we spent several happy hours jumping it off the wheelchair ramps that came with each chalet.

The next few years were the Trophy years. Having proven it on the Isle of Mann it was the ideal tool for a run down to Great Yarmouth. I generally went a long scenic route, calling at various family members houses and avoiding motorways as much as possible. Best of all I discovered the old road through Norfolk from Kings Lynn which missed the drudgery of the A47 and took me along many great wee roads, empty of traffic. Every year all the bikes at the event took a run into Great Yarmouth on the Saturday. This was a chance to show off the machines and to have a full on rocker burn up on the way back. I'd already upset a few of the Londoners on the B40 the previous year so the Trophy showed them all a clean pair of pipes. It would crack a ton without any bother whereas their precious machines had clearly never seen such excesses and were unlikely to have survived.

Then in 2001 I'd had a change of fortunes in that my girlfriend was coming too. She was travelling up from the south and then we were both driving back to her folks place after the do. I still wanted to take a bike however so after some thought I figured I could shoe-horn my trials B40 into the back of my Citroen AX. A small bike in a small car. I'd been trialling on this bike for a year or so and it was a huge amount of fun. Inevitably we ended up jumping it off wheelchair ramps again and even featured in one of the German lads film of the event.

2003 was the last year I went as it clashed with another commitment and I was drifting away from the scene.

Rallying

Many years ago we were sitting in the pub contemplating various run possibilities when Chris noted that 'Stormin the Castle' was due to be on the following weekend. This was a well established MAG (Motorcycle Action Group) organised bike rally based in Witton Castle, close to my parents house. A general nodding of approval followed this announcement and we decided we would go down.

In the end only me, Niall and Chris made it to the meeting point. I was on the X7, Niall on his recently on the road BSA 650 and Chris on a hellish Suzuki GSX250. We progressed steadily down the A68 and reached the site around 7 or so. This was all new to me - we were greeted by a massive field full of tents, bikes of all sorts parked everywhere and the strains of '80's heavy metal emerging from a large marquee next door. It was quite a weekend, the Hells Angles were there in force, they had a fight with the Satan's slaves in the nearby pub, we all got wrecked and we all made it home in one piece. Other occurrences of note - people revving the nuts off their bikes when they staggered back from the rally tent at 2am, lots of horrible burger bars; and lots and lots of bikes of all types, although dodgy lashed up choppers seemed the most prevalent. 

Over the next few years we returned. Our bikes were mainly old Brits which always caused a stir. We did notice, however, that as time went on, the number of dodgy lash ups vastly reduced with more and more modern machinery turning up. The show tended to feature what were more like art installations rather than motorbikes and the average age of participants went up. Of particular note was the year that The Stranglers performed!

A milder form of rally that became a regular feature was the various vintage vehicle rallies that went on around Scotland over the summer. Quite a gang of us went to these for a few years, becoming regulars (and lowering the average age of attendees substantially) and well received as we arrived on a variety of old nails, hard ridden rather than trailer queens.

Our furthest away event was the Simmer Dim Rally in Shetland, 2005. We'd been up to the Orkneys the previous year so this seemed the logical next step for midsummer trips. Getting there involved riding up to Aberdeen to get the ship to Lerwick. We all got there in plenty of time and Scott warned us not to drink too much as the boat would likely take a few rolls just out of Aberdeen harbour. We ignored his sage advice and had a few before said ocean swell did indeed lead to a few green complexions...

Waiting to disembark we'd been chatting to a few local bikers on the boat and they were all on Hayabusas, R1's, and Fireblades. Our expectation was the roads would be like the Orkneys i.e. fairly narrow and pretty rough so their bike choice seemed odd. As we climbed over the hill out of the town it all became clear. The road was like a race track - wide, sweeping bends, zero traffic, zero houses, zero animal concealing trees and zero Police.

The rally itself was ace - enough biker couture to be entertaining without it being too heavy. A lot of people attending were more hardcore motorbike riders rather than people making lifestyle choices. Best of all, the rally bar had Shetland and Orkney Ales on tap!

We had a few...

The hoon back was a laugh. Others went straight home, but me, Scott and Al got off the boat at Kirkwall, crashed in a very weird hostel on South Ronaldsay, got the rust bucket to Gills bay the next morning and then hammered the machines down to Ullapool and home via many ace Highland roads.

We returned in 2007, via Westray again - again, it was sunny!

After a few similarly fine days we got the night boat to Shetland. The weather was, again, fab. Arrivals from Aberdeen talked of torrential rain all the way up through the UK.



Further drunken mayhem followed with the rally standard heavyish metal bands and the spectacle of a bunch of middle aged blokes wearing slightly camp viking costumes singing a song worthy of Monty Python.

Heading further afield again me and a mate signed up for the 2010 Ariel National rally in Germany. Obviously I had to ride an Ariel to it, and I'd not long got one on the road - a fine rigid framed 500 VG, ideal for touring. Four of us thudded across the continent, my 71 year old bike being the oldest by ten years. The pace was slow, we saw all manner of things and the bike ran (mostly) flawlessly.

This was my first (and to date only) experience of foreign motorcycle travel. We took an easy route through Belgium, Holland and Northern Germany to get to and from the site plus did the mandatory 'run' round fabulously smooth and empty back roads. Much drink was drunk, lies told, and bikes scrutinised.

Every September, the Antler Rally takes place in Ardnamurchan and my thoroughly blooded machine was the obvious choice for that year. The weather was fine, I won a prize and the narrow, rough and twisty roads of the west were ideally suited to a simple rigid framed motorcycle with dual purpose tyres. Exactly what it was designed for.

I was riding with mate Keith on a similar vintage VB - same bike just a 600cc side valve lump instead of my 500cc OHV. Both bikes went and handled pretty much the same so this made for a fine run.

So ended an era, as my interest waned in the social aspects of motorcycling and occupied myself with riding every road in Scotland...