164 - PDF - The Rider's Digest

Issue 16 4 

March 2012

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From the editor... 

OK folks, it’s nearly 

five o’clock on Tuesday 

afternoon the editorial 

part of the magazine is all 

in so I have spent the whole 

of today phoning around 

attempting to give away all the 

pages that currently have “Your 

advertising here” written across 

white spaces. Whether or not it 

would have been possible to 

sell them if I’d applied myself to 

the task a little sooner is pretty 

much a moot point because I 

have spent the last couple of 

months trying to ensure that 

the first online edition of The 

Rider’s Digest is every bit as 

good as the last printed issue I 

was responsible for, back in the 

summer of 2009. 

Unfortunately chasing 

advertising isn’t the only 

business end of the magazine 

that I had been neglecting 

while I focused on producing 

an issue that would meet the 

high bar that I had set for it. I 

had rather been hoping that 

the magazine would have a 

couple of sponsors to help 

us get it off the ground but I 

hadn’t even confirmed those 

arrangements because I was 

waiting until I could show them 

what a wonderful magazine 

they’d be getting for their 

money. I realise any sensible 

financial types reading this will 

be quick to point out that there 

is no room for wishy washy 

words like ‘hope’ and ‘luck’ in 

business plans; and I’m sure 

they’re right (that’ll be why I 

have never had any desire to 

be involved in business). 

And they are of course so 

right. So although it was a bit of 

a bummer when I finally spoke 

to my would be sponsors this 

afternoon and got one “Thanks, 

but no thanks” and a “Give us a 

bit more time to look at it” from 

the other – as I’m sure all the 

tut-tutting commercial brained 

readers will agree – I have 

nobody but myself to blame. 

So here I am rewriting my 

editorial at the last minute 

so that I can get it off to the 

designer with enough time 

for him to bang it into shape 

before tomorrow’s launch at 

the Ace Cafe. For the moment 

at least The Rider’s Digest is just 

floating in space without any 

apparent means of support, 

existing by the sheer force of 

its own will and held together 

by all the fantastic content that 

we have spent weeks getting 

together when we should 

have been concentrating 

on being ensuring that the 

magazine had sound financial 

foundations. 

What can I tell you? I have 

never claimed to be any good 

at business (I’ve honestly never 

managed to win a single game 

of Monopoly in my life!) but I do 

like to think that I know a thing 

or two about putting together 

an interesting and entertaining 

motorcycle magazine. So even 

if this turns out to be our first 

and last online edition, we owe 

it to all the contributors who 

so generously gave us their 

words and photos, and all the 

old Digest readers who were so 

excited at the prospect of being 

able to read their favourite 

bike mag again, to put it out 

there anyway. 

Any really old readers 

might well recognise a couple 

of the features from earlier 

issues. I’m not planning to 

turn the magazine into the 

Dave channel, but there are 

so many brilliant articles in 

the TRD archives that deserve 

a larger audience than they 

had when they were originally 

published (Simon Kewer’s 

wonderful Girl Racer cartoon 

is a prime example) so we’ve 

revamped them so that anyone 

with access to the internet can 

enjoy them. 

Dave Gurman 

Catch Dave every Thursday 

between 6 and 8pm (GMT) on 

www.BIKERfm.co.uk 

2 WWW.THERIDERSDIGEST.CO.UK ISSUE 164 May 2012 

3

A word about our sponsors 

4 WWW.THERIDERSDIGEST.CO.UK 

ISSUE 164 March 2012 

5

Contents... 

From The Editor 3 

A Word About 

Our Sponsors 4 

Contents 6 

In The Saddle 9 

Riders Lives 13 

Six in the City 16 

A Century Of 

Motorcycle Adventure 21 

The Boy Biker 25 

Nuts & Bolts 27 

The Enfield 28 

Street Gliding 37 

Life Has Its 

Compensations 45 

Adventures in 

La La Land 52 

A Labrador 

Called Harley 66 

Group Riding What’s 

The Story? 71 

Motorcycle Girl Racer 83 

A Shove With A Glove 88 

Penguin Pilgrimage 101 

Megamoto Mega Trip 108 

A Busy Summer 115 

Teenage Kicks 121 

Bitz 129 

6 WWW.THERIDERSDIGEST.CO.UK ISSUE 164 March 2012 

7

In The Saddle... 

As soon as we put the sign up 

on the web site saying that 

the Digest would be returning 

on-line, we started receiving 

emails welcoming us back and 

wishing us well for the future. As 

we wanted the new magazine 

to take up from where it left 

off – with pages full of readers’ 

letters – we have reproduced 

their messages here (with their 

permission) – Ed 

Hi Dave, 

Sincerely sorry to hear 

that the magazine had 

folded, I was in my local WH 

Smiths today and whilst 

looking through the various 

other bike mags thought to 

myself, ‘’What’s happened 

to the Digest, haven’t seen 

it for some time?’’ Well that 

explains that then! I was a 

subscriber up until 2009, 

but to be honest what killed 

it for me was the price hike 

from £2.50 to £2.95, no doubt 

you will cite various reasons 

for that, but it was one hell 

of a jump, I could have 

understood perhaps £2.65 or 

so, but that’s a fair old whack, 

I suspect that was a large part 

of your difficulties. 

I sincerely hope you can 

launch an on-line version and 

go back to your roots so to 

speak, it was a great read in 

the early days, but I feel you 

lost your way somewhere 

along the line, speaking 

to fellow riders I hear the 

similar comments to my 

own, the problem these days 

being the sheer number of 

magazines on the market, 

in the ‘good old days’ it was 

just ‘Bike’ and ‘Motorcycle 

Mechanics’ (showing my age 

now!) but now it’s a struggle 

for the small guys such as 

yourselves to take on the likes 

of Bauer/Mortons media etc. 

can’t say I envied you, but 

you had a good go anyway. 

Good luck with the new 

venture, really hope it takes 

off (some touring articles 

always welcome) 

Very best wishes 

Chris Rees 

Caernarfon 

We are determined to get back 

to what the Digest was best at 

Chris and it will be interesting to 

hear how well old readers think 

we have managed to do so. As 

for touring articles, I reckon 

there are enough in this issue 

to gratify the most insatiable of 

armchair globetrotters – Ed 

Continued over 


9

In The Saddle... In The Saddle... 

Hi Dave, 

Great news about the online 

edition; can’t wait for the 

Ace Café launch in February. 

Just wanted to see if you 

knew anything about the 

subscription fees on the old 

magazine, can’t recall how 

far I was into my 2 nd year 

of subscriptions when the 

announcement occurred in 

September, but suspect it 

wasn’t quite over. 

Thanks and good luck, 

Rob 

London 

Hi Dave, 

Good to see you back in the 

driving seat mate. TRD was 

never the same after it tried 

to go too big. Much preferred 

the older format when you 

first launched the mag for 

purchase. I think it kind of 

lost it’s identity when the 

ex emap fella took over the 

reins. Started to copy the 

mainstream format. Hope you 

can still get articles from six in 

the city and the more unusual 

stuff from Rod (Motopodd) 

My biggest gripe about the 

mag folding was paying a 

years subscription and then 

only getting 2 magazines, 

works out at £12.50 each, 

still that’s life I suppose. Keep 

up the good work and let 

me know when the online 

mag is launched. 

Lofty 

Milton Keynes 

As you can see Lofty, many of 

the regulars are in this issue 

and most of the others will 

be turning up in the coming 

months. As for outstanding 

subs, I replied to everyone 

who enquired about them 

explaining that I resigned from 

TRD in July 2009 and had had 

absolutely nothing to do with 

the magazine for over two 

years by the time it folded. 

Although none of the previous 

owners are involved in this 

online venture in any way, I 

informed the old subscribers 

that if we ever find ourselves in 

a situation where we are able 

to produce a print magazine 

again, we will honour all of the 

outstanding subscriptions – Ed 

Hi Dave, 

Having enjoyed reading 

copies of TRD on my many 

visits to Watling Tyres in 

Catford I was missing the 

paper version but looking 

forward to the new on-line 

version. Best wishes for the 

launch of the new project. 

I moved from South-East 

London to Gibraltar with the 

family in 2011 and joined the 

scooter culture there with an 

8 year old Daelim NS125 and 

missed the English bike scene 

which TRD was such a part of 

and couldn’t wait to take my 

old Gixxer 6 over there. 

Just about every 

household in Gib appears 

to own a scooter of some 

description and you see all 

sorts of people buzzing 

around on them. 

Since car parking there 

is such a nightmare and the 

weather is mostly favourable 

(usually 300 days of sunshine 

a year) a small bike was the 

obvious choice and there 

were plenty of secondhand 

machines to choose from. 

We mostly used ours 

for the school runs with our 

six year old son on the back 

and for shopping trips to the 

supermarket plus any other 

odd little errands. 

I’ve now returned from 

Gibraltar with the family 

and left the scooter there 

in a friend’s garage for 

safekeeping, many thanks 

Keith you’re a gentleman. 

As Spring approaches 

(hopefully) I’ve got the missus’ 

old 1100 Virago through an 

MoT and she’s taxed it as well 

so it may get ridden for more 

than the 240 miles between 

this latest test certificate and 

the last one... 

My brother helped me 

trace an electrical fault on my 

GSXR 600 to a dirty connector 

block so that was a really 

cheap fix to a very annoying 

intermittent starting problem 

and we’re now ready to start 

the riding season any day 

now. 

The only other jobs to do 

in the garage are to get the 

rear wheel off my daughter’s 

125 Aprilia and take it to get 

the unwanted screw out 

and a puncture repair done, 

oh, and a full restoration of 

my partner’s 1954 BSA C15 

which has been mouldering 

away for a few years now. 

Roll on the sunshine and 

warm and dry roads so I can 

put the spanners down and 

get some miles in! 

Cheers, 

David McSpirit 

Hi Dave, 

Well, you know, “he 

who hesitates is lost”. Didn’t 

ever get around to trying to 

subscribe to your excellent 

publication when it was being 

published, my loss. Please add 

my e-mail to the list when the 

time comes. 

Many thanks 

Chris Witte 

Nantucket 

Massachusetts USA 

One of the great consolations 

about becoming an on-line 

magazine is that it makes us 

so much more accessible to 

overseas readers! Please be sure 

to tell all your friends about us 

Chris – Ed 

Hi Dave, 

Just thought I would wish 

you good luck with the web 

based mag. I was a subscriber 

to the paper mag even when 

it was free. I miss you!! 

Best Regards 

Bob 

Hi Dave, 

Glad to hear news re 

on-line version of TRD. 

Good Luck! 

Best, 

Leon 

aka Dr Leon Mannings 

Transport Policy Advisor 

MAG (UK) 

Hi Dave, 

Great news. I’ve always 

thoroughly enjoyed TRD and 

was shocked when it ended. 

All the best. 

Rory Wilson 

Aberystwyth & District MAG 

member 

Hi Dave, 

I just clicked on my old 

link to TRD on a “just in case” 

chance look and found 

your news. 

It an early Christmas present 

as far as I’m concerned, life’s 

been a bit lacking since TRD 

disappeared. 

I wish you all the best for 

the future and I will let all my 

motorcycling chums know 

that you’re on your way back 

Merry Christmas - Ric Pirson 

Dear Editor, 

Good to see the planned 

revival, unfortunately I 

came across the original RD 

about six issues before its 

eventual demise and without 

doubt was a good read and 

refreshingly without the usual 

bum up and head down 0 - 60 

in blah blah rubbish. It was 

Rod Young who introduced 


11

In The Saddle... Rider’s Lives 

me to the RD as he is currently 

building my sons “treble 

express” 

All the best for the new 

versions future success 

Alan Taylor 

Hi Dave, 

October 14 – 16 th was 

Martin Vermeer and my 

birthday bash at the Lower 

Lode, 28 – 30 th was the Clocks 

Back Rally with the 2T Drinkers 

at the Hunters Inn so as the 

weekend in between was set 

for good weather I decided to 

do my 25,000 mile service 350 

miles early. 

Rode home from work 

Friday, parked my Moto Guzzi 

750 Breva in the garage and 

took out the three drain plugs 

and left to simmer overnight. 

Next morning ate my 

cornflakes and as the sun had 

put some heat into the ground 

and air by 10 am started a full 

service. Had a coffee halfway 

through and just before 

noon was finished. All oils, 

both filters, tappets set, new 

plugs and an irritating oil 

leak sorted (some guy called 

Obama had insisted). All for 

less than £40.00 using far less 

than a hundred quid’s worth 

of tools and I’d had a couple 

of hours fun getting to know 

the bike a bit better. 

I have always compared 

letting someone else work on 

my bike with a cartoon I saw 

in punch 40 years ago. Upper 

class newly weds on their 

honeymoon and the wife 

complaining in bed “Does 

your man do everything 

for you?” 

The first time I serviced 

the bike Gary Glossop came 

round to show me what to do, 

and did most of it himself. 

The second time I did it 

slowly over two weekends. 

This time I did it in less than 

two hours on my own with a 

contented smile on my face. 

Apparently some people 

pay up to £270.00 for 

someone to deprive them of 

this pleasure. I have had no 

formal training in spannering, 

just picked it up as I went 

along. I know some people 

have described themselves 

as mechanically dyslexic on 

the Guzzi Club forum but I 

take it to mean that they have 

never tried through lack of 

confidence. 

So in your newly re 

launched TRD why not a series 

of basic servicing tips. A series 

of simple articles full of colour 

glossy photos with circles 

and arrows and a paragraph 

with each one to illustrate 

how to change oil, then set 

the tappets on the next one 

etc., with a full list of simple 

tools likely to be required to 

do each job and advice on 

what to buy and how much 

to expect to pay. This would 

be best a very simple step-bystep 

series over a whole year. 

Just don’t ask me, my skills are 

on ohv v- twins only. 

Ride safe 

Ian Dunmore 

An Ancient Guzzista 

“Nice to hear from you again 

Ian, In the Saddle just wouldn’t 

be the same without you! It 

feels like I never went away! 

As for spannering made 

simple (and yes I got the Alice’s 

Restaurant reference – as I’m 

sure a number of our older 

readers did!) we are planning 

to introduce something very 

much along those lines – Ed” 

Name: Polly Taylor 

What was your first 

motorcycling experience? 

I grew up on the back of 

my Dad’s bike and we spent 

weekends riding to bike 

meets, drinking tea 

and eating bacon sarnies. 

I loved the bike crowd 

from day one and I still 

think that the people are 

the most important thing 

about motorbikes. 

What is your current bike? 

Harley-Davidson Forty- 

Eight Sportster 

What bike would you most 

like to ride/own? 

I have my dream bike 

already but I love customs 

too. I am currently the Youth 

Ambassador for Shaws Harley 

Davidson in Lewes who build 

some awesome examples 

with the help of forward 

thinking painters Image 

Design Custom 

What was your hairiest 

moment on a bike? 

Since I’m still a relatively 

new rider corners are a real 

learning curve (excuse the 

pun). I rode from Brighton to 

St Tropez for the HOG Rally in 

May last year and over one of 

the mountain ranges I very 

nearly ran out of fuel up a 

180-degree zigzag route. It 

was a close call but I made it 

to the fuel stop by coasting 

on the straights! 

What was your most 

memorable ride? 

Riding for 4 days in 

Arizona USA through 

Phoenix, down to Tucson 

and then back up through 

the Apache Forest. Amazing 

sights; a must for any biker. 

What would be the ideal 

soundtrack to the above? 

I’ve recently become 

addicted to Sons of Anarchy 

and bought the soundtrack, 

which is a mix of heavy rock 

and metal ballads. Although, 

Chase and Status is good for 

windy roads! 

What do you think is 

the best thing about 

motorcycling? 

The freedom, isolation 

and independence when 

riding is unbeatable. 

Although, the people really 

do make the sport and I am 

yet to meet a biker I don’t like. 

What do you think is 

the worst thing about 

motorcycling? 

The rain and the cold 

isn’t the most spectacular 

aspect. However, after a long 

ride in the wet stuff when 

you reach the destination 

you do have a real sense of 

achievement and, after all, 

we’re all waterproof! 

Name an improvement 

you’d like to see for the 

next generation? 

I’d like to see more young 

people getting into bikes, it 

really isn’t on their radar as 

much as it used to be. I’d also 

like to see the CBT become 

compulsory for all road users, 

I think it would give a lot of 

drivers an insight into the 

world of biking. 

How would you like to be 

remembered? 

I’d like to think I have 

inspired people to take up 

and enjoy motorcycles and if 

I have opened the eyes of just 

a few then I would be happy 

with that! 


13

14 

WWW.THERIDERSDIGEST.CO.UK 

ISSUE 164 May 2012 

Image of the month by Dave Gurman 15

Six and the City 


Saturday 

Taken the 6 in for its MOT. 

I cannot believe that I have 

actually remembered to get 

this done before the old one 

runs out! And it’s not even the 

New Year….yet. 

Anyway, having a good 

old catch up with the boys 

at Russell Motors when their 

Michelin rep turns up. He 

joins in the conversations, as 

do many of the other bikers 

turning up and jumping the 

queue ahead of me! 

It transpires that this rep 

had been to a gay bikers rally 

in Brighton the weekend 

before and despite the poor 

weather, there had been a 

fantastic turn out and a great 

atmosphere. Made all much 

better by said Rep giving out 

free key rings with a miniature 

Michelin tyre on it. 

“Apparently they loved 

them – thought they looked 

like cock rings…” I have to 

admit, this is not my normal 

early Saturday morning 

conversation but hey, it takes 

all sorts to make the world 

go round. 

As we’re chatting away 

and he’s trying sell me some 

Michelins (what with me 

being a Pirelli Corsa Diablo 

kinda girl), he suddenly stops 

and looks at my bike, gives 

me a hard look and then 

states, “You write for the 

Riders Digest, don’t you?” 

“What gave it away?” 

“Girl on a black R6 at Russell 


Motors – who else could it be? 

Me and the wife quite enjoy 

your column but I have to 

admit, we did reckon that you 

were a 17 stone munter in 

real life, just pretending to be 

really small and slim. But you 

are actually quite small, aren’t 

you?” I noticed that he only 

agreed with my stature… 

Friday 

I normally use my DT for 

commuting as it’s light and 

nimble, and sometimes it’s 

just quicker and easier getting 

around the traffic than on the 

R6. But today I fancied 6-ing 

it… and what a mistake that 

was! 

I guess I hadn’t noticed how 

non-elastic my cargo nets 

were becoming over the 

years and on two occasions 

now, my back-pack has nearly 

fallen off the back the bike, 

what with it sliding around. 

A few months ago it slid 

right off the back seat and 

fell against the rear wheel, so 

I resorted to using bungee 

cords. I find it too heavy and 

cumbersome to ride with it 

on my shoulders (cos I’m only 

little…innit?), but with so few 

anchor points under the bike, 

(I have an under-tray and no 

rear pegs), it can be a bit hit 

and miss. 

Today was definitely a 

miss. Having strapped my 

bag to the back of the bike in 

what I thought was a secure 

manner, I merrily set off for 

home. Wanting to avoid the 

traffic at Sunbury Cross, I took 

a side road with speed bumps, 

and to be fair, I may have 

been a little enthusiastic in 

testing the bike’s suspension 

over these bumps (when I’m 

on the DT, I try to get both 

wheels off the ground). 

Chugging along slowly 

when all of a sudden there 

is an almighty bang and the 

bike comes to a abrupt stop. 

Nothing I can do but to try and 

get out from under it before it 

hits the ground. Luckily it’s a 

very quiet road and I wasn’t 

going that fast, and I ‘manage’ 

the bike down as opposed 

to throwing it – I guess you 

could call it ‘dropping it with 

style’. 

Initially I thought a tyre 

had blown due to the noise, 

but on closer inspection, my 

back pack had come free from 

one of the bungee cords and 

the other one had pulled it 

down on to the back wheel, 

where it had managed to get 

wrapped around the back 

tyre and the mudguard. The 

loud bang was where it had 

been forced down the inside 

of the exhaust and the bolt 

from the jubilee clip holding 

the pipe on had sheared off! 

Several passers-by came 

to my rescue and three of 

us managed to get it back 

17

upright. Another very helpful 

chap at the T-junction 

opposite where I fell, parked 

up and left his car lights 

shining on us cos otherwise 

it would have been near 

impossible to see what was 

going on. 

Between myself and 

a cyclist we managed to 

untangle the backpack and 

bungee cords from the back 

of the bike, which just left the 

free-hanging exhaust. I was 

quite tempted to leave it as it 

sounded amazing, like a Moto 

GP bike, but I’m sure I would 

have been pulled for having 

a totally illegal exhaust. So 

the cyclist chap and myself 

managed, through brute 

force and ignorance, to 

bodge it back together. 

Other than a few more 

scratches in the fairing and 

a big dent in my knee, I was 

good to go. Got home and 

relayed my tale of woe to 

Hornet Boy. As much as he 

was relieved that I was OK, 

he was most upset with me 

for being so blasé about 

strapping things to the back 

of my bike. Considering the 

amount of motorway mileage 

I do, I was actually very lucky 

that it had not happened 

whilst tanking it down the M4. 

Thinking he might 

agree to me getting a more 

commuter friendly bike (and 

up the creek... 

Devon sun, pubs by the river, 

seafood and skinny dips... 

being stylish at the same 

time – you know me, style 

over substance), I started 

researching what type of bike 

I might like – and still keep 

the R6 and DT, of course. So 

you can imagine my chagrin 

when I presented my ideas to 

him, only for him to say, 

“You’re getting a top box 

and that’s final.” 

On a sportsbike??? 

Noooooooooo!!! 

Holiday Flat - Kingswear, Dartmouth 

Sleeps four, carparking, garden, dogs welcome - 10% off for Digest readers 

www.upthecreek-in-kingswear.co.uk 01666 505295 


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WWW.THERIDERSDIGEST.CO.UK 

For many, it all began in 2004. That was the 

year when Ewan McGregor and Charley 

Boorman set out from Shepherds Bush 

in London on an unforgettable adventure, 

a journey around the world on motorcycles. 

Riding 20,000 miles across 12 countries and 

19 time zones, it was the journey of a lifetime 

and one that I suspect mirrored many a biker’s 

dream. The ‘Long Way Round’, and its various 

commercial spin-offs, wasn’t without criticism. 

Some of it was justified and some probably 

born of jealousy, but the ‘Long Way Round’ 

was without doubt the journey that placed 

adventure motorcycling securely on the public 

map. Of course, Ewan and Charley weren’t 

the first to undertake such an adventure. 

In Mongolia, the intrepid duo met a man who 


A Century of Motorcycle 

Adventure 

for many was, and 

still is, considered to 

be the Father of 

Adventure Motorcycling. 

Back in the mid 

1970’s, Ted Simon 

set out from London 

on his Triumph 

Tiger. It was the 

beginning of a fouryear 

adventure that 

was immortalised in his book, ‘Jupiter’s 

Travels’. The ‘Long Way Round’ certainly 

inspired many to go out and purchase 

BMW’s, but in most cases it was ‘Jupiter’s 

Travels’ that inspired the journeys that those 

bikes were designed to undertake. Where 

Ewan and Charley employed the internet, a 

small army of researchers and a budget of 

Olympic magnitude, Ted Simon had relied 

upon the Royal Mail, the British Library and 

international telephone operators. Jupiter’s 

Travels had been an altogether earthier affair 

and because of that, it demonstrated that 

almost anybody with a dream of adventure 

could accomplish it. Aboard his Triumph, Ted 

Simon had humbly blazed a trail around the 

world. Today, Ted is the first to admit that at 

the time he’d thought that he was the first 

person to ever circumnavigate the globe by 

motorcycle, but amazingly he wasn’t. Jupiter’s 

Travels was almost forty years ago, but a little 

research shows that some forty years before 

Ted Simon’s epic adventure, another had gone 

before him. 

That man was a 23 year old American 

traveller, writer, artist and inventor, Robert 

21

Edison Fulton Jr. Whilst visiting London in 

1932 he was asked by a young lady at a dinner 

party “What are your plans?” Fulton’s impulsive 

answer had been, “I’m going around the world 

on a motorcycle.” Perhaps that would have 

been the end of the matter, but sitting next 

to Fulton had been the owner of ‘Douglas 

Motorcycles’ who offered him one of his 

bikes on which to make the journey. Maybe 

Fulton had been joking, or more likely trying 

to impress the young lady, but that innocent 

reply was the start of a seventeen-month 

journey around the world on a twin cylinder 

Douglas. I’ve absolutely no idea if Fulton 

thought that he would be the first person to 

travel around the world by motorcycle, but 

that really doesn’t matter. What he achieved 

on that journey, and in subsequent life, is quite 

simply amazing. Fulton’s adventures aboard 

the Douglas are documented in the book, ‘One 

Man Caravan’. I can’t even begin to imagine 

how difficult the task of circumnavigation 

would have been way back in 1932, but 

Fulton turns out not to be the first person to 

attempt it. 

Rewind to 1928 and we find two young 

Hungarians, Zoltan Sulkowsky and Gyula 

Bartha. It was in that year the pair of them 

set out using a Harley Davidson motorbike 

and sidecar. As the title of Sulkowsky’s book, 

‘Around the World on a Motorcycle: 1928 

to 1936’ suggests, they took the best part of 

eight years to achieve their goal. We know for 

a fact that Sulkowsky assumed that he was 

first to ever complete such a journey, but his 

assumption was wrong. Clearly, Sulkowsky 

couldn’t use Google or Wikipedia to validate, or 

invalidate his claim to being the first, and unless 

he’d read certain back issues of an obscure 

American cycle magazine, then he’d have had 

absolutely no way of knowing that another 

man would already be wearing that round the 

world crown. 

We need to go back slightly further. In 

fact, we need to go back to a time when 

motorcycles were still a relatively new 

invention. The year was 1912 and the man 

in question was a 21-year-old American, 

Carl Stearns Clancy. One hundred years ago 

this year, riding his one-speed four cylinder 

Henderson motorcycle, one of only five that 

had been made, Clancy set out to in his words, 

‘Girdle the Globe’ and produce maps that 

would help others to follow in his tracks. The 

first motorcycle journey around the world 

saw Clancy riding more than 18,000 miles 

between October 1912 and July 1913. Reading 

the book painstakingly compiled over sixteen 

years by renowned world motorcycle traveller 

and author Dr. Gregory Frazier ‘Motorcycle 

Adventurer’ it’s amazing how Clancy ever 

managed to complete that journey. Sitting at 

my laptop computer, surfing the internet and 

watching live news feeds from the BBC, it’s 

almost impossible to imagine riding through 

a country that’s never heard of gasoline let 

alone motorcycles. On the other hand, reading 

Clancy’s accounts of complex border crossings 

and corrupt officials, it’s discomforting to see 

that certain things will probably never change. 

Carl Stearns Clancy is undoubtedly the first 

person to ever circumnavigate the globe by 

motorcycle, and as such, should be honoured 

and remembered. Clancy’s epic road journey 

had started in Dublin, October 1912. Now, 

two serious Irish adventure riders, Feargal 

O’Neill and Joe Walsh, in conjunction with 

the travellers website ‘Horizons Unlimited’, are 

planning the ‘Clancy Centenary Ride for 2012- 

2013. The global ride will as far as possible 

mirror the route taken by Clancy and any 

serious adventure motorcycle rider is invited 

to join in. Whether joining the ride for a mile 

or a thousand miles, those who participate will 

hopefully get a least a feel for the challenges 

that Carl Stearns Clancy had faced and 

overcome a century earlier. 

For those who are interested in reading 

the books mentioned above, or in becoming 

a small part of the Clancy Centenary Ride, 

you can find all of the information that you 

require on the Internet. But remember, none 

of the motorcycle adventurers from Clancy 

to Simon had the miracle of the internet or 

smart phones to help them. They all did it the 

hard way and I wonder if that’s still possible 

today? So, before you employ the wonders 

of Google to help you in your search, why not 

put yourself in their shoes for a day or two and 

try finding an alternative route to your goal? 

Thanks for listening... 

Blue88 


23

14 th ANNUAL 

SOUTHEND 

SHAKEDOWN 

DEPART 10:30am 

EASTER BANK HOLIDAY 

MONDAY 

9 th APRIL 2012 

ROUTE: A406, A12, A127 TO SOUTHEND 

Ace Cafe London, Ace Corner, North Circular Road, 

Stonebridge, London NW10 7UD 

Tel: +44 (0)20 8961 1000 Fax: +44 (0)20 8965 0161 Web: ace-cafe-london.com 

The Boy Biker 

Motorcycling isn’t an 

easy option for a 

young man, the start 

up costs are immense, the 

running costs constant and the 

brick wall you sometimes feel 

like you’ve smacked against 

when talking to older riders 

can be frustrating; but a desire 

to ride isn’t one that can be 

kept inside for very long. This 

mag’s ‘Passing on the Passion” 

sponsorship helped me get 

started back in 2009 and all the 

to-ing and fro-ing from college 

to work gave me a good reason 

to keep it up; but it wasn’t long 

before I hung up my jacket for 

more than a day after the bike 

went bang (due to one too 

many top end seizures – finally 

the whole crank and flywheel 

distorted) and once money 

is on the Oyster card it’s hard 

to get re-bitten by the biking 

bug and start stripping down 

the engine. 

I sold my little 50 something 

cc Suzuki TSX as a cheap nonrunner 

in a time of need, but 

one morning waiting at the 

bus stop after almost 6 months 

on the big red “loser-cruiser”, I 

realised I was quite miserable. 

I couldn’t go on like this; 

Dad’s enthusiasm made it easy 

to find a perfect bike in a local 

bike shop and that really got my 

mind going. The slender Suzuki 

GS 125 was in good condition 

on face value, but for £200 nonrunning 

it was never going to 

be just the new battery and 

plug I had first hoped. A seller is 

never going to tell you the bike’s 

done in; it’s just a case of how 

knackered you can gauge it to 

be based on his price, attitude 

and what you can see. 

A new battery, plug, 

cables, filters, exhaust, studs 

and a few bulbs later and it 

had become a bit of a mission, 

but luckily none of it was 

too costly. 

It’s always weird for me 

working on something new to 

myself. The first few thwarting 

jobs are more frustrating as 

I curse the bastard who last 

worked on the horrible thing. 

Then one Sunday morning or 

weekday evening, after some 

basic diagnostics and the 

stripping of a few bits it has 

suddenly become mine. I’m 

watching where the ratchet is 

swinging, I’m putting things 

down with care and I’m 

wiping the layers of grime off 

previously neglected parts in 

a tub. I realise that I’m working 

for my own gain on a vehicle I 

now have a connection with. 

It might even get a name at 

this point…! 

The relationship with a 

vehicle is an unusual thing, 

and picking up a cheap second 

hand example doesn’t often 

result in love at first sight. It’s 

an emotionally rocky road that 

requires a lot of effort for love 

to blossom and prevent the 

relationship ending up at the 

scrap yard. I haven’t reached 

vehicle nirvana yet but “she” 

lives and runs and ticks over 

now and everyday that I treat 

“her” right I am rewarded with 

a positive response in running, 

performance, handling and fuel 

economy. 

Making a second, third or 

eighth-hand bike into a usable 

and enjoyable ride, your own 

ride, is a process so rewarding 

that sometimes it’s almost hard 

to resell the thing – even at a 

tidy profit! Well almost! 

But seriously, with any 

vehicle you use, not just a 

bike or scooter, no matter 

how long you might be 

using it for or what you really 

think of it, if you can start to 

love it, to engender it with 

some human emotions and 

treat it as you would want 

it to treat you, it can only 

enrich your experience and 

give you warmth and comfort 

on a late-night, wet journey, 

knowing you are riding on 

the shoulders of your 

strongest ally. 

PARTY ON! 


25

Nuts & Bolts 

So; this all seems very 

familiar, if slightly less 

tangible and with less 

tree pulp involved. Whatever you 

think of the digital format, there’s 

one thing for sure. Bikes will 

always be made out of real solid 

objects, lots of them. All you need 

to know is what order these solid 

objects go together and how 

they interact with each other. 

So there you go, bikes in 

a nutshell, a collection of solid 

objects. Which leads me nicely 

into my subject for this piece, a 

collection of solid objects in a 

box, which has the potential to be 

a bike. Or, as it is more commonly 

known, a project. A person should 

always have at least one project 

on the go at any time; two would 

be preferable. It doesn’t really 

matter too much if the project 

is ever going to be completed, 

it’s more about having the 

project in the first place. Pride 

of ownership, call it what you 

will. But there’s nothing more 

satisfying than showing someone 

around your garage or shed and 

being able to point casually at 

something, ideally draped under 

an old sheet, and say “oh, that’s a 

project I’ve been working on for a 

while” in a slightly dismissive, but 

mysterious tone of voice. 

The observer will then 

imagine all kinds of things, 

depending upon their age and 

level of technical knowledge. 

Ideally they will be thinking 

along the lines of David Essex 

when he found the Silver Dream 

Racer in his brother’s garage 

during that 80’s film of the same 

name. The reality will of course, 

be somewhat different, a hotchpotch 

collection of rusty parts, 

some of which were originally 

bolted together in the shape of a 

motorcycle. It matters not. 

Aquiring a project is 

remarkably simple, just ask 

around your mates, someone 

will have an ideal candidate for 

your project in their garage, they 

will probably have owned it for 

some years and will have done a 

very small amount of work on it, 

usually just after they acquired it. 

They will also have lost some of 

the parts and substituted some 

random other parts by mistake. 

These parts were themselves, 

part of another project which was 

never completed. 

My current project, which is 

distinguished by the fact that I 

have yet to lose enthusiasm for it, 

is almost all of a Honda XL250, an 

80’s trail-bike. Perfect. 

It’s been partially reassembled 

some time ago, just 

after the frame was badly painted 

using rattle cans, meaning that I’ll 

need to strip it down again. This is 

great for a project, as it means that 

even before I start, the project 

is moving backwards in time; 

making that elusive completion 

date even further ahead than at 

first thought. Obviously some 

of the key parts are missing and 

some of the parts that aren’t 

missing, don’t appear to belong 

to this bike and, of course, there 

is no V5C. A quick look on the 

DVLA site shows that the bike was 

last taxed in 1986, some 2 years 

after it was first registered. Since 

then, some 26 years have passed, 

during which time it has either 

been used off road or not at all. 

All projects come with a 

glowing report from the previous 

owner regarding it’s potential 

future value when completed and 

usually they include some details 

of the positive advances made 

by them towards this goal. In my 

case, the little XL has apparently 

been the recipient of a brand 

new piston and ring set as well 

as the rattle can paint job on the 

frame. I’m also reliably informed 

that, given a bit of fuel, it would 

start, no trouble at all. I am 

deeply blessed. 

I’m hoping that this will 

inspire some of you to go out and 

find your own project. If you do, 

please write in and let us know 

what you have found. Meanwhile, 

I’ll keep you up to date with the 

stirling progress that I am almost 

certain to achieve. 


27 

Eventually. 

Rod Young

I 

started riding motorbikes 

during the hot summer 

of 1976 when I borrowed 

a Honda 90 step-through 

to cool off on the streets of 

Bristol. I was immediately 

hooked and have had a 

variety of Japanese bikes 

ever since. That was until… 

THE ENFIELD! 

I’m not sure which category Enfields fit into. 

Hardly modern although still manufactured; 

not vintage even though of 1940’s design. 

Classic? Mine’s an Indian-made Bullet 500cc 

and whichever pigeonhole I try to fit it in, it 

won’t go. It’s one on its own. Purists get a bit 

sniffy because it’s not an English made one but 

to me, it is the best motorcycle in the world. 

I love it because I have had so many 

adventures and fun with it since I bought it in 

Chennai as a fiftieth birthday present to myself 

over nine years ago. It cost one thousand 

pounds which included crash bar, luggage 

racks, ladies’ handles (for sari-clad, side-saddle 

lady passengers to hold onto) and lifetime road 

tax for India! It runs on all sorts of petrol. Petrol 

with bits of paint in it from the Indian Army in 

Kashmir, petrol with rainwater in as it dripped 

down the throttle cable into the carburettor 

in a tropical rainstorm in Asia and petrol 

mixed with diesel given by a well-meaning 

New Zealander. 

Enfields do have a reputation for being 

sluggish, but so do I which is why it took us 

seven years to travel home to Bristol through 

twenty countries. Initially, I bought it for a 

possible six-month trip around India with a 

rather nice Dutch chap who I’d met whilst I was 

backpacking there. I thought after that, I’d sell 

it, return to work, save for my pension and await 

my grandchildren. 

But things did not 

work out like that 

at all. 

I loved the 

life of travel on 

a motorbike. I 

loved it so much 

that even after 

the Dutch chap 

and I separated 

after four years, I 

decided to carry 

on, on my own 

for the next three. 

Until I saw met the Dutchman on his Enfield 

in India, I had not put my love of travelling and 

motorbikes together. When he invited me to 

buy my own Enfield and join him, I jumped at 

the chance as he was considerably younger 

than me, quite gorgeous and had wooed me 

with romantic tales of the open road, omitting 

the bits where you spend days at mechanics’ 

workshops up to your eyeballs in grease and 

oil. However, a previous career in nursing was 

vaguely similar to learning the workings of the 

bike and I got used to treating it like a poorly 

child, trying to guess what was wrong with it 

when it wouldn’t go. With its single cylinder 

four-stroke engine, it is basic enough to work 

out and as I carry two workshop manuals 

with me, if I can’t mend things, someone else 

usually can. 

So there I was on the main street in Chennai 

having just had the bike blessed and sporting a 

garland of jasmine flowers on the handlebars, 

off we went into the traffic. 

Many things Indian are calm and serene. 

Think of yoga and peacocks on lawns. But 

the chaotic, choking city traffic is not and the 

hooting drivers of buses, lorries, bicycles and 


29

oxcarts were not very patient with this 5’2” 

woman trying to sort out how to change gear 

instead of braking with the round-the-wrongway 

gear change and rear brake. I kept stalling 

and had to quickly learn how to kick-start it 

after using bikes with only electric starters 

before. But I managed not to run over anyone, 

or bump into any cows on the road and we set 

off for the beginning of what turned out to be 

the most adventurous and thrilling years of 

my life. 

India is colourful, lively, in your face, hate it 

one day love it the next, and absolutely magic. 

We headed north from Chennai spending 

weeks dawdling through Andhra Pradesh, 

Orissa and West Bengal sleeping outside in 

the National Parks or in cheap hotels, riding 

through rivers and scaring village children 

who had never seen non-Indians before. We 

ate magnificently at street markets and little 

restaurants and drank local water and fresh 

fruit juice. 

As helmets are compulsory only in New 

Delhi, I made the decision to not wear one 

everywhere else. I calculated that at the 

maximum speed of fifty kilometres an hour at 

which I was travelling, through choice and road 

conditions, it was worth the risk. I so enjoyed 

the freedom. I wore jeans, sturdy boots, a longsleeved 

top, leather, fingerless gloves and a 

thin scarf over my nose and mouth to protect 

me from the dust, sun and occasional fall from 

the bike as I hit an unexpected patch of sand or 

mud or swerved to avoid a goat. 

I have dropped the bike many, many times 

and every dent and scratch tells a story. I have 

the only telescoped exhaust pipe I have ever 

seen as countless helpful mechanics have tried 

to bash it into the lugs that are supposed to 

support it on the frame but never have. I have 

an upside-down Yamaha front brake lever as 

my clutch lever after dropping the bike on 

a bend in Nepal. It works perfectly so I don’t 

see the point in changing it. Somewhere on 

the front wheel axle is a washer made from a 

sardine can. The indicators were replaced with 

Honda ones in Thailand after a fall down a 

steep track. We had just visited a Thai Temple 

and seen the twelve year-old preserved body 

of its founder in a glass case like Snow White’s, 

wearing nothing but a skimpy loincloth and his 

spectacles. Although both the bike and I had 

been blessed again there, we were both a bit 

wobbly from the experience. 

After India, we went to Pakistan and 

explored the Karakoram Highway, which 

although it sounds like a three-lane motorway, 

is often no more than a single carriageway 

clinging to the arid mountainsides. 

Breathtaking serious mountain views for much 

of its length from Islamabad to the border 

with China and beyond, it seems little-used 

considering the immense engineering feat it is 

and the great loss of life it cost in the making. 

As if the adventure wasn’t enough just to be on 

this road, we decided it would be even more fun 

to venture off it and ride up the Khagan Valley 

from Naran to Chilas. The two day journey was 

the most hair-raising, difficult, slippery-sliding, 

and repeatedly falling over motorcycling I have 

ever done. Not content with already taking 

a shortcut, we decided to take a shortcut on 

the shortcut and ended up on tiny goat tracks 

teetering on mountainsides. It was almost 

impossible to get a grip on the sharp stones 

or mud. When we got to Chilas, the first thing 

I had to do was to administer some pain-killers 

to a man with gunshot wounds who had been 

attacked by a rival gang. The ambulance, a 

pickup truck, was taking him to a faraway 

hospital in case the gang tried to get at him in 

the local one. 

As winter was approaching and we wanted 

to cross the mountains westwards we set off 

from Gilgit. Halfway there I was driven into 

by a large, cherry red 4WD which then had 

to take me back the way I had just come and 

eventually, I was returned to Islamabad for the 

operation to mend the compound fracture on 

my right leg. After several months teaching 

English in Islamabad, I returned to England. 

Meanwhile a kind Pakistani family looked 

after my bike and eleven months later I went 

to collect it. After charging up the battery, it 

started first kick. A change of plan and we went 

back to India for a thorough service and then it 

was crated up and put on a boat to Bangkok. 


31

Thailand is a great place for motorcycling. 

Again, outside the capital, no helmets are 

necessary. We made our way to Cambodia 

where Highway No.1 was mostly knee-deep 

in mud as it was the rainy season. Where it 

wasn’t deep mud, it was worse. A thin layer 

of mud over hard-baked ground made it like 

a skating rink. Cambodians are a jolly lot and 

they laughed merrily from the balconies of 

their wooden roadside homes at my ungainly 

attempts to ride on the road through a village 

where I lost my balance and fell ignominiously 

into a puddle. That was one of the few times I 

wished I had four wheels, but a couple of days 

later, I was happy to be able to see a littlevisited 

Khmer temple near Angkor Wat which 

was otherwise inaccessible. 

From Cambodia, back to Thailand and then 

down through Malaysia which has many active 

classic bike enthusiasts. One group invited us 

to join them on a rally from west to east across 

the country. It was wonderful! We had a police 

escort and marshals. I felt like a queen for the 

whole weekend amongst dozens of Honda 

Dreams, AJS, Nortons, BSA, Ariels, Triumphs 

and Enfields. It was in Penang, Malaysia that 

we spent a week or more doing a well-earned 


ISSUE 164 March 2012 28

service at the workshop of a generous Chinese 

mechanic. News got around and we were 

featured in a local Chinese newspaper. I’ll never 

know if the article was accurate as it was all 

in Mandarin. 

The Dutchman and I went our separate 

ways and I teamed up with an Australian sailor 

who said I could travel with him to Darwin, 

through the islands of Indonesia on his 23’ 

catamaran. The bike fitted snugly in the rear 

cockpit and I greased it thoroughly to protect 

it from salt and covered it with heavy tarpaulin. 

It did not go well. We picked up five illegal 

immigrants who had been floating in the Straits 

of Malacca for three days and took them to 

Malaysia, we had food and fuel stolen by pirate 

fishermen, we did not have the correct charts 

for the voyage, we stopped off at an island 

to get some and were robbed of fuel, money, 

tools, autopilot, and the skipper’s passport. 

On top of that, we didn’t get on. There was no 

useful wind and the final straw was having to 

ask for some diesel at an offshore oil rig as we 

were limping in to Jakarta. So I threw myself 

and my bike on the mercy of the authorities as 

I had no relevant documentation for Indonesia 

and thankfully, I got off the catamaran and 

joyously rode up and down volcanoes and 

went turtle watching on the beaches of Java. 

Australia was the best place I have been 

for wild camping. I spent some of my favourite 

weeks exploring the outback, sleeping in 

between my Enfield and my campfire and 

waking to the sight of kangaroos and fantastic 

birdlife. Often, on wet ground or if I had seen 

snakes, I would sleep on the bike with my feet 

on the handlebars and my backpack as a comfy 

pillow. I also once went to sleep on the bike 

unintentionally. I was in Timor and it was at the 

end of a long day and the road was quiet and 

straight. My throttle hand slipped down in my 

sleep raising the engine speed which woke me. 

I’ve got myself and the Enfield through 

countless border-crossings in Asia, Australasia 

and the Americas but coming back to Britain 

was the most difficult organisational feat yet! 

My poor Enfield was subjected to the rigorous 

DVLA Single Vehicle Approval test which 

included revving the engine to 2700 rpm to 

check the noise level. This upset the gearbox 

so much that it jumped out of neutral into first 

and jammed it. For the first time ever, my bike 

had to be taken away on a breakdown truck. 

Still, one funny thing was that I had to change 

the front tyre to pass the test and on seeking 

out a new one on the internet, discovered 

the one I had been using for the last several 

thousand kms was, in fact a tyre for a side-car 

which explains why, with its square profile, 

I always won ‘how slow can you go?’ races. 

Poring over Customs and Excise 

documents and MOT requirements took 

months. I’m so glad I went travelling. And, 

although I don’t have a job or a pension to 

speak of, I have got two grandchildren now! 

Jacqui Furneaux 


35

“I now found myself rumbling 

in the vague direction of the 

Golden Gate Bridge without 

a clue as to where I was 

actually going. Sometimes 

though a destination isn’t 

a necessity, and as I cruised 

down the Embarcadero 

cranking up the AC/DC track 

that had that had somehow 

found its way to the radio at 

the most opportune moment, 

I realised this was one of 

those times. “ 

Bransby Macdonald-Williams 

Street glidinG 

In April 2011 my girlfriend had a paper 

accepted at an academic conference 

being held in November in San Francisco. 

This was great news for a number of reasons: 

it was good for her career, raised the profile of 

the University department she works at and 

gave her an opportunity to address the largest 

academic conference, for her field, in the world. 

More importantly, because her University were 

paying for her flight and hotel, it meant I could 

easily justify accompanying her. It also meant 

that for the 4 days she’d be at the conference 

I’d find myself alone and at a loose end in 

San Francisco. 

Some initial googling lead to ideas of a 

bus trip to Yosemite, or perhaps even hiring 

a car, but whilst looking at vehicle hire the 

Eaglerider site popped up. I checked out the 

prices and was surprised to find that the daily 

hire price on some ludicrously ostentatious 

Harley-Davidsons was affordable. I shoved this 

info to the back of my mind telling myself it’d 

never happen, but the day after arriving in 

San Francisco I discovered that the Eaglerider 

store was only a few blocks from the hotel and 

slowly but surely I found myself in their lobby 

nonchalantly leafing through some brochures. 

I don’t know why, but I’ve always been 

deeply suspicious of anyone willing to lend me 

a vehicle, and despite the fact that I’ve been 

riding bikes for nearly 20 years I was a little 

shocked when I walked out 5 minutes later 

having booked a Street Glide for the following 

Monday. On pick-up day the paperwork was 

sorted out in less than 10 minutes and the 

induction they insisted on providing to people 

who haven’t ridden a Street Glide before 


37

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lasted even less time and consisted mainly 

of explaining how the radio worked, they 

chucked me the keys and left me to it. My only 

remaining question was “What’s the easiest 

way to the Golden Gate Bridge?” and I was off. 

Up until the moment I pulled out onto 

7th and Bryant riding a bright red Harley- 

Davidson Street Glide I hadn’t really believed 

it was all going to work out, so I now found 

myself rumbling in the vague direction of the 

Golden Gate Bridge without a clue as to where 

I was actually going. Sometimes though a 

destination isn’t a necessity, and as I cruised 

down the Embarcadero cranking up the AC/DC 

track that had that had somehow found its way 

to the radio at the most opportune moment, I 

realised this was one of those times. I pulled up 

briefly on the way out of town to put on a scarf 

and extra jacket, it was late November and SF 

does get chilly, and it was then I discovered the 


only real problem with the bike - finding neutral 

was all but impossible, I think I managed it 

just three times the whole day, that little 

notch between first and second continued to 

elude me. 

This was not enough to remove the grin 

from my face though as, still in a state of 

stunned disbelief, I found myself powering 

across the Golden Gate Bridge on a bright, 

chilly November morning. The first stop was 

at Vista Point just the other side of the bridge 

which, without the morning haze that rests 

over the city, provides beautiful views of the 

bay and the skyline, to be honest though it 

was the bike I wanted some pics of. In the hire 

shop I’d done a good job of concealing my total 

lack of cool, but now, grinning like the village 

idiot I snapped it from all directions, then it 

was back onto Highway 101 and north into 

Marin County. After about an hour or so 

39

on the freeway it occurred to me I should 

probably have a think about where to go. It 

was getting colder and more overcast, and 

whilst the surrounding hills were quite pretty, 

I was essentially on a motorway, and I’ve done 

my share of motorway riding. I pulled off, who 

knows where, and found my way to a shopping 

mall where I got myself a coffee and donut to 

warm up, then checked the GPS on my phone 

to see where I was and where I could go to (with 

hindsight, paying the roaming data charges 

worked out considerably more expensive than 

buying a road atlas would have, you live and 

learn). I found what looked to be an interesting 

road through some countryside and headed 

towards the coast on the Lucas Valley Road. 

The road wound up into pine-forested hills 

and as I relaxed and really started to enjoy 

the stunning scenery I glanced down to see I 

was nearly empty. All feeling of relaxation and 

aesthetic enjoyment evaporated instantly as 

the fuel gauge I had surely checked not long 

ago (probably about 3 hours and roughly 100 

miles earlier) was now hovering just above the 

“E”. Realising that running out of petrol in the 

middle of nowhere, where there was almost 

certainly no mobile signal and traffic almost 

non-existent, would really put a crimp on my 

Harley-Davidson experience, I settled down 

into a mild panic. I’d been riding for about 40 

minutes since I’d stopped for coffee, do I turn 

around, or keep going on? Being an idiot, but a 

confident one nonetheless, I kept going. 

The road was perfect, windy, wooded and 

uphill, surely just over that next ridge there’d 

be one of those redneck gas stations, where 

a guy wiping his forehead with a greasy rag 

would fill me up whilst I chatted to his buxom 

daughter who loved a guy on a bike - no? 

Just more beautiful scenery? I found myself 


41

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‘quality kit for serious fun’ 

in a one horse town (there was actually just 

one horse on show), with some friendly locals 

and absolutely no petrol station. I didn’t get 

the horse’s name but I did get directions to 

the nearest town. Fairfax definitely had a 

gas station was definitely straight down this 

road, and was definitely about 10 miles away. 

Offering up prayers to any deity that sprang to 

mind I wound through more stunning, shaded 

valleys, past picture-perfect white-walled 

churches, rolling pastureland and cool, pinescented 

woods thinking all the while “at least 

if I run out of petrol it’ll be a nice walk”. The 

combustion-engine gods smiled on me that 

day though, and I rolled, practically sobbing 

with relief, into a gas station in Fairfax and 

filled up. 

A quick cup of tea in this slow-paced, 

Californian hippy town, and I was back on 

the bike determined to now get the fullest 

enjoyment from those perfect, winding 

roads. Occasionally opening her up just a 

little on the straights I roared towards the 

coast again until finding my way down, out 

of the trees and into the blazing sunshine 

across the brightest Pacific. From there the 

road hugged tightly to the beach and cliffs, I 

stopped briefly at a place called Stinson Beach 

to take in the Pacific properly and managed 

to snap a nice self-portrait of me and the bike 

by balancing the camera on a car I parked up 

next to, a quick look at the beach, then back 

onto the winding cliff roads, taking my time 

around hair pin bends next to sheer drops to 

the ocean below. Shortly after hooking back 

inland I was able to take the Muir Woods road 

to go and visit the Muir Woods National Park, 

one of the few remaining coastal Redwood 

groves, and the nearest to San Francisco. 

Despite the lateness of the year it was packed 

with tourists who’d come to stand in awe 

beneath trees that reached well over 200ft 

in height. 

By then it was after 3 in the afternoon, I 

had to have the bike back by 5 (or return it 

in the morning) and I wanted to make sure 

my girlfriend saw me on it, so I headed back 

to town. I was afforded one final, truly special 

moment as I crested the hill on the highway 

back down to the bridge. The sun was just 

starting to lower over the ocean, and struck 

the bridge and the distant city with a perfect, 

golden, winter light. I opened the throttle 

for that last time and powered down the 

hill towards the blue mass of the bay, the 

burnt-orange of the bridge and the glowing 

white of the city, wearing a grin that made 

my jaws ache. To cap off the perfect day 

I finally managed to get it into neutral when 

I stopped at the Golden Gate Bridge toll booth. 

Bransby Macdonald-Williams 


43

Life Has Its Compensations 

Manoeuvring the Majesty out of 

the small front garden in Finsbury 

Park was easy peasy – even with a 

mangled leg. 

As I reversed the lightweight, ultra-low 

c of g scooter out of the gate, the smiling woman 

I’d been so eager to impress on that Saturday 

(and vice versa) in June 2003, was in bed a 

couple of floors above noisily pushing zeds. 

I bumped down the pavement and though 

I was heading for the same part of south 

London as I was on that fateful day, I rode off in 

completely the opposite direction. 

On that first occasion I’d taken the 

Newington Green route and – as specifically 

directed by Hannah – the New North Road, 

where a very nice man in a white van made 

an ill-considered manoeuvre, which resulted 

in the destruction of my right knee and over 

three and a half years of surgery. However, I 

wasn’t going via the Angel because I thought 

the other way was jinxed, or anything I simply 

needed to call in at Chancery Lane to drop off 

a cheque. 

As I’ve always been able to earn just about 

enough to feed my four kids and still afford 

to keep some sort of motorcycle on the road, 

money’s never really been the most important 

thing in my life. 

The last time I made a special journey to 

drop off a cheque, would’ve been when I was 

a courier and I was being paid to do so; but this 

was one I’d been waiting some time for. It was 

from Allianz Cornhill, the aforementioned van 

driver’s insurance company, and it was made 

out to the sum of £148,957.75, which was 

the net amount I’d agreed to accept in full 

and final settlement of my claim against 

their policyholder. 

Ironically for at least a week after I arrived 

in hospital, I was unequivocally opposed to 

suing anybody. It was a matter of principle and 

I was determined that I wouldn’t be tempted 

just because I’d be a fool not to cash in once the 

opportunity had presented itself. It reached the 

stage where my stubbornness on the subject 

was the main topic of conversation whenever 

someone phoned or visited me in hospital. 

But I’d gone on record in The Rider’s Digest a 

few years earlier, when I stated how much I 

despised the litigious society we had inherited 

from the States. Nope, there was no way I was 

even going to consider it. Besides, the nice 

man in the van felt so awful about what he had 

done and he apologised so profusely, that 

I wouldn’t hear of setting lawyers on him – 

particularly as I subscribe to the view that 

the problem with the legal profession is that 

99% of its members give the rest a bad name. 


45

19 TH ANNUAL 

ACE CAFE 

REUNION 

RIDE WITH THE ROCKERS 

BRIGHTON 

BURN-UP 

DEPART 

10:30 

SUNDAY 9 TH 

SEPTEMBER 2012 

ROUTE: A406•A40•M25•M23•A23• 

MADEIRA DRIVE•BRIGHTON SEAFRONT 

ACE CAFE LONDON, 

Ace Corner, North Circular Road, 

Stonebridge, London NW10 7UD 

A406, NORTH CIRCULAR ROAD, PARK ROYAL EXIT. 

UNDERGROUND - BAKERLOO LINE, STONEBRIDGE PARK 

- 200 YARDS FROM EXIT 

Tel +44(0)20 8961 1000 Fax +44(0)20 8965 0161 

www.ace-cafe-london.com 

At the same time I was aware that my 

habitual response to the kind of pressure I’d 

been receiving, was to behave like an eight 

year old and stick my fingers in my ears and go, 

“La, la la la, la, la la…” So I rang my old friend 

and social work mentor John Burton so he 

could reassure me that I was indeed correct 

to resist the lure of the lucre. I’ve known John 

since the late 80’s, and he’s a man of great 

integrity. We’ve discussed an enormous range 

of thorny social, political, and philosophical 

quandaries over the years, and I have 

an enormous respect for his opinion. 

Moreover, as a lifetime motorcyclist (who 

used a Norton combo to transport his family 

when his girls were little) I knew he was 

the ideal person to reinforce my stand. 

Consequently “Don’t be so bloody 

stupid!” wasn’t entirely what I expected; 

but that was John’s measured advice. He 

asked how much I reckoned I’d paid in 

insurance premiums over the previous 

28 years, and suggested that legitimately 

reclaiming some of it at a time of need was 

hardly profiteering. 

Obviously given my attitude to the legal 

profession, I didn’t know any good lawyers 

(unless you counted the ones in cemeteries) 

but there’d been Rider Support (RSS) ads 

in the Digest as long as I’d been writing 

for it so I called them and a very nice 

chap turned up at my place as arranged, 

the day I came out of hospital. Having spent 

over 20 years working in an 

increasingly bureaucratic world, I’d 

developed an almost pathological aversion 

to paperwork, so when he sat in my living 

room and filled everything in for me, 

I warmed to RSS instantly. 

Readers got a full report of my 

accident in issue 75 at the end of 2003 – 

complete with nasty details and excessive 

use of the F word – so, if only for their sake, I 

won’t revisit all that again (but if you enjoy 

a bit of gruesome detail presented in an 

entertaining manner, you can read it here). 

Suffice to say that having dislocated my knee 

and shattered my tibia, it was always going to 

be a while before I got back to work. Fortunately 

with all the years I’d put in, I was good for 6 

months full pay and another 6 months on half 

pay; and if I’m entirely honest, after 32 year 

of work, I thought I was overdue for a sabbatical. 

However, when the money was about to stop, 

my employers carried out a risk assessment 

on my knee, and decided I couldn’t return 

to previous post – working with adolescents 

– so they asked if I’d be interested in a 

nice office job. 


47

When I told them I’d rather someone tore 

my other leg off and beat me to death with 

it, than suffocate slowly in their bureaucratic 

morass, they seemed to sense my reluctance, 

and suggested that I might prefer early 

retirement on the grounds of ill health. 

Obviously, because I had frozen my pension 

about 7 years earlier (yeah, I know – D’oh), I 

wouldn’t receive the tiny payments until I was 

60… I signed the paper. 

And that’s how I came to be retired a month 

or so short of my 50 th birthday, with an annuity 

that wouldn’t kick in for another 10 years and 

benefit payments that barely covered my rent, 

let alone providing money to support my 

children. If I’d had to deal with the insurance 

company myself, I’d have been in deep do do. 

Even though they’d accepted liability, I know I 

would have ended up with nothing because all 

the correspondence they sent me would have 

ended up in my “to do” pile – and that included a 

couple of items that had been there since 1993! 

Whereas, even I could manage to read sign and 

return the few things that RSS required of me. 

In issue 86 I said: “Right I’m off to hospital 

now (1.30pm, 25 th November 2004) where 

I’ll be having my knee replaced tomorrow 

morning. So if it all goes according 

to plan, with a fair wind, a bit of luck 

and a shitload of exercise/physio, 

I hope I’ll be writing in these pages about 

my comeback trip in these pages sometime 

next spring.” 

Unfortunately it didn’t turn go according 

to plan, and the only bit of luck I had was that 

I didn’t lose my leg below the knee. You really 

don’t want the details, let’s just say I spent 5 

weeks in a side room, stuffed with tubes, and I 

ended up on chatting terms with all the theatre 

staff. I only got out (the day before New Year’s 

Eve) because The Injury Care Clinic (TICCS 

– an organisation paid for by the insurance 

company to support my recovery) employed 

a local agency to arrange a constant supply 

of (largely attractive) young Polish women to 

cook, clean, and care for me on a daily basis. 

So, given my experience and the dire 

circumstances I would undoubtedly have 

faced if I hadn’t enlisted the support and 

expertise of RSS, have I rethought my 

anachronistic position vis-à-vis our “litigious 

society”? No, not in the slightest. I’m acutely 

aware that if I hadn’t received this payout, I 

would have been thoroughly screwed; and 

that above and beyond my injuries, my quality 

of life and that of my children, would have 

been affected enormously. But personally 

I see that as a bitter indictment of the way 

our society is structured, rather than an 

endorsement of the system I was reluctantly 

obliged to collude with. 

Sure £150k sounds like a lot money, but 

it’s only the equivalent of around six years wages 

in my old job; and having cleared the debt 

I’d accumulated since the accident, I’m not 

even left with enough to buy a small flat near 

my kids. As for the private enterprise that made 

it possible for me to get out of hospital… 

That’s where a proper system of home help 

comes in. If I lived in the kind of society I grew 

up aspiring to, the wider community (and yes 

by that I mean the government) would support 

all of its members at a time of need or crisis, 

irrespective of their ability to pay. 

I realise there will be many readers for 

whom this is anathema (but I hope it doesn’t 

mean you’ll now dismiss anything sensible 

I’ve said in the past, or might say in the 

future about motorcycling) but I believe 

National Insurance should be just that. 

If we have to pay a bit more to cover 

all eventualities, so be it, what do you 

think your other insurance premiums 

do? The only difference with NI, is you 

wouldn’t need to pay a large chunk of that 

premium to pay the massive dividends of 

big financial institutions; and best of all 

it would remove the whole adversarial 

element, which, because it is conducted by 

incredibly expensive legal types, adds massively 

to everybody’s overall insurance costs. 

Fortunately the ambulance service is 

one of the few areas in modern society that 


49

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still delivers something akin to true equality. 

Even if when I found myself prostrate on the 

New North Road, I’d had a Supa Dupa Platinum 

Amex card, triple-extra BUPA Plus, fifty mill in 

off shore bank accounts, and a (bought) seat in 

the House of Lords, the ambulance crew 

couldn’t possibly have reached me any faster, 

treated me any better, or got to me to the 

hospital any quicker. 

Special thanks to Michael Wheatley at RSS 

for all his support, good counsel, and all the 

little ways he went above and beyond. A good, 

honest and decent lawyer – and a top man to 

boot (must be because he’s a motorcyclist). 

So, in a nutshell, this is the story of a decent 

white van driver, a reasonable insurance 

company, and a good honest lawyer. Tune in 

next month when I’ll be relating an incredible 

tale featuring the tooth fairy, Father Christmas, 

and an intelligent racist. 


PS thanks to the Nat West bank for all their 

support (not) when things got really tight in 

mid-December. I told the account manager 

person who refused to extend my overdraft 

for a few weeks – after 26 years banking there 

– that the cheque would go into a new bank 

account and it did. Thanks to Pat Coyle and 

Abel Magwitch for saving me from having to 

cancel Christmas. 

Dave Gurman 

51

AdventureS 

in 

LA LA LAND 

It seemed entirely appropriate to be riding 

my own Mk3 Tmax to catch a plane to the 

exotic Los Angeles launch of the muchhyped 

Mk4 version of Yamaha’s superscooter. 

A Yamaha kit-bag was bungeed to the 

pillion, a souvenir of an unforgettable weekend 

in 2004 when I rode a Mk1 from London to 

Paris before racing it at Circuit Carole the same 

day. I had many memorable adventures on that 

2000 Tmax, and didn’t sell it until long after 

I’d bought the second hand 2004 Mk2 that 

I still own, along with a 2008 Mk3. I cannot 

deny it, I am a big fan of these ton-up, top 

handling, twist ‘n’ go machines – and Aprilia 

and Ducati devotees might be surprised to 

discover just how many Italians share my high 

opinion of them; in the eleven years since the 

first Tmax was launched, 180,000 have been 

sold in Europe and no fewer than 115,000 

of them were bought in Italy! 

On the long flight to LA I had plenty of 

time to think about the last time I was in 

‘The City of the Angels’, way back in September 

1978. With my psychology degree freshly 

completed, I’d spent a memorable summer 

travelling right across the USA on Greyhound 

buses and wound up in Caldwell, Idaho, 

where I was joined by a mate from uni and 

we spent several weeks picking fruit with 

‘wetbacks’. We were both inept and lazy 

compared to the Mexicans, but still earned 

enough to buy a not entirely roadworthy 1965 

Ford Mustang fastback for a bargain $110 

and ended our trip in ‘style’ driving out to 

the Pacific in Oregon, then all the way down 

the scenic Highway 1 coastal route to L.A. via 

San Francisco. 

Fast-forward thirty three years and I am 

coming in to land back at LAX… except the 

plane doesn’t land. After some alarming 

weaving about in a high wind, the pilot 

decides to abort the mission and yanks back 

on the joystick to go around again. He assures 

us there’s nothing to worry about, but as we 

come in for landing attempt number two, with 

the 300 tonne Airbus lurching from side to side 

like a drunk on a storm-lashed ferry I can’t help 

thinking about the disastrous consequences 

if it all goes pear-shaped. Fortunately, after a 

few more lurches and a mighty big bump, we 

made it safely onto terra firma. At that precise 

moment all the lights went out in the airport 

buildings as they suffered a total blackout 

caused by power lines being blown down. 

Welcome to California! 

Our upmarket, trendy hotel was located 

at ‘Hollywood and Vine’, right opposite the 

striking cylinder that is the Capitol Records 

building. The ‘sidewalk’ right outside the front 

door was part of the so-called ‘Walk of Fame’ 

whereby the names of hundreds of stage 

and screen idols are engraved in stars on the 

paving stones. A nice nostalgic touch was the 

provision of a proper old-fashioned record 

player with real LPs racked up alongside it in 

each room. I picked out Supertramp’s ‘Crime 

of the Century’ and put a needle on vinyl for 

the first time in more than twenty years; and 

as ‘Dreamer’ blasted out of the loudspeakers, it 

could have been 1978 all over again… 

We went out for a drink and found a ‘punk/ 

goth’ bar right around the corner, which was 

a real contrast to the chic hotel. It was full of 

young men and women with tattoos and 

piercings wearing black denim or leather, but 

they were all perfectly pleasant and there 

was no ‘aggro’. On the way back to the hotel 

we passed a place called Déjà Vu with a huge 

sign over the door shouting SHOWGIRLS 

and beneath, in much smaller lettering, the 


53

striking slogan “1000s of BEAUTIFUL GIRLS & 3 

UGLY ONES”. I was intrigued, but we didn’t go in. 

‘Acclimatisation day’ dawned sunny but 

downright cold by LA standards and the streets 

were full of bits of palm tree and other debris 

from the previous night’s near-hurricane. I put 

John Coltrane’s Blue Train on the record player 

and woke myself up with a proper coffee 

from the excellent machine in the room. The 

highlight of the morning for me was strolling 

down a nearby street that was being used to 

film a Sean Penn gangster movie set in the 

1940s; it was full of immaculate period cars, 

including two which had just been riddled with 

mock bullets… 

We had a bus tour of Hollywood and 

Beverly Hills which included several miles of 

Mulholland Drive, an amazing road, built in 

the 1920s along the winding route of a ridge 

between the city and the sea. At one point the 

traffic was backed up for several hundred yards 

at a crossroads and I was struck by the fact that 

we didn’t see a single scooter or motorcycle 

as we inched forward to the traffic lights. 

We’d only seen a handful of two wheelers in 

downtown Hollywood too, and half of them 

were pushbikes. Yet LA is warm and sunny 

nearly all year round and California is the 

only state in the union where traffic filtering 

(or ‘lane-splitting’ as they call it) is legal. 

Bizarre, eh? 

Well-known places we passed included 

Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, the original 

Comedy Store, the Whiskyagogo, and the 

Viper Room, (where River Phoenix died); places 

I hadn’t heard of included the ‘Odditorium’ 

(complete with Tyrannosaurus Rex on the 

roof), the Knickerbocker Hotel, the Laugh 

Factory and the Zoom Room, which describes 

itself as a ‘dog agility training centre and 

social club’; underneath the permanent sign, 

there was a canvas banner announcing, ‘Voted 

best pet boutique on the 2011 LA hot list!’ 

Only in La La Land… 

The highlight of the afternoon was a 

visit to the Petersen Automotive Museum in 

Beverly Hills. They had a superb exhibition of 

about 50 scooters, old, new and extremely 

obscure from both sides of the Atlantic. It had 

the beguiling title ‘Size Doesn’t Always Matter’ 

and as an added bonus there was a Gurney 

Alligator at the entrance (of which more next 

month). We barely had time to do justice to the 

scooters alone and I could easily have spent a 

whole day in the rest of the museum. (If you 


55

should find yourself in LA any time soon, the 

scooter exhibition is on until May 28th 2012). 

The New 530 Tmax 

That evening the assembled hacks from 

the UK, Spain and Portugal had the official 

presentation of the new Mk4 Tmax 530. 

It had first been unveiled in Milan a few weeks 

earlier, of course, where it went on display 

with the eye-watering price tag of 

€10,300 for the basic model and a further 

€500 if you want it with ABS. It was also 

displayed at the NEC bike show without a price 

tag, but that has now been confirmed as pretty 

much the sterling equivalent of the Euro price: 

£8,699 on the road. 

Yamaha’s engineers and marketing people 

started by reminding us of the evolution of 

the Tmax since the original 40bhp twin was 

launched in 2000; they added an extra front 

disc and 4 more bhp with fuel injection in 2004, 

then they gave it an aluminium chassis and a 

complete makeover with sharper styling all 

round and an upswept exhaust in 2008. 

The forks also got progressively bigger, 

from 38 to 43mm as did the wheels, from 

14 to 15 inches front and rear. The resulting 

Mk3 Tmax was a mighty fine machine but, 

as I discovered when I raced one at the 2008 

Thundersprint, it’s still a big, heavy beast when 

you put it alongside any serious sports bike or 

racer. It actually weighs more than an R1 or a 

Fireblade, with less than a third of the power, 

but that’s like comparing apples and oranges. 

The Mk3 Tmax is still lighter than all its twin 

cylinder scooter rivals and more Tmaxes have 

been sold in Europe than all the Honda Silver 

Wings, Suzuki Burgman 650s and Gilera GP 

800s put together! In fact, nearly twice as many, 

since, on average, 65% of all the twin-cylinder 

maxiscoots sold in Europe over the past ten 

years have been Tmaxes. 

For this fourth incarnation, Yamaha’s 

engineers have lightened it all over, increased 

the power and torque and improved the 

protection from both screen and fairing. 

Their stylists have given it ‘sharper’ looks too. 

The slogan for the new model is ‘Nothing but 

the Max!’ but actually, when it comes to both 

power and capacity, the new Yamaha is still the 

smallest and the least powerful of the 

maxiscoot twins, with a 2mm overbore 

bringing it up to just 530cc and claimed 

power of just 46.5bhp (compared to 

43.5bhp for the Mk3). By contrast, the 

Burger King has a claimed 55bhp and the 


57

Gilera GP 800 (now re-born as the Aprilia 

RSV850) has 75bhp. 

Yamaha claim that the change to a Harleystyle 

toothed belt final drive from the previous 

design using a fully enclosed hyvo chain not 

only reduces the unsprung weight significantly 

but also means that there are actually five extra 

gee-gees reaching the ground rather than the 

nominal three compared to the Mk3. However, 

one of the attractions of the previous models 

is that their fully-enclosed hyvo drive chains 

are zero maintenance devices. I’ve never heard 

of anyone replacing either of them. The new 

toothed belt is much more enclosed than most 

conventional drive chains, but it is still open to 

the elements, and adjustment bolts are fitted 

to the rear axle, implying that some adjustment 

will be required. When the obvious question 

was asked about its durability, we were told 

that it should last the life of the machine, as 

long as it doesn’t get damaged by a stone or 

some other small, hard object getting lodged 

in the teeth. Regular inspections are part 

of the maintenance schedule. Hmm. I can’t 

understand why they didn’t just fully enclose 

the new belt, with a transparent window for 

inspection purposes. I can see someone like 

Givi making a full enclosure cover, in the way 

that Peter Furlong used to make full enclosure 

cases for conventional chains, back in the 80s. 

(Anyone else remember him?) 

As the presentation 

continued, we all 

knew that there was a 

metaphorical ‘elephant 

in the room’ in the 

form of BMW’s new 

C600Sport, which was 

also unveiled at Milan; 

it is clearly aimed 

directly at the Tmax, 

(while its bulkier big 

sister, the C650GT, is obviously aimed at the big 

Burger). Both the BMWs have a claimed 60bhp, 

which makes the Tmax’s 46bhp look pretty puny, 

at least on paper, plus they have ABS as standard. 

At the time of writing, the price still hadn’t been 

announced, but someone asked the question we 

all had in mind: this machine might be better 

than the last Tmax, but can it compete with the 

new BMW? The reply, from Jan Hendrik Krijnen, 

was a good one: “The new Tmax is much lighter 

than the BMW so the power to weight ratio is 

about the same; we think that the advantages to 

the handling of the lighter weight will make our 

machine more enjoyable to ride”. 

The next morning we set off in small groups 

of four or five riders led by a Yamaha Europe 

person riding a Fazer 800. As we headed towards 

the skyscrapers of downtown LA I felt instantly 

at home on the new Tmax; it felt a lot like the 

Mk3, but noticeably more nimble and agile. 

The weight distribution is now more evenly 

balanced front to rear and the riding position 

neatly ‘tweaked’ with a slight raising and pulling 

back of the handlebars; I think it’s the best yet. 

After doing an ‘urban’ photoshoot around 

the strikingly metallic, angular and futuristic 

Disney Concert Hall, we rode the entire length 

of Sunset Boulevard which runs for twenty 

miles all the way to Santa Monica and the 

sea. The Tmaxes sliced through the slowmoving 

downtown traffic and once again I 

thought how ridiculous it was that so few of 

the locals use bikes or scoots – we must have 

been averaging about twice the speed of the 

‘cagers’ (as American bikers call car drivers). 

Sunset Boulevard runs arrow-straight for the 

first few miles, but then it narrows down to two 

lanes each way and starts to twist and turn as 

it gets into the Beverly Hills and the fun factor 

rose as we turned up the wick and swooped 

through the rising and falling curves. 

When we reached the ocean we turned right 

onto the Pacific Coast Highway and continued 

for a dozen miles into Malibu County. Cruising 

along at about 60mph into the fresh sea breeze 

I realised that the new screen and fairing were 

doing a much better job than the previous 

model’s. The mirrors have been re-positioned 

to provide some hand protection and the 

legshields have been re-profiled to deflect 

the wind further out and they’ve also been 

given some separate and quick-to-replace 

edging, which should make minor spills much 


59

cheaper to repair. (If I were king-emperor, all 

motorcycles and scooters would have to be 

designed to survive a stationary topple-over 

without doing any damage whatsoever!) 

The lunch stop was at the appropriately 

named Paradise Cove, right on the beach. I’d 

fore-warned my friend and fellow cabin-bike 

fan Stefano Paris that we’d be there and he 

turned a few heads when he duly turned up 

in the only Peraves MonoTracer in California. 

Most people do a double-take when they see 

one of the fully enclosed, half tonne beasts for 

the first time, especially when the outrigger 

wheels pop down as it comes to a halt. 

Stefano is a high-powered engineer with 

a particular interest in electric vehicles and 

motorcycles, so he’s looking forward to the 

imminent arrival of the production electric 

MonoTracer. We’ve both driven the prototype 

which, with over 200bhp and monstrous 

amounts of torque, is pretty exciting. Stefano 

has close family ties with Italy, which may be 

why he’s also a big Tmax fan and he actually 

lobbied Yamaha USA to bring in the Tmax long 

before they belatedly got around to importing 

the Mk3 in 2009. It was one of the supreme 

ironies of this American launch of the new Mk4 

that Yamaha USA have decided not to import 

it! The entire event was organised by Yamaha 

Europe, all the test bikes had Italian plates, and 

Yamaha USA’s only involvement was the loan 

of the Fazer 800s for the run leaders. 

The afternoon ride was the highlight 

of the launch. We turned off the coast road 

and headed up into the hills for about five 

miles which took us to the junction with 

Mulholland Highway. This is the continuation 

of Mulholland Drive, but about twenty miles 

further west and with almost no houses on it. 

It’s one of the twistiest roads I’ve ever ridden 

and as a special bonus, the California Highway 

Patrol had kindly agreed to shut several 

hundred yards of one of the twistiest sections 

so we could get some decent cornering shots. 

That was a nice surprise! With all the photos 

done, we continued down the serpentine strip 

of tarmac and I felt completely at one with 

the Tmax, flowing through a whole series of 

tight turns for several miles until we got to 

the Rock Store. This is a popular gathering 

place for local bike enthusiasts and there was 

a good variety of machinery parked outside; a 

pair of Ducatis, an XR400 trailbike, a GTR1000 

Kawa tourer and a local Sheriff’s BMW boxer, 

complete with fairing-mounted baton, filling 

up at the retro fuel pumps. 

When we left, I made sure I got right in 

behind our run leader because I had a feeling 

that he would up the pace a bit if I got right 

on his tail, and so it proved. He started going 

noticeably quicker and I was really able to put 

the Tmax through its paces. On a twisty road 

like the Mulholland Highway, where even if 

you’re riding hard, you’re mostly going 50- 

70mph and are often down to 30mph in the 

tightest turns, I reckon you would have been 

hard pressed to go much faster on any bike. I 

could keep the brakes on deep into the turns 

without unsettling it and there was great midrange 

‘zip’ for overtaking slower moving traffic 

too, noticeably more than the old model. 

It’s a shame we didn’t have a Mk3 to compare 

the Mk4s with directly. Our run leader told me 

later that he would rather have been on the 

new Tmax than the soggily suspended USspec 

Fazer 800 he was lumbered with. Before 

returning to Hollywood via the freeway we got 

the tools out to raise our screens, which was 

fiddly, but still an innovation worth having. 

There was too much traffic to investigate the 

530’s top speed, but it zipped up to 90mph very 

easily and I don’t doubt that it will go faster 

than the Mk3’s true maximum of 104mph in 

the right conditions. 

The new dashboard has more ‘bells and 

whistles’ than the old one, including a fuel 

consumption read-out, if you can find it, but 

I actually prefer the look of the old model’s 

dials, apart from the ‘moving bar’ rev counter. 

On the Mk4 there’s something odd about the 

setting of the twin circles of the analogue 

speedo and rev counter in a really angular 

dashboard, and the info-packed digital 

section between them is actually rather 

hard to read. The fuel calculator said I’d 


61

“On a twisty road 

like the Mulholland 

Highway, where even 

if you’re riding hard, 

you’re mostly going 

50-70mph and are 

often down to 30mph 

in the tightest turns, 

I reckon you would 

have been hard 

pressed to go much 

faster on any bike.” 



63

een doing 53mpg, which is actually quite 

impressive,if it’s accurate, because I only 

average about 45mpg on my own Mk3. Yamaha 

claim that the new machine is 6% more fuel 

efficient than the old model (although when a 

French magazine compared them they found 

that the new machine actually used slightly 

more juice). 

One ‘improvement’ which several of us 

questioned was the increase in rear disc size 

from 267mm to a dinner-plate-sized 282mm. 

In my experience with the Mk3, it’s extremely 

easy to lock up even the smaller size disc in an 

emergency stop, so I never use more than two 

fingers on it. Sticking with my double digit 

technique, I didn’t lock the back brake on the 

Mk4 but I didn’t have any emergency stops 

either. I wasn’t surprised to hear that many 

of the other hacks did have lock-ups – they 

were probably grabbing a full handful of rear 

brake lever. 

Back at the hotel, we were asked to fill out 

a questionnaire about the new TMax, and my 

overall impression can be summed up in one 

short sentence: ‘Great scoot, shame about 

the price’. There are a couple of little niggles 

though. I find it quite extraordinary that, on a 

‘nothing but the max’ superscooter costing 

nearly nine grand, Yamaha still think it’s OK to 

make a simple power socket or ‘DC 12v power 

outlet’ as they call it, a £36.99 optional extra 

(not including labour to fit). All of its rivals have 

power sockets as standard, and I can’t imagine 

it would cost more than a quid to fit as standard 

at the factory. 

It also amazes me that after eleven years 

and four evolutions of the Tmax, there is still 

no rear suspension adjustment whatsoever. 

In contrast to the vast majority of monoshocks, 

the Tmax’s underslung unit works in extension 

rather than compression, which complicates 

matters somewhat, but there have been 

aftermarket adjustable shocks available for 

years (at vast expense), so I don’t see why 

there can’t be some adjustment as standard. 

Don’t get me wrong, the suspension 

works really well on the Mk4 when solo, 

and probably perfectly adequately two 

up, if my Mk3 is anything to go by, but if 

you want to take a passenger and a ton 

of luggage, then it can get a bit saggy 

at the back, and with a machine like this 

it’s perfectly practical to take one on a 

European tour – I know because I’ve done it. 

Finally, Yamaha UK say they have no 

intention of importing the ABS version of the 

new TMax because the extra cost would push it 

over the £9,000 mark and make it even harder 

to sell than it is already. I reckon that when 

Honda, Suzuki and now BMW are all offering 

rival machines with ABS as standard Yamaha 

will actually lose more potential buyers by 

not offering ABS than by adding four or five 

hundred quid to the price, because for the sort 

of people who buy brand new superscooters, 

lack of ABS could well be ‘a deal breaker’. If it 

were up to me, I would make the ABS version 

standard for the UK (especially with that 

whopping, lock-prone rear disc) and make sure 

the price still stayed (well) under nine grand. 

The next morning, while the other journos 

prepared to return to Blighty, I merely prepared 

to leave the luxurious Redbury Hotel. The idea 

of flying six thousand miles for less than three 

days in LA was crazy to me, especially when 

there were so many interesting things to do 

and people to see in Southern California, so 

I had delayed my flight back for another six 

days. I would have loved to carry on staying at 

the Redbury, but even at the special half price 

rate they kindly offered me it would still have 

cost as much for one night there as for four in a 

normal motel. 

I had one last listen to John Coltrane on the 

retro record player before taking my kit bag 

down to the lobby; then while the other Brits 

headed back to LAX to catch the flight home, 

I wheeled my bag down to the nearby stop to 

catch a city bus over to Eagle Rock. But that’s 

the start of another LA story… 

Paul Blezard 


65

A labrador called harleY 

Often, when talking to people I don’t 

know very well I mention that I have a 

dog (actually I have three). “Oh”, they 

say, “a Labrador?” When I tell them it’s not a 

Labrador they seem surprised. When I tell them 

what kind of dogs I do own they are politely 

mystified. But what on earth has this got to do 

with bikes, you may ask? 

Often, when talking to people I don’t know 

very well I mention that I have a motorbike 

(actually I have two and a bit). “Oh”, they say, “a 

Harley?” When I tell them it’s not a Harley they 

seem surprised. When I tell them what kind of 

bikes I do own they are politely mystified. “But 

surely your dream is to ride round America on 

a Harley,” they say. No, not really... 

Mongrels 

The similarities between Harley Davidsons 

and Labradors are surprisingly many. Both, 

for instance, are incredibly popular. In any list 

of registered breeds the Labrador Retriever 

is nearly always twice as popular as its next 

nearest rival, and often considerably more. The 

2006 figures for the US are 123,760 Labradors 

compared to 48,346 for second favourite 

the Yorkshire terrier. Only in strange places 

like North Carolina does the Treeing Walker 

Coonhound top the list – now that’s a ‘bike’ I’d 

like to see! 

The situation with Harleys is complicated 

by their being so expensive but nevertheless, 

in 2007 (before the credit crunch) global sales 

were 337,774. That’s an awful lot of premium 


67 

Hog 

iron-horses sold in just one year. Even in the 

depths of the recession Harley are still shifting 

about a quarter of a million bikes a year. 

Harleys, like Labradors, are big and 

heavy; they shake their heads and wag their 

tails. Being powerful creatures they achieve 

surprising speeds but changing direction and 

stopping require considerable effort and space. 

They take a lot of manhandling and consume 

enormous quantities of nourishment. Vets bills 

are high. 

But Labradors and Harleys are lovely things 

to behold; they are classy, distinctive and 

traditional. It’s not hard to see why so many 

people want to own one. However, their very 

success is also the root cause of some serious 

drawbacks. Both, for example, are prone to 

putting on weight. Labradors suffer terribly 

with congenital defects such as hip dysplasia, 

Labrador 

which is painful and often leads to premature 

death. Most of the friends I know with Harleys 

moan constantly about bits falling off or 

going rusty. 

Tradition combined with enormous 

popularity leads inevitably to complacency. 

Inbreeding becomes rife and with no let-up 

in demand there is little incentive to solve 

inherent defects. Yes, odd bits of modern 

gadgetry turn up here and there, and a certain 

amount of clever design goes into the fuelling

Harley 

and combustion process but essentially, every 

new Harley is an old bike. Old engine, old frame, 

old idea. That’s what the customers want. 

Harleys and Labradors are now so 

embedded in our consciousness that they have 

each achieved cult status, albeit separately. 

Snobbery is endemic amongst the initiated 

with endless discussion on the relative merits 

of working dogs versus show dogs; hard-tails 

versus soft-tails; et cetera, et cetera, ad nauseam. 

Such long established orthodoxy breeds not 

only conformity of opinion but also of dress. 

For the Harley rider leather, denim and clumpy 

boots are de rigeur. It is a look which evangelises 

individualism but is actually anything but; it’s a 

uniform, as ritual as a cassock. For the Labrador 

owner only a cloth cap, Barbour jacket and 

green Hunters will do. Your individuality, sir, 

may be expressed with either green or mustard 

coloured corduroys. 

GK Chesterton thought that tradition was 

the ‘democracy of the dead’ but I can’t help 

wondering if sometimes it starts to become a 

kind of dictatorship. John Stuart Mill lamented 

more intuitively that it was not so much that 

people ‘chose what is customary in preference 

to their inclinations’ but that ‘it does not occur 

to them to have any inclinations, except what is 

customary’. Either way, I have never been able 

to work out whether Harley owners actually 

want to wear the uniform or whether it’s just 

that bright yellow one-piece leathers look so 

out of place on a Hog. Such conventionalism, 

though, descends inexorably into cliché. And 

this is a shame. 

There is nothing inherently wrong with 

either Harleys or Labradors, indeed, in the 

right hands any dog or any Hog is a source of 

joy in one’s life. They take you to places you’d 

Hog 


69 

Dog 

never go to if you didn’t have one; you meet 

new people. But that’s in the right hands… 

The problem is that ownership of Harleys and 

Labradors has extended way beyond the pool 

of natural dog and bike enthusiasts. To a biker 

a Harley is a bike; to the uninitiated wannabe 

a bike is a Harley. They don’t know any 

other breeds. 

15% of Harley purchasers are buying their 

first motorcycle; I suspect an even higher 

percentage of new dog owners chose a 

Labrador. That’s a lot to handle if you’ve never 

had one before. The problem is that both are 

being bought as ‘lifestyle accessories’. Harley 

Davidson doesn’t just sell bikes, it sells a 

dream, a social aspiration that many aspire to. 

You can wear the gear, pose the pose and have 

as much fun as you like, even if you look a bit 

of a tosspot in those leather chaps. I would like 

to think that most Harley owners would be 

equally happy on any other bike and probably 

some of them are, but far too many appear 

lost to the Milwaukee Moonies. To a genuine 

aficionado such vacuous consumerism must 

be an affront. 

And this is where Harleys and Labradors 

are not the same. It doesn’t really matter if 

you buy the wrong bike; you can stick it in the 

garage and forget about it, sell it on or chop it 

in for another model. No-one gets hurt. What 

upsets me is when people treat their dogs as 

accessories. This often entails shutting them 

up all day and then ignoring them when you 

get home, and paying poor attention to their 

exercise and diet. It is perfectly acceptable to 

beat your Harley in a rage of frustration if it 

doesn’t do what you want it to (like start) but 

that’s not fair on your Labrador. 

Before getting a Harley or a Labrador 

I therefore implore you to think carefully 

whether you really want a bike or a dog. If you 

honestly do and it’s not just something to pose 

with, then have a look at all the other breeds

as well. There’s loads of them out there, Salukis 

and Suzukis, Huskies and Husquvarnas, and 

all kinds of boxers. You never know, you may 

just find something you like better. And don’t 

forget the crossbreeds. Some of the best dogs 

I have ever known are complete mutts and the 

same goes for bikes; fancy a Bimota, anyone? 

In writing this I have realised that not only are 

all my dogs crossbreeds (whippet-lurchers) but 

so are my bikes (Cagiva Raptor and CCM 404E). 

I must be a bit of a pikey, then… 

However, if a Harley or a Labrador is 

absolutely the thing for you (or you’ve bought 

one already without really thinking about 

why) then please embrace it, let it into your life 

completely. Don’t leave it locked up and lonely 

for long periods of time. Lavish it with care and 

take it with you wherever you go. Let it run free 

and get it dirty. Make it part of the family, a big 

part of your life. Smile at it often and give it a 

pat. Love it deeply. 

Oldlongdog 

Simon Gardner 

Graphic Design 

I M A G I N A T I O N 

enquiries: 

srjg@mail2web.com 

Group ridinG 

What’s the storY? 

What’s one thing that sets bikers 

apart from most other road users? 

A lot of riders would say: 

Community - we are the big society in leather 

(or textiles, depending on which way you 

swing). You don’t often see half a dozen 

buses driving the Cat and Fiddle together for 

kicks. Or a couple of dozen well-organised 

black cabs cruising round the Lakes on a 

sightseeing tour. But at this time of year you’ll 

see any number of motorcycle groups clearly 

riding together on our local Cumbrian roads, 

and the same is true of any other scenic area 

of the UK. 

Group riding has had some really 

bad press in recent years and it has come 

from all kinds of sources. The media has 

generally behaved in the manner we have 

come to expect and run stories on hoards 

of biking hooligans taking over the nation’s 

roads, intimidating locals and tourists alike. 

However, it’s not just the hysteria-junkies 

who have generated the idea that groups of 

bikes riding together leads to an increase in 

danger. The road safety experts, the traffic 

police, appear to hold the view that group 

riding increases risk. Experienced instructors 

warn of the various dangers of riding in a 

group – of racing, ‘following through’ on 

overtakes, trying to keep up and so on… 

There is no doubt that a prevailing attitude 

exists that states an informal bunch of 

mates out for a ride on a Saturday afternoon 

are creating more risk for themselves 

than if they were out on their own. 

The worrying fact is that this attitude is 

based on experience, intuition, personal 


71

observation and no real research at all 

until now. The group ride is a relatively new and 

fast growing area of motorcycle culture. Plenty 

of recent studies tell us that the motorcycling 

population in the UK has changed dramatically 

over the last few decades. Todays rider is a 

little older, a little wealthier and often rides 

his bike purely for pleasure, rather than the 

cash-strapped youth of yore who rode a bike 

to work ‘cos it was all he could afford. Until 

now though, the research hasn’t attempted 

to examine the effect of group riding on all 

this tootling or hooning around the scenic 

highways and byways of the UK. However, a 

new study conducted earlier this year with the 

help of over 1200 bikers of all shapes and sizes 

has started to examine the issue. What do you 

think? Is riding in a group different to riding 

on your own? Is it just a case of half a dozen 

individuals sharing some road space, or does 

‘the group’ itself have some kind of an effect on 

how each member behaves? 

Even among the biking population there 

is much speculation and very little fact. Talk to 

a handful of riders and you’ll generally get a 

handful of opinions. Some riders would argue 

that riding with a group is somehow more 

dangerous than taking on the nation’s drivers 

single-handed. Equally, loads of other riders 

live for the weekend ride-out with their biker 

mates. SO what’s the story? Common-sense is 

a great thing but it’s not always on the money 

when it comes to human behaviour. Human 

beings, as any psychologist worth their salt will 

tell you, are a funny bunch. 

The Results 

Firstly, the study tried to find out if there 

was any measurable difference between group 

and solo riders. In the first place a couple of 

simple definitions are appropriate; group 

riders don’t necessarily always ride with a 

group, but they do sometimes. Solo riders 

always ride alone. The numbers here are 

impressive; 80% of UK riders who responded 

to the survey rode with a group. This is a 

lot of riders – clearly the group factor could 

affect a huge proportion of the nations riding 

population. 

It’s been found that crash history is a good 

indicator of crash risk – essentially, if you’ve had 

some, you’re likely to have more – so we asked 

how many crashes you’d had in the last three 

years and then looked at this data alongside 

some other key factors like age and gender. 

Group riders tended to be slightly younger, and 

were also more likley to be blokes. These two 

trends alone, according to all current research 

in the field, should lead us to the finding that 

yes, group riders are more likely to crash. 

Group riders it turned out, also covered more 

miles a year and were slightly more likely to 

ride all year round. Again, both of these factors 


73

would tend to predict a higher crash risk, 

so on demographics alone we should be seeing 

a higher crash rate among those that ride with 

a group. The first really whopping surprise was 

that there was no difference in crash histories 

at all. This result was so unexpected that we 

went back and looked for the mistake we 

must have made at the data-entry stage, but 

time and again the number-crunching spat 

out the same result. Despite some key factors 

that should predict a higher crash risk for the 

group rider, the theory and the reality didn’t 

match up. From the off then, we realised we 

must be looking at some other risk-modifying 

factor and the only difference between these 

two populations was whether they rode with 

a group or not. 

We turned our attention to ‘violations’ – 

again, previous research has shown us that 

a somewhat careless attitude to the laws of 

the road tends to predict a higher number of 

crashes. And again, there was no difference 

between group/non-group populations on 

speeding violations, dangerous or careless 

driving charges. There was however, a 

significant difference between loners and 

groupies on DUID (driving under influence 

of drink/drugs) convictions. Yes indeed; 

loners were more likely to have this on their 

licence than group riders. So there are indeed 

measurable differences between those riders 

that choose to ride in a group and those that 

don’t, but the differences certainly weren’t 

panning out in the way that society seemed to 

be expecting. Ok then let’s focus on the group 

riders themselves. 

The next question was whether group 

position showed up any differences in risk. 

What we’d found so far was that, as a whole, 

group riders were no more at risk of crashing 

than solo riders. However, within the group 

riding population perhaps there were some 

types of rider who might be the reason 

that the activity has such a bad reputation. 

The police and other safety experts have long 

suggested that the last rider in the pack is most 

at risk of getting caught out playing ‘catch up’. 

There is also a prevailing feeling that the lead 

rider is also at higher risk, presumably because 

the pressure of the following pack means 

they may make some bad judgement calls. 

Again, once the number-crunching was done 

some suprisingly clear outcomes emerged. 

Riders who prefered to ride at the front 

tended to have a higher number of speeding 

and careless driving violations to their name 

although this didn’t translate to a higher 

number of crashes. This kind of rider expressed 

strong positive agreement with statements 

like: ‘I like to feel at one with my machine’ and ‘I 

like improving my riding skills’. These attitudes 

suggest a strong sense of quality in riding; not 

perhaps, a hugely respectful attitude to speed 

limits, but a great deal of respect for the skills 

involved in riding. 

Instead, it was the rider who prefered 

to ride ‘near but not at the front’ who had 

slightly more spills than anyone else in the 

pack. This particular rider also came out a 

clear winner on things like competitive riding 

and aggressive attitudes, both of which 

have been shown to relate to increased 

crash risk. This rider it appears, tends to 

focus on his own idea of himself. He gets 

more upset by his own mistakes, and ‘enjoys 

showing off his skills to less able riders’. 

This is in contrast to the lead rider who 

enjoys mentoring less able riders to help 

them improve. 

The rider who prefers to ride at or towards 

the back tended to score lower than anyone 

else on competitive or aggressive riding, 

and their crash history revealed a slightly 

better safety record than anyone else in 

the group. So there goes that theory, eh? 

We also asked a lot of questions about how 

riders feel about various aspects of biking. 

These came from a tried and tested rider 

questionnaire developed by the wondefully 

monikered Dr Christmas and his researchers 

back in 2010. The results from this were really 

quite dramatic. Simply put, bikers that ride 

with a group are significantly more commited 

to and passionate about biking. Lone riders 

tended to be far more moderate in their 

attitudes to everything from speeding to risk 

taking; from how good it feels to be at one 

with your machine to the idea of identifying 

yourself as ‘a biker’. 

Now common sense might suggest to you 

that the moderate lone rider would be safer 

as a result of this ambivalence. Certainly they 

don’t appear to get as excited about some of 

the riskier aspects of biking as group riders do. 

However, the group riding issue seems to run 

counter to a lot of common sense and we need 

to examine this outcome more closely. Riding 

a bike is generally recognised as a highly 

complex skill. Imagine you’re doing something 

very complicated but very dangerous – do 

you think it would be better to focus fully 

and whole-heartedly on the job in hand, or 

is it better not to take the task so seriously 

and thereby make yourself more vulnerable 

to being distracted by things that just aren’t 


75

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77

important right now? This could be a very 

important area of further study; if someone 

is more emotionally connected to what they 

do, it can be reasonably argued that they are 

also more focused on the actual riding. In a 

highly complex skill activity such as riding a 

motorcycle, this commitment to the task in 

hand suggests a positive safety benefit. This 

might be one of the reasons why group riding 

appears to moderate rather than increase risk, 

when considered alongside other risk factors. 

So where exactly has the idea that group 

riding is more risky come from? 

It’s easy enough to reach for the obvious 

answers; motorcycling has a long history 

of anti-social and criminal behaviour that 

has been associated with motorcycle 

gangs. Nuff said. However, the reasons for 

this may be a little more complicated than 

society’s willingness to reach for the nearest 

stereotype. A more subtle explanation for 

this misperception, which may also be worth 

examining in future research, involves the very 

important difference between perceived risk 

and actual risk. 

What we perceive might happen and what 

is really more likely to happen are often two 

very different things. For example, after 9/11 

most Americans perceived that dying from a 

terrorist attack was a much higher risk than 

dying on the roads. In reality, it’s the other 

way round by a huge margin, but perceptions 

are difficult things to rationalise, even when 

you’ve got the numbers right in front of you. 

One of the greatest sources of risk for a rider 

is still ‘other vehicles’ or, more accurately, the 

drivers of these vehicles who consistently 

fail to spot the single biker at a T-junction. 

The SMIDSY (sorry, mate - I didn’t see you…) 

error remains the most common cause 

of a motorcycle crash. A solo biker who is 

invisible to a driver is also invisible in terms of 

perceived risk. Obviously, if a driver doesn’t 

see many solo riders, he’s unlikely to think of 

them as a risk. We don’t often think of nonexistent 

things as dangerous. 

A group of bikers on the other-hand, with 

its far greater conspicuity, acts rather like a 

risk-perception magnet. So, while drivers may 

describe a group of riders as ‘intimidating’ there 

is little doubt that these riders have at least 

been seen. The actual risk to these riders from 

a SMIDSY situation must be measurably lower 

as a result. Unfortunately, it’s generally agreed 

that human beings are pretty hopeless at risk 

assessment. The driver who sees the group of 

riders doesn’t tend to think, “oh splendid, I’ve 

seen those chaps so I won’t be wiping them 

out with my Mondeo”. He’s more likely to 

think, “Good lord! Look at that gang of bikers. 

They’re taking over the roads these days. I see 

loads more of them than I used to….” 

While this reasoning may go some way 

to explaining the general public’s attitude to 

biker groups, it does not justify the reaction 

to this phenomenon from road safety 

organisations and, in particular, the traffic 

police. These are well-informed and highly 

trained observers who draw their conclusions 

from actual experience so what are the police 

seeing that makes them think that groups 

of riders are more dangerous? If more riders 

take part in group riding than they used to 

(and it certainly looks this way) then there 

will inevitably be more crashes that occur 

in group situations. What isn’t inevitable at 

all, though, is that the group situation has 

contributed to the crash. This is a case of 

making connections that don’t exist. (Another 

example; for some reason this autumn, fat 

ladies over 50 develop a fashion passion for 

yellow hats. Suddenly the ambulance crews 

are seeing a massive increase in heart attack 

victims in yellow hats. The next thing you 


79

know it’s all over the front pages of the 

Telegraph: Yellow Hats identified as major new 

health risk!) 

A similar thing may be happening among 

bikers themselves. A crash that happens on a 

group ride has a lot more ‘active’ witnesses than 

one that involves a single rider. The number of 

crashes overall may well be the same, but the 

spill that happens on a group ride is likely to 

get a heck of a lot more ‘air-time’ in the riding 

community. Effectively, you get a dozen riders 

involved in some way in a single crash, rather 

than just the one numpty who managed to 

dump it and probably wouldn’t mind keeping 

it quiet anyway. 

It seems that what this research has really 

highlighted is the difference between the 

perception of risk and actual, real-life risk. 

This is a vitally important issue in road safety, 

since it is only an understanding of actual risk 

that leads to effective safety measures being 

developed. Making road safety decisions 

based on perceived risk leads to a whole pile 

of money being wasted on addressing the 

wrong part of the problem. Groups of riders 

are a natural evolution of the motorcycling 

community ethic. It’s the same sense of 

community that means you wave at a stranger 

going in the opposite direction just because 

you both happen to sit astride your engine. This 

sense of community was also the reason this 

study achieved the sample size it did. The sheer 

numbers of bikers who took the time to take 

part means the results stand a better chance of 

being taken seriously where it counts. 

Making these findings public is important 

and perhaps the only way we can start to 

change society’s woefully unjust attitude 

when faced with half a dozen riders sharing 

the joy of a beautiful ride. If further research is 

done that backs up our findings, group riding 

may actually prove to be the way forward in 

promoting safer riding. Given the prevailing 

attitudes this really would be a turn up for 

the books. 

Heidi Bailey 

(A.K.A. Lois Fast-Lane) 


81

“Funny But Thoughtful” 

“Dave Gurman is the thinking motorcyclist’s Jezza. 

He’s deeper, balder, funnier and infinitely less irritating - 

and he’s had a lifelong passion for bikes!” 

“Dave Gurman makes you glad that you’re riding and glad that you’re reading” – Austin Vince 

“Dave’s ability to capture segments of life and express them in a personal and uplifting manner 

creates many a snigger through to full on laugh out loud moments.” – Neil ‘Nelly’ Hudd 

Can be ordered from any 

good bookshop - 

available ex-stock from: 

The Ace Cafe, London 

The Shop in the Clouds 

(Ponderosa) Horseshoe Pass, 

Llangollen 

www.amazon.co.uk 

www.mapsman.com 


www.wemoto.com 

Or by post from: Dave Gurman, 48 

Argyle Avenue, Hounslow, TW3 2LF – 

cheque for £7.99 (£2 p&p) 

“I have three words for Dave Gurman’s Book - 

I LOVE IT!” – Harriet Ridley 

Only 

£5.99 


83


85


87

A Shove With A Glove 

As I awoke on the 1 st January 2011, 

hungover as usual, a cold hard Xmas 

behind me, with the bleak winter 

months lying in wait for the weak; I lay there 

with my thoughts for the year ahead, thinking 

of resolutions and trying to recall the positives 

of the past 12 months, when suddenly, clearly 

echoing in my head came the gravely voice of 

Morgan Freeman from Shawshank Redemption, 

“Get busy living or get busy dying!” 

Somehow my Mortality seemed very real 

and limited, and I resolved to try to do some 

of the things we all put up on that mental shelf 

we have. Those thoughts sit there comfortably 

on the back burner, something warm to look 

forward to; but as the years slip by they get 

colder and colder. One of the things I always 

wanted to do was to learn how to ride a 

motorbike, but as I entered my 57 th year, the 

light at the end of the murky tunnel brightened 

and it dawned on me I was leaving it late. Too 

late? There were many reasons why I let it 

slide so long, one being my preconceptions of 

what a ‘Biker’ was when I was a youngster. The 

romantic ideal of the crazy, wild tough-guy, 

reckless but with a heart of gold, who the girls 

swooned at, wasn’t really how I saw myself – I 

didn’t ‘fit’ whatever that was. I definitely didn’t 

fit the bikes I thought were ‘Real bikes’ – yer 

Triumphs, Nortons and Harleys. I ride ‘low in 

the saddle’ as they say (when they’ve got short 

legs!) and I’d felt I’d look ridiculous on one let 

alone be able to keep it upright. There were 

plenty of bikes I probably could have fitted but 

they didn’t have the same cachet. So I talked 

myself out of it and got a cheap Ford Anglia, 

and put thoughts of a bike up there on the top 

shelf (where I couldn’t reach them). 

I’ve known the editor since Mr Sharky 

tried – vainly – to teach us the finer points 

of the English language in 2B but we lost 

contact when we left school and it was over 

30 years before we linked up again. Since 

then I have listened to this committed biker 

enthusiastically relating romantic, freedomlaced 

tales of the road, and I mentioned to him 

that I was thinking of taking my C.B.T. All at 

once his dial went up to 11. Most of the people 

I’d mentioned it to said, “No! At your age?!... Far 

too dangerous”, or “You’ll kill yourself!” – but 

Dave was all encouragement. So much so that 

the next time we met he presented me with a 

pair of Lewis Leathers gloves – and said, “Now 

you have to do it.” So that was it, the embryonic 

seed was watered and I was committed (a 

few people said I should’ve been committed 

years ago). 

A week later I decided that by getting the 

gear I would be tied into the process; and as 

a bloke who has an unfounded reputation for 

having short arms (I have) and deep pockets 

(I haven’t), and as there was a sale on at Hein 

Gericke, I bit the bullet and splashed out on a 

bike jacket. The second piece of necessary gear 

I’d got, and so the seed sprouted a bit more. 

The next stage was to book a training camp 

and here in the southwest I’d got it down to 

three. The first place I tried had a small yard 

and a portacabin, and I was met by a tall, excop 

who walked like a Thunderbird puppet 

with his leathers on. Unfortunately they didn’t 

have a bike my size but as there was a free 

hour’s ride on offer he suggested a go on the 

twist-and-go scooter. So after the preliminary 

safety stuff was safely out of the way we chose 

from a selection of decidedly dodgy smelling 

helmets and sweat-soaked gloves. Mine was 

particularly aromatic – Stinking Bishop cheese 

came to mind! 

As one who ‘rides low in the saddle’ the 

scooter fitted fine, I could plant both feet on 

the ground and for the next hour I buzzed 

around the yard like a demented bluebottle, 

while I watched the “big boys“ do their thang 

on the geared bikes. Still it was a laugh being 

on a bike and steering it in the direction you 


89

Visit The Somme 

Battlefields 

and stay in the 

Best Biker’s Bed & Breakfast in Picardy 

Martin and Kate Pegler 

Orchard Farm 

80360 COMBLES, NORTHERN FRANCE 

TEL: 00333 22 86 56 72 

EMAIL: orchardfarm@martinpegler.com 

or visit 

www.martinpegler.com 

wanted to go. It was kind of empowering – at 

least it was hands-on, like interacting with a 

computer instead of gawping at the TV. It was 

good but not what I wanted to do. I was here 

to learn on a geared bike but the advice I got 

was to stick with a scooter. I interpreted this as 

meaning that as they didn’t have a ‘real bike’ my 

size, they’d get my business by putting me on a 

scooter, so I said my goodbyes and looked for a 

place that stabled a more fitting steed. I ended 

up at First Class Motorcycle Training and talked 

to Caroline about my requirements (on the bike 

front of course). As with Steve at the previous 

place, she was very helpful and human and not 

above-it-all. She said she had two new Yamaha 

125 YBT Customs just in so I went across and 

sat on one and it fitted well. The only trouble 

was they were booked up for two weeks, so I 

left saying I’d be baaack and checked out the 

last place on my list, West Country Training. 

Another leather-clad biker woman met me at 

the seemingly standard portacabin. Maria was 

her name and full of life she was, too – and 

non-judgemental. She explained that they had 

a Yam YBT and it fitted (just) and was available. 

It was another free one-hour trial so I bit the 

bullet and booked up for the next week. I left 

feeling like progress had been made and the 

show was on the road - the plant sprouted 

a leaf. 

I turned up on the day with my own new 

helmet (I’d learned my lesson with the perils of 

the lucky dip system of second-head helmets) 

and sporting Dave G’s magic gloves. We sat 

the morning out in the portacabin doing the 


91

compulsory safety procedure then, at last, we 

went outside to do the preliminary checks 

on the bikes, before being told to “mount our 

steeds.” This was exciting as it was the first time 

I’d ever been in the driving seat of a geared 

bike, but I was also full of trepidation worrying 

how much of a fool I’d look if it all went Peter 

Tong. But these thoughts were pushed firmly 

to the rear as Wayne went through the basics 

of engaging first gear. 

“The clutch is your friend”, was a real handy 

thing to cling to as whatever went wrong just 

pull in your clutch and it disengages the power 

– a bit like life. So we all did what we were told 

and travelled 10 yards before stopping, and 

repeated it three times. I was amazed that 

something I’d thought so daunting for so long 

was actually achievable! So further and further 

we went until we were going round the yard 

in circles and doing figures of eight. We had 

a break for lunch, which was necessary as the 

initial rushes of adrenalin deplete the body of 

energy. In the afternoon it was more of the 

same and apart from a couple of stalls and 

some dodgy cornering it went smoothly, and 

my fantasies of being an “easy-rider” became 

a possibility. At 4pm the experienced trainers 

could see that the effects of the day were taking 

their toll resulting in poor anticipation and 

mistakes, so the stumps were drawn. Another 

appointment was made and I left feeling 

physically drained but spiritually euphoric. 

This can be done, was my main thought, but 

my enthusiasm was tempered by the fact that 

it was only first gear and going round in circles. 

Next week would be more of a challenge but 

for now yeeee-haaaa! 

I turned up the following week strangely 

nervous. It was a fine day and importantly 

there was no rain. We went through the bike 

checks, mounted up and took off in first to 

do a few laps to warm both bike and rider up. 

Then it was time to crank the pressure up a 

gear. Again, going slowly it was fine: clutch in, 

pedal up and the reverse for changing down; 

as before, not as complex as I’d thought. It was 

so enjoyable that the time flew by and before 

I knew it, it was lunch. I was high on second 

gear so forewent food, as I didn’t feel hungry. 

This was a big mistake because we all need fuel 

every bit as much as the bikes do. I was feeling 

pleased with myself, I’d mastered second gear 

and soon I’d be on my Triumph Bonneville 

roaring down the highway, looking like Steve 

McQueen and feeling like a McKing. 

Football types say “It’s a game of two 

halves,” and in the second half I played a 

shocker. This time we had to treat the yard as 

a series of intersections and lights – a different 

ball game altogether from going round in 

circles. It was difficult to think of so many 

things at once and I found it hard: brake/ 

clutch in/down-change/stop/look each way/ 

indicate/change-up etc., etc. and after a while 

I found it all a bit overwhelming. I felt tired (no 

fuel) and stupid, and could feel my confidence 

ebbing away at every stall or mischange – I 

just couldn’t get co-ordinated or relaxed. The 

top of the yard sloped downhill and as they 

put the intersection up there (the cunning 

swine) you had to stop, look around and take 

off again. Clockwise wasn’t a problem but 

going the other way I was totally unbalanced 

as my planting leg was a bit off the ground. 

Consequently, as the bike was unstable, I 

dropped as I stalled. No problem, jump back 

on and keep going but I did the same on the 

next circuit. Up again but now what with so 

much to remember, my sinking confidence and 


93

panic setting in, neither of my brain cells could 

cope and they shut down. I dropped the bike 

twice more, no damage done as I held it off the 

ground (not easy) but my pride was dented 

and my all-important confidence was leaking 

out of my sump. 

Back on board but by now the wind of realisation 

was blowing right up my Khyber, and at the top I 

dropped it again. This time I couldn’t hold the weight 

and it toppled on my 

leg, but luckily the sole 

of my boot wedged it 

off my ankle. Wayne 

rushed over to extract 

me and as I got up I 

threw my gloves to 

the floor in frustration 

and disgust. I looked 

at the instructor and 

realised I was being 

a prat and he looked 

at me and decided 

I needed a break. 

Meanwhile the other 

two learners were 

whizzing around and 

ready to go out on 

the road – what a 

wind-up. Once I’d had 

the ‘magical’ cup of 

tea (it had no magic 

this time – offered 

no rejuvenation), 

and sort of calmed 

down (I was angry 

with myself) Wayne moseyed over and said I 

needed more time in the yard before venturing 

out on the road. I agreed with him; I wasn’t 

ready, my confidence was shot. It was pretty 

humiliating, which was compounded by 

having to watch the other two fella’s leave 

the yard and head out onto the open road 

while I was left to stew in my own juices like 

a fool. Wayne suggested I keep on practicing 

‘indoors’, so for the next hour I went round in 

circles trying to recapture some co-ordination 

but it just wouldn’t come. Even on my own I was 

self-conscious and couldn’t get it right, so 

I parked up and told Wayne I was off! I made 

a very ambivalent appointment for the next 

week, as a calm and understanding Maria 

said “Don’t worry about it,” and Wayne said 

“Don’t beat yourself up.” But I felt like I’d been 

in the ring with 

Muhammad Ali 

and slunk off to the 

car, tail between 

my legs. Talk about 

the highs and the 

lows, the agony 

and the ecstasy, the 

bings and bongs 

of life. This was 

definitely a bong! 

The leaf dropped 

off the plant. 

For a week my spirits 

were low. I thought of 

cancelling the whole 

thing; who needed 

the aggro! Suddenly 

the next lesson was 

upon me and with 

the dread of more 

humiliation (a distinct 

possibility), I turned 

up reasoning that 

I’d hit rock bottom 

and it couldn’t get any worse. There were two 

of us that day, Rick and I – both retrials. Waiting 

for us today were his trusty steed and my rusty 

weed – a scooter!!! To be truthful it was a newish 

50cc Peugeot but in my mind it was a cop-out, 

an easy option, and as a Robo-cop in the making, 

that doesn’t happen. Jay the ‘failures’ instructor 

pointed out that it’s a good idea just to restore your 


95

confidence, to jump on a benign horse and work 

your way back up to a racehorse. Any thoughts 

of an Epsom Derby win were reluctantly shelved 

while I concentrated on the Donkey Derby at 

Skeggi! It was a bit of a comedown but in my heart 

I knew he was right. I actually felt a bit relieved, as 

I’d built the day up in my mind with a fair degree 

of foreboding. With the pressure off I decided just 

to go with the flow. We spent the morning going 

round the yard in circles, again, and doing the 

figures of eight and practicing for the road. It was a 

doddle on a scooter and by lunch I was beginning 

to enjoy it. 

So, after a revitalising 

cup o’ tea and a sarnie 

(fuel) Ray gave us our 

communication headsets and said it was time 

to hit the road. I felt a surge of rising excitement 

but I quickly balanced it with caution. I was 

‘lead’ bike and a degree of responsibility was 

thrust upon me – something I usually throw 

straight back at the thrustee. It was reassuring 

to hear Ray’s voice on the headset calmly 

giving us directions, it was also good to know 

he trusted us. Suddenly we were out on the 

road and everything changed. 

The first stretch was a mile long straight 

and as we got up to speed – 30mph – it was 

like heavy woollen blankets being blown 

off my back. It was so easy and to feel the 

wind on your face with the visor up was 

soooo refreshing. There were traffic lights, 

intersections and roundabouts all negotiated; 

pedestrians walking right next to you – and 

you could hear them talking – and it struck me 

that you are so much more ‘in touch’ with life 

out on the road on a bike than you are within 

the cocoon of a car. And all the while this little 

‘donkey’ kept chugging away, getting its rider 

from A to B through space and time without 

complaint. I could feel the wind in my helmet 

(then I noticed my flies were undone) and you 

“Suddenly we were out 

on the road and 

everything changed.” 

really can’t help being aware of that on a bike. 

Also, the potholes that a car would glide over, 

shatter an old biker’s spine, so they demand 

respect. In fact everything has to be respected, 

you have to be on the ball as you can’t switch 

onto auto-pilot the way you sometimes can 

in a car; you are part of the environment. 

We drove on through Plymouth city 

centre and headed out east into the country. 

Strangely it was one of those days when you 

get to every light on green and there’s noone 

at the roundabouts or intersections – it 

was a magical little run. 

All negative thoughts 

disappeared and I realised 

that I couldn’t see what 

I looked like, so I could’ve been on a Triumph 

Bonnie, looking just like Marlon Brando. My 

little donkey was delivering the same buzz 

a ‘real’ bike would, so I gratefully accepted it 

for what it was – a freedom and liberty donor. 

Soon we stopped for petrol and a breather, 

and I found I couldn’t stop praising the virtues 

of this little bike, it was making me feel better 

about myself by the minute and I was grateful 

to it. I was stoned on the freedom of the road, 

my confidence was surging, the light seemed 

brighter and everything seemed to possess 

a new clarity. “I can do it, I can do it,” like the 

little train said. The road ahead beckoned 

seductively/invitingly. We took off to do some 

u-turn and emergency stops, and continued on 

the return trip to H.Q. 

I’d noticed a whistling noise in my helmet 

earlier and found the tone went up and down 

according to the speed I was going, and it 

occurred to me that once I’d mastered speed 

control I could play a tune – and I knew it 

would be an R&B love song – ahhh! 

Another cruisey ride back to the yard and all 

of a sudden it was over – way too soon for me. But 


97

as we dismounted I realised my 

knees had stopped working 

and my fingers were frozen 

in the position of the grip. 

We’d been out for three hours 

but it had flown by, and although the body 

was stiff the spirit was as loose as a hooker’s 

knickers. We adjourned to the portacabin and 

soon Ray re-emerged with the documentation 

for my C.B.T. I realise all of you seasoned 

campaigners out there must have got one of 

these and it probably seems a pretty pathetic 

achievement, but for me it was an Olympic 

bronze. To see my name on it filled me with 

emotion (it was a smoky room) and I left the 

office offering the ‘inmates’ my sincerest 

thanks for their patience and understanding. 

As I hit the air outside it dawned on me 

that all my preconceptions of what a biker was, 

were blown away. I hadn’t met any posturingposeurs 

or arrogant speed-freaks (I’m sure 

they’re out there though). All the bike people 

I’d met were all linked by a certain humanity – 

call it confidence. Maybe trying to keep a bike 

well-balanced helps to do the same for the 

rider and can assist a person’s development, 

providing an all-important confidence boost 

as a welcome by-product. 

“The road is a great 

equaliser, and we 

are all equal.” 

I learned that you don’t 

have to be on a ‘real’ bike to 

be able to enjoy the freedom 

of the road. It’s all relative, like 

life itself. Belgravia or Hackney, 

finding a level you’re comfortable with doesn’t 

depend on how ‘big’ your life is; it’s only as 

big your expectations are. I’ve learned that 

realistic expectations are pretty important 

and that the road is a great equaliser, and we 

are all equal. Reality can hurt, but on a bike, 

you can be in control of your own destiny. 

How you ride it determines where you end up. 

So an episode in my life that I thought 

pretty insignificant to the general public was 

reawakened by the seasoned campaigner 

and all-round nice guy who edits this mag. 

He gave me a ‘shove with a glove’ and 

afterwards encouraged me to put pen to paper, 

saying my story is every bit as valid as anyone 

else’s and might resonate with other readers. 

Thanks to all the people at West county 

Training, and the other sites too – they were 

all good people. And thanks to Dave G for 

his enthusiasm – now I understand why he’s 

known as Carin’ Sharin’. 

John Bannon 

P.S. I intend to buy a scooter in the spring. 

P.P.S. The pot plant has grown into a bush – 

with heads on! I shouldn’t have got of the seed 

from Dave – but then again I’m glad I did. 


99

Penguin 

Pilgrimage 

It’s 8.25am on the second Friday of January 

and I’m a little behind schedule for the 

rendezvous with the group of other riders. 

We’ve 450km ahead of us today and the 

weather could do just about anything. For 

the half an hour from home to here it’s been 

foggy, which explains why I’m late. I pull in to 

the garage forecourt and am pleased to see a 

familiar face. 

Carlos VFR, as his name is stored on my 

phone, is the only one I know of the dozen or 

more here. A quick survey of the machinery 

gathered and my heart sinks. In rolls the last 

member of the troupe on a K1600 GT to add 

to the other flashy modern stuff that surrounds 

me, bought with budgets I’ll never deal in. 

My twenty year-old K75 stands out as a 

relic and the squashy bag strapped to the 

pillion seat isn’t exactly Touratec, but it’ll 

do the same job. If the bikes they choose 

and the kit they wear are any reflection of 

how they ride, then this lot are going to 

leave me for dead when we hit the first hills. 

Carlos comes over for a chat and as he does 

I take a better look at the mechanical scenery. 

Among other things there are three VFRs, an 

850R, a pair of GSs and a Bandit 600, which 

makes me feel a bit better. Only one other 

bike has a tent slung across it. “Pansies!” says 

its owner, Vicente. Actually he said something 

quite a lot ruder whist slapping me on the 

back and commending my decision to camp. I 

daren’t admit that a hotel would be a cost too 

far, so accept his encouragement with a shrug. 

I take my place in the line, sneaking up a place or 

two at each set of traffic lights to slot in behind 

Carlos. Once we’re beyond the city the fun (or the 

torture) will begin. I’m nervous that the group 

will be running on testosterone and resign 


101

myself to being left behind. I try to convince 

myself that riding alone might be the better 

plan anyway. Out through the pear orchards 

and vineyards and on to where the eucalyptus 

plantation marks the start of an 11km straight. 

To my surprise no-one except alpha-male 

José-Luís on the GS ups the speed too much. 

Sometimes we catch a glimpse of the early sun 

reflecting off his metal luggage. Passing the first 

village he’s pulled in to wait for the rest of us to 

catch up. I hope he’s got the point and holds 

back from here on in, where the tricky curves of 

the San Pedro hills await us. Another surprise: 

the line divides and I find myself fifth in the 

leading group. My self-confidence is still not 

swelling so I wonder if the rider behind me has 

dropped back because my cornering technique 

was making him nervous. As the bends and hills 

roll one into another I’m still holding my place. 

At last I begin to feel that I’m not the crappiest 

rider out here, and by the time we drop down 

to the plains again a small voice inside starts 

to tell me that maybe I can do this after all. 

Alpha-male is causing trouble again. 

Contrary to the agreed journey plan, he slips 

off the motorway towards Casar de Cáceres, 

(where they make wonderful cheese), after 

which the old N620 skirts the Tagus reservoir. 

We follow dutifully and are plunged into thick 

fog. This place would be beautiful if only we 

could see it. I can barely keep Carlos’s rear light 

in sight and our visors are misting up on the 

outside. Mercifully, Carlos decides he’s had 

enough of this silly game and pulls over. We 

jointly decide to retrace our steps back to the 

motorway and hope to join up with the rest of 

the group at the expected coffee stop beyond 

Cañaveral. To our amazement we come upon 

them just as they rejoin the motorway at the 

following junction. 

The services are buzzing. Bikes of every 

description are parked up as riders recover from 

their early exertions with a coffee and a fag. 

It’s still pretty cold but at least it’s dry, so after 

a bite of chocolate (for a sugar hit) I squeeze 

half of my waterproofs under the bungees. 

I’ll keep the jacket on though. My boots and 

riding trousers may have been bought at Aldi 

but at least they look like proper kit, and their 

padded zip-in inners are cosy and warm. I don’t 

really care that there’s no Berik or Alpinestars 

logo on show, they’re doing a good job for me. 

Carlos’s VFR has developed misting inside the 

headlight glass. The K75 is performing like a 

real trooper. 

By two o’clock Vicente and I have arrived 

at the pine woods campground at Puente 

Duero, letting the ‘pansies’ go off and find their 

nice warm hotels. We queue up and pay our 

25€ inscription fee. We’ve made it: Pingüinos 

2012 has begun for us. Now, we must find 

and coordinate with old friends, set up camp 

together, and, top priority, build a fire. Steps 

one and two come together easily enough 

but then disaster – there’s no firewood left and 

there’ll be no more delivered until tomorrow 

morning. Our little pile of brushwood, bark 

and cones looks pathetic compared to the fat 

log blazes some of the earlier arrivals have 

got going. We leave off lighting it up until 

after dark. 

In the late afternoon we ride-out to 

Mojados. It’s close enough by the direct route 

but they send us hither and thither so that by 

the time we dismount, Vicente is grumpy. This 

is not helped by having had his ID tag blown 

off and then having to stop to search for it. 

We join the soup and hot sandwich queue 


103

and manage to miss just about all of the stunt 

display. Secretly I’m glad as it looks like the 

1961 Monza F1 disaster waiting to happen 

again, so close does Emilio Zamora fling his 

Ducati Streetfighter to the public. His control 

is awesome. The after-dark return to camp 

is hampered by too much salt on our visors. 

Seeing is one thing but being seen is another. 

The owner of a Goldwing trike (towing a microcaravan) 

could be working to that theme; his 

trike is lit up with neon like a roadside brothel. 

Back in the pine woods we do the ritual 

round of the trade stands and manage to 

resist the lure of gel seats, thermal inner layers, 

t-shirts, leathers and all the usual fare. Nothing 

new to report, so over to the food stalls for 

some more warming body-fuel. There’s a pair of 

whole hogs a-roasting on the open fire as Jack 

Frost does his stuff despite our multiple layers 

of clothing. The R&B band cook up a storm 

followed by an AC/DC tribute act. Not bad at all 

if truth be told, and the ‘not-Angus Young’ has 

all his movements off to a tee. Shame about 

that school uniform, though. 

We go back to our sad little fire-less 

encampment and conclude that a small fire is 

better than no fire at all. We strike the matches 

and following weeks of dry weather the brushwood 

catches quickly. Out comes the grid 

and the chorizo sausages, and soon we’re 

feasting. This will be the first of many porcine 

contributions to our diet as the weekend 

progresses. The pig is dead: long live the pig! 

The night is coldish but not as cold as earlier 

that same week. We escape with -3C, when 

just days before it was -9C. Three sleeping bags 

and most of the previous day’s clothing kept 

my blood from freezing in my veins. And we’re 

supposed to be doing this for fun! At least we’ll 

say we were when we get home... 

Saturday dawns, the day of the great 

invasion. Valladolid trembles and surrenders 

to the mighty juggernaut as a column of 

motorbikes 14km long rumbles into town. 


105

Recoletos and every street and plaza around 

are filled with bikes. Beyond the 27,000 known 

to have signed in, the police estimate that 

another 10-12,000 are in town today. It’s a 

sight to behold; including pillions, that’s nearly 

30,000 bikes and 40,000 bikers - in the middle 

of winter. 

Back at Puente Duero there’ll be more 

music and sundry entertainment tonight, more 

pork products no doubt, and another noisy, 

chilly night. I’m beginning to look forward to 

some peace and quiet, a pillow and a salad. 

Who’s the pansy now? 

Rain on canvas awakes me early on Sunday. 

It’s a sound I’ve always loved in spite of it being 

very bad news for camping. I prepare some 

coffee in the half-light and as the stove warms 

the tent I make a mental note to bring a better 

lantern or torch next time. The dynamo winder- 

upper on the one I have doesn’t provide a long 

enough charge to be useful. No batteries: 

brilliant idea, not such a brilliant light. 

Pack-up is always a bit of a slog. This time 

it’s even more so because the rain means 

doing it inside the tent. I start by dropping 

the inner to create space and roll it away in 

its bag. Possibly a new tent is in order for next 

year, too. For 31 years this Ultimate Equipment 

transverse-ridge has served me well. Was this 

its ultimate outing? Maybe. 

Carlos VFR is late to the meeting point at the 

petrol station and I get cold waiting long past 

the appointed hour. He arrives full of apologies 

or excuses; I didn’t really take them in. We head 

off, keen to get beyond the mountains in full 

daylight and also to avoid the predicted snow. 

Instead we get wind – crosswinds; I hate ‘em. 

I still don’t know how some guys ride so fast 

cranked over against the wind. Don’t they 

wobble when the gusts fade? I do. I try to 

blame the RT’s oversized fairing for acting like a 

spinnaker, but it’s probably just a skill shortfall 

on my part. And then there are the trucks 

creating their own micro-cyclones. I begin to 

dread overtaking them, until quite suddenly 

I discover the technique that’s probably in all 

the textbooks I haven’t read: the merest hint 

of counter-steer just as I draw level with the 

front of the truck cab and BAM! I’m through the 

air-wall with no adverse push towards the 

central reservation. Now I now you all knew 

that all along, but it came as an epiphany to me. 

From this point on I start looking forward to 

hunting down the next articulated lorry and 

getting by it with a quick blast of acceleration 

and a nudge on the bars. Magic! 

Time for coffee and choccy to refresh us 

before we tackle the two mountain passes that 

stand between us and Extremadura and home. 

The sky is darkening but the threatened snow 

turns out to be fog. Unpleasant and slow, but 

not as scary as a blizzard would be. This is no 

joke – two years ago my old faithful Divvy 900 

took me through here in conditions I hope I 

never have to repeat. This time the descent 

towards Hervás greets us with weak sunshine. 

There may be 250km to go but it feels like a 

welcome home. We wind the throttles up the 

rev band and enjoy playing ‘catch’ with slower 

bikes, also making their way south. A final stop 

near Mérida to ease aching wrists and butts, 

and we’re almost home. Sadly, the sun’s brief 

interlude has been replaced by driving rain 

for the last half an hour and, after just over 

1000km, we’re home but not dry. I get off with 

wet feet after my boots fail to repel boarders. 

Over a welcoming bowl of chicken stew I 

muse on what we’ve achieved. It’s no Dakar or 

Long Way Anywhere, but as a private weekendepic 

in a world of mundane mediocrity, it 

takes some beating. Long may the penguin 

pilgrimage continue. 

Phil Berry 


107

Megamoto mega trip 

The universally accepted truth about 

supermotards is that you can’t ride one 

for more than a few hours at a time and 

you certainly can’t tour on one – that would 

just be impossible. This is because they are 

incredibly uncomfortable and have fuel tanks 

smaller than a size-zero model’s arse. No good 

at all. 

And now there is a new breed of bike out 

there, the giant motard. Ducati call theirs the 

Hypermotard, BMW have trounced them in the 

name stakes with Megamoto and KTM aren’t 

messing about with their 950 Supermotard 

(I’m looking forward to the release of an Ultra 

Classic Motard by Harley Davidson any day 

soon); and if they’re all Mega motards, they 

must be the same but more so. So less fuel 

range and seriously uncomfortable? To find 

out, I rode BMW’s new HP2 Megamoto from 

London to Edinburgh for lunch. 

BMW have been making quirky and even 

sporty bikes for several years now, so it should 

come as no surprise that they have finally gone 

all out and produced something as bonkers as 

the Megamoto. This is a stripped down, bareknuckle 

fighter, you don’t mess with it; you get 

on, get your head on, and get gone. 

The HP2 moniker means that it’s twice as 

saucy as any previous BMW. This bike doesn’t 

take you from A to B; it obliterates roads and 

distances like a steam hammer smashing rocks. 

Subtlety is not an option. Mention heated 

grips and it will punch you on the nose. You 

ride the Megamoto large, elbows held high, 

chin up and great gobs of attitude. It’s so big. 

That was the most often uttered comment 

from other bikers and they are right, everything 

about this bike is over the top, from the 

bright white, Californian dentistry paint-job 

to the biggest Akrapovic in the world. 

I’ve had the bike five days already but 

not had the chance to escape London where 

it feels like a caged animal, so I took it to 

container city where people live in steel cages 

and think it’s cool. The HP2 is huge fun in town 

but far too much so and far too tempting to 

be much too bad. If ever a bike needed one of 

those new fangled power mode buttons, this 

is it. I consider pulling a plug lead off but the 

growling warns me off. I park the bike outside 

the house and it shouts at my neighbours, 

there is just no stopping the Megamoto. Did I 

mention the brakes? You can take your radial 

this and radial that and shove it up your 

underseat, this bike has brakes that work 

with no fancy race-bred trickery or electronic 

frippery, the lever is like an iron bar, two fingers 

is all you need in any situation here. 

Let’s ride. I’m up later than I planned but I’m 

ready to leave by 7am since there is no chain 

to oil and no luggage to pack, this bike doesn’t 

do preliminaries. I’ve got all day so there’s no 

need for motorway sadness and before long 

I’m living it up on the A roads of the home 

counties. Megamoto senses my comfort zone 

and counters by putting the fuel light on. Hang 

on, we’ve barely started yet, I’ve covered less 

than 70 miles and I need to stop for fuel? I fill 

up and decide to push my luck before the next 

stop and sure enough the next fuel station is 

reached, under power, 110 miles later. Ignore 

the fuel light, it’s on all the time, this bike is an 

attention whore. 

I’ve not planned a route, I’m just riding 

north, focussing on the riding, not where I’m 

going so I’m slightly surprised when after what 

seems like no more than a few hours, I pass a 

large rocky outcrop off the shore to my right, 

signposted as Holy Island. I pass the Scottish 

border at midday, at which point I’ve already 

decided that BMW will not be able to account 


109

for one of their Megamotos from now on. This 

is just a hilarious motorcycle to ride and I’m 

buzzing so much that when I stop outside the 

Hard Rock café in Edinburgh for lunch at 1pm, 

I fully expect them to roll out a red carpet and 

give me the VIP treatment. It makes you feel 

that special. The waitress asks where I’ve come 

from today and seats me next to a cabinet 

containing Ringo Starr’s leather jacket. Very 

Rock ‘n’ Roll. So it’s two o’ clock and I’ve got 

all afternoon, I’ll head southwest through the 

Borders and before long I’m looking at the Irish 

sea in Solway Firth. If you want to ride a bike in a beautiful 

landscape with perfect roads and no traffic, just 

head for any of the extremities of this island in 

the autumn. But you can’t take a Megamoto, 

there are only thirty coming to the UK, they 

cost slightly more than Amy Winehouse’s bad 

habits and I’ve stolen this one, so that leaves 

only twenty-nine, all of which have been 

bought by the Sultan of Brunei since nobody 

else can afford them. Rare? There are more 

dodo’s mixing it with the Trafalgar Square 

pigeons than there are Megamotos. 

So, it’s mid afternoon and I’m on the 

west coast of Scotland with a fleet of petrol 

tankers following me, the world is my oyster. 

I head for the Lakes and marvel 

at the lack of rain, but find it 

more extraordinary that I’ve 

covered five hundred miles 

since breakfast, it’s 4pm and 

I’m ready for more. This is truly 

addictive and I don’t wanna 

go to rehab. I wanna go to the 

Yorkshire Dales, stop on the way 

at Kendal (mint cake for me, 

gallons of super-unleaded for 

MM) then into the Dales. Sheep 

are strange creatures and when 

one of them decides to greet the 

approaching, bellowing white behemoth as a 

long lost relative by bouncing happily into the 

road yards in front of me, I’m thanking BMW 

for those brakes and a certain amount of off 

road ability. 

I stop for a suddenly much needed smoke 

and ponder English law. This bike is technically 

a working vehicle so does that mean I’m not 

allowed to smoke on it? Should 

I dismount? I consider various 

arguments before awarding 

myself a case dismissal on the 

grounds that the bike has no 

provision for a pillion, so I cannot 

be affecting any others with 

my smoke. Then there’s the fire 

risk, but since the fuel tank is 

invariably empty, this too seems 

irrelevant. 

I’m staying with friends 

in Huddersfield where I arrive 


111

at 7pm. Twelve hours after leaving home I’ve 

ridden nearly seven hundred miles on a bike 

that one most certainly cannot tour on. This 

bike just doesn’t make any sense at all. Perfect. 

When did bikes ever need to make sense? 

What’s sensible about riding to Edinburgh for 

lunch? Why is it so expensive? I’m fairly sure 

that the build cost of this bike is less than 

that of a R1200GS, BMW’s best selling bike 

ever, which is stacked to the gunwales with 

clever suspension, electronics and all manner 

of expensive kit. The Megamoto has a frame, 

made of steel, not unobtanium, an engine, 

which BMW already produce and have done 

for the past seventy years or so, and some 

wheels. That’s about it — they don’t even offer 

any options. It could be priced very reasonably, 

then everyone could have one. Ah, light dawns 

on naïve scribe, most people that ride the GS 

use them to commute to work and for the odd 

Sunday afternoon bimble. None of them ever 

go off road and there is never anything except 

a small pack of sandwiches in those panniers. 

If the HP2s were cheaper, all of these people 

would have bought a Megamoto instead as it’s 

actually a far better tool for the job. That’s why 

it’s so expensive, it has to be, otherwise nobody 

would ride anything else, sales of the GS would 

collapse and when Ewan and Charley want to 

ride to the moon, they’ll have to go knocking 

on KTM’s door again. 

If you see a bike that looks like a Megamoto, 

but is matt black and has no number plate, 

it’s definitely not one and it’s definitely not 

me riding it (huge apologies to Vines BMW of 

Guildford, who are minus one motorcycle and 

after they were so incredibly helpful too). 

Rod Young 


113

a busy summer 

It’s that time of the year again, where 

the bike shops begin lining up the latest 

stock, and we go and eye up the latest 

bikes, itching to get on some nice warm 

roads and go on some nice relaxing rides. 

What could be better than packing a 

flask of tea, 20 embassy and taking 

some nice tunes to while away miles of 

countryside roads, comfy in the plush 

seat of your R1100 or Blackbird? 

Well I’ll tell you, to me – and to lots 

of riders, particularly within the 

17-25 age group (which I happen 

to fall into at a relatively tender 

21) — that’s not what it’s about. 

In fact, it’s missing the point 

completely. 

Now before you seasoned 

bikers get your feathers 

ruffled, I’m not for a 

minute suggesting that 

your cross country epics 

aren’t appealing, it’s 

simply that to a lot 

of us, lshort distance, 

high-speed, no-frils 

adrenaline chasing 

is where i t’s at. 

I’ll tell you what 

appeals to me: 

Whipping an RS250 round 

the local bypass, keeping the needle 

in that razor-thin powerband, playing on the 

roundabouts, buzzing artics (overtaking at a 

much higher speed in close proximity – usually 

in the same lane), scaring myself stupid and 

laughing myself silly. 

What could be better than a summer filled 

with screaming exhausts, tacho needles a few 

hundred RPM from the redline, the occasional 

beeping car horn and the hair-raising corners 

that seem to rush up on you. 

You’d be stupid to think that it’s safe, 

even more so to think that it’s big or that it’s 

clever. Rubbish – you’d be stupid to think that 

it’s anything other than selfish irresponsible 

and childish thrill-seeking. But if you are that 

stupid, you might just want to be a little more 

so, and you might just discover how much fun 

you’re missing. 

We live, ladies and gentlemen, tourers 

and racers alike, in a country that ties us to 

its apron strings. We are not smart enough to 

look after ourselves, and every hint of danger is 

obviated and erased from our lives, lives where 

happiness — ‘successful living’ — is defined by 

two cars and a good pension. Two-jags springs 

to mind. 

“This road is unsafe, this bike crash could 

have been avoided”. Naïve avatars of our 

country’s beloved government telling us, 

scolding us, telling the entire public at large 

“this happened because you are stupid”. Roads 

in themselves are not unsafe, rather, each road 

is a risk with gains and hazards. Some people 

push further than others. The crash could 

probably have been avoided, but I daresay 

the rider had other things on his mind, like 

having fun. 

In my area in the beautiful peak district, we 

see sweeping curves with “Think” road safety 

posters that feature a cartoon of a fantastically 

twisty road with “To die for?” emblazoned 

across the bottom. My response is usually to 

shift my weight over to one side of the bike, 

and then the other, and think “Oh yes!” In this 

world where all danger is engineered out of 


115

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our lives, screaming round fantastic roads – 

whether you’re on an RS250, an R1, or strapped 

into an RX7 or Supra is one of the few really 

serious pleasures left to us that still carries an 

element of risk. Yes it’s illegal, of course it’s 

illegal. 

The law is there to protect us (and 

occasionally others) from ourselves. But how 

many other activities let you take your life into 

your hands? How many sports can you either 

live or die depending on whether you can 

keep your mind together? How many people 

are sitting working boring monotonous jobs, 

sitting going quietly out of their minds, and 

then driving home in their company cars, 

cursing when we thunder by? 

For all my boastful disregard for my own 

concern, I know only too well the cost of 

getting things wrong. With 5 crashes and two 

fractures under my belt already, I’m well aware 

that even little slides can be more than a little 

painful. Close friends haven’t been so lucky, 

and I’ve seen the effect crashes have on the 

families of those left behind. But when a close 

friend wrote both himself and his bike off this 

time last year, I didn’t stop riding. I sure as 

hell considered it, but I came out the other 

side faster, sharper and nuttier than before. 

I discovered the pleasures of scaring myself 

stupid. The main lesson I learned last year was 

that you really do, only live once. 

Many people moan about sportsbikes: “oh 

they’re so uncomfortable”; “who’s going to use 

that sort of power on the road”; “they’re all 

the same”; “they’re intimidating – not friendly 

at all”. Who wants a comfortable sportsbike? 

Like a supermoto, when you come to the 

corners you’re going to have your arse off the 

seat more often than not anyway. Who’s going 

to use that sort of power on the road? Helloo-o 

have you been reading up to this point? 

Intimidating? How can 140 kg of inanimate 

object be intimidating? If you know how to 

control it, it does precisely what you tell it to. 

While I am a supporter of MAG, I don’t 

doubt that riding the way I do is giving the 

general public the wrong idea about bikes, 

probably doing MAG more harm than good. 

And while there is probably a happy prospect 

for those of you with Deauvilles, BMWs and 

Varaderos, people who don’t mind sticking to 

the rules, I don’t feel there is much of a future 

for sportsbikes on the road. They are too 

powerful, they’re too loud, they’re too fast, 

and they’re controlled by idiots like me and 

my friends. 

While legislation gets tighter and tighter, 

with Automatic Number Plate Recognition 

looming over the horizon, together with the 

incredibly boneheaded, facile naiveté of that 

“Vision Zero” crap that bloody Eurocrat was 

going on about with some enthusiasm while 

he threw his weight around at some road safety 

conference or other, and the hamstrung but 

still very active “Safety” camera partnerships 

rearing their ugly heads with their roadside 

anti-joy weapons, bikers like us will soon 

be legislated out of existence. We’ll soon be 

banished to the track — until the tracks start 

closing down. 

I don’t want to spend the last years of my 

life struggling to breathe while my lungs pack 

in, wheezing and coughing when I walk up a 

flight of stairs – not for me! Give me a fast bike, 

a sunny day, and some great roads. If the worst 

does happen and I end up puncturing the 

scenery, at least I’ll have spent the last hour 

of my life happy. I know the consequences of 

getting it wrong, I know the rewards of getting 

it right, and I sure as hell know the risks of 

never trying. You have people that sit around 

all day drinking coffee, worrying about Key 


117

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Performance Indicator reports, about quality 

monitoring, about customer focus, all the 

things that are only relevant because they cater 

to the kind of people that take those things 

too seriously. Then you get people who go 

out and get drunk, who play amateur ice 

hockey, who ride bikes fast, and who do 

something genuinely real with their lives. 

Don’t sit around worrying about work, 

about pensions, about things you’ll do one 

day, when you have the money, or the time – 

get out there and do them! Make the money, 

make the time! Everything you don’t want to 

do, everything you’d rather not do, put it out of 

your mind. Without fun, without danger, your 

job, your life, re-sets every day. Everything you 

do in the office, every shoddy soap episode 

you watch while wishing you were somewhere 

doing something real is only as real as a 

sandcastle on the beach – the night comes and 

it disappears. It’s forgotten. 

Think about it. Step out of your little bubbles 

of safety, get your manic heads on, get on the 

bike, and give a great big two fingered salute 

to the road safety partnerships. Give a great big 

“stuff you” to the traffic police, and show the 

world how life is meant to be lived – quickly 

and dangerously. Stick it to the law, to the 

slow drivers, lane huggers, and the idiots who 

stick exactly to the speed limits. Scream past 

them, roar past them, let them know exactly 

how seriously you take their entire existence, 

their petty little views on how we should be 

confined to something less appealing and less 

dangerous. Go out there and live! 

People think of bikers as speedy nutters, 

part of the “ride it like you stole it” brigade. 

If you treat me like an idiot, I’ll act like one. 

Modern bikes are so fast, so light and so 

incredibly nimble. I’m not going to waste my 

bike’s capabilities; I’m not going to waste my 

time on the road. Are you? 

Sod work, bugger faxes and screw 

mortgages. Forget route planning, stop 

worrying about which pannier you put your 

toothbrush in, and forget your carefully 

planned petrol stops. Get on the bike, and get 

out there. Even if the worst does happen, you 

will go out with a smile on your face. Even if 

you crash, all that means in the long run is that 

you don’t have another pretend day, doing 

pretend work, worrying about whether you’re 

going to the chippie or to the Indian for your 

tea. Everybody dies someday, personally I’d 

rather do it at the ton, with a screaming bike 

under me, doing something I love. 

So come on lads, put down yer tea and pick 

up a Tornado. Put down yer map and pick up a 

Mille. A friend of mine always had a favourite 

phrase: “I take risks, not to escape life, but to 

prevent life escaping me.” 

RS250-Squid 


119

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TEENAGE KICKS 

My first encounters with motorcycles 

started in the 1960s. We lived in a 

terraced house where our gardens 

and the next streets joined up at the back to 

form an alleyway. A few doors up across the 

alley there was a man who had an old British 

bike and a sidecar. 

Without such luxuries as garages (and 

indeed cars) he had to get his motorbike (I 

think it was a Norton of some sort) out of a 

single gateway. I’d be sitting there watching 

on my tricycle, the boot filled with assorted 

stones, a couple of Dinky cars and some 

Spangles. Once he had the bike on the stand 

he then had to wheel the sidecar out on some 

sort of trolley device. He would then spend the 

next few minutes fumbling about between the 

bike and the sidecar until it was all connected 

up. Then, following some kind of secret signal, 

his massive wife and several children would file 

out and all pile into the sidecar. 

He then went through a seemingly bizarre 

ritual of fiddling with the handlebar levers, 

giving it a couple of kicks, a bit more fiddling, 

this time under the tank, more kicks, then take 

his cap and coat off, a bit of nagging from the 

wife, then eventually, once it fired up, he would 

hastily get his cap, and coat back on, pull his 


121

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goggles down and then trundle off up the alley 

and round the corner. 

When my parents’ house was compulsorily 

purchased by the council to build some flats 

we moved away to a council house on the 

edge of town, so no more bikes for a few years. 

Then my sister met married a chap who had 

a Suzuki 80, and as often happened in those 

days he came to live with us, meaning that this 

‘huge’ motorbike (I was just a kid remember) 

was outside the back window under a 

plastic sheet. 

Terrifying pillion rides soon followed. 

I remember thinking it must have been 

relatively safe as my older brother had a go, 

which encouraged me to jump on, clinging on 

for dear life as he unexpectedly leaned round 

the corners, quite a shock when you’re used to 

a tricycle. 

My other sister started seeing a chap who 

had a brand new BSA Bantam Sport, complete 

with a bright orange fly screen and a high 

level exhaust. 

My brother-in-law later bought a fully faired 

Honda CB160 twin, and several of their friends 

bought them too. More pillion trips followed, 

along with days out to Brands Hatch to see the 

‘King of Brands’ and the ‘Sir Ben Ball Trophy’ 

races, where they went the wrong way round 


123

the track. Inevitably when I was tall enough to 

reach the ground and it was decided that my 

puny frame was strong enough to hold one up, I 

was encouraged to have a go of a bike for myself. 

After an initial hair raising ride on a 

neighbour’s ‘Norman Nippy’ moped when I 

was about thirteen I gradually overcame the 

fear that the ferocious power of this fearsome 

beast would run away with me and started to 

yearn for a motorbike of my own. 

That and the fact that my neighbour 

quickly regretted adding yet another young, 

enthusiastic and inexperienced rider to the 

queue of callow youths waiting for a chance to 

use his petrol and potentially crash his bike. 

My mate Jon found an engine somewhere that 

fitted onto the back of a bicycle and provided 

propulsion by means of a lever that you 

lowered, pressing a roller onto the top of the 

back tyre. 

Trying to get the thing to work meant two 

weeks of the school holidays spent furiously 

pedalling up and down a nearby car park 

trying to get it to fire up. We developed legs 

like rugby players. 

Eventually the ancient clogged up 

carburettor and stale petrol gave in to boyish 

vigour and the engine burst into life. At full 

throttle. The excitement of finally getting the 

engine to work quickly gave way to terror as 

Jon struggled to wrestle his bicycle round 

the end of the gravelly car park. The resulting 

lowside snapped the carburettor manifold 

clean off. 

Efforts to try and glue, braze or weld it 

back together proved futile and eventually we 

conceded that we were once again without 

a motorbike. But the spirits of biking must 

have been looking down on our youthful 

disappointment and a few days later we 

found an old Honda 50 lying submerged in a 

large puddle on the nearby playing field. After 

rescuing it from the murky depths we pushed 

it back to my house and started stripping it 

down. 

Unfortunately my dad came home from 

work in the evening and banished it from 

the garden. Like a wounded bird we knew 

we couldn’t just leave it to die, after all, it had 

compression and a spark (Jon was the technical 

one) so we found a place to hide it between 

two council sheds down the back alleyway. 

Suitably camouflaged with some ivy and an old 

fence panel the Honda had a new home. 

With the leg shields removed, wide 

handlebars fitted, the mudguards cut off and a 

coat of red paint it started to look the business. 

The engine proved to be sound, and started 

easily, with a switch replacing the long gone 

ignition barrel. 

My neighbour with the Norman Nippy 

(who had by then moved on to ‘proper’ bikes 

with a Francis Barnet) gave us an alloy front 

mudguard and we were in business. 

We didn’t want to attract unwanted atte 

ntion from neighbours or ruffians from the 

nearby housing estate so we would push the 

Honda to a grass oval track on some waste 

land about half a mile away, where we would 

spend summer evenings and weekends doing 

timed laps using the stopwatch facility on Jon’s 

Casio watch. 

All good things must come to an end, 

and while I don’t recall what happened to 

the Honda, Jon’s widowed mum got married 

again and they moved away to Lincolnshire, 

so I was forced to return to pedal power. As I 

approached my sixteenth birthday I once again 

got the urge to feel the power of the infernal 

combustion engine propelling me, but this 

time on the highway. 

Several of the lads at school (I’m not being 

sexist – sadly I went to an all boys school) 

started to arrive on ‘sixteener specials’, which 

were technically mopeds (they were fitted 

with pedals) but had the look of a proper 

motorcycle, with the tank in the right place, 

a pillion seat and a top speed (depending on 

who you listened to) of well over 100 mph. 

There was a Garelli Tiger Cross, a Puch 

John Player Special, a Fantic Chopper, a couple 

of Honda SS50s and several Yamahas, some 

bearing the ‘SS’ logo on the side panel, slightly 

newer models were known as the FS1-E. 

These bikes cost a fortune, and while I had a 

steady Saturday job washing trucks down for a 

local haulage firm, to get one would have cost 

me about three years wages. 

The riders of these magnificent machines 

were rather cagey about how they’d been 

financed, but the general consensus seemed to 

be that their generous parents had somehow 

paid for them. 

But even after much washing-up, washing 

the car, mowing the lawn and generally 

‘helping out’ around the house, my parents 

made it clear that if I was going to get a moped 

I would be paying for it myself. 

After a quick assessment of the available 

resources, (i.e. the piggy bank) and what is 

known these days known as a ‘reality check’,I 

decided to buy something outright that would 

be economical, cheap to insure and reliable. 


125

I knew of just such a bike that had been 

in the family since new, and now sat forlornly 

in my cousin Rick’s shed under a piece of lino. 

After some negotiating I parted with £5 and 

became the owner of a proper moped. 

There was then the slight technicality of 

getting through the MOT test, and those of 

you lucky enough to be familiar with the 1966 

Raleigh Runabout will know that it has a similar 

front brake to a bicycle. In fact quite a lot of it 

was similar to a bicycle. 

Unfortunately the front wheel rim had 

a small dent in it, and the MOT tester in 

Northfleet High Street insisted that it needed 

a new front wheel. After discovering that such 

a frivolous purchase would have written the 

bike off several times over my brother, Andy 

and I took the wheel out and the tyre off, and 

with a small hammer and some Solvol Autosol 

removed all traces of the dent. 

Unfortunately the MOT tester was having 

none of it and after a lecture about how being 

bent weakens steel I did what anyone would 

have done, and took it somewhere else. After 

tightening a couple of loose spokes in the back 

wheel I had my MOT certificate, and with the 

hefty sum of £6.50 paid out in insurance and a 

bright yellow Stadium Project 6 crash helmet 

I was about to join the hallowed ranks of the 

cool guys who rode their mopeds - or ‘bikes’ as 

we preferred to call them – to school. 

Unfortunately I wasn’t received into this 

clique as I’d expected and became the butt of 

their jokes, and the subject of much derision as 

I made my way into the car park followed by 

clouds of blue two stroke smoke. The general 

angle of their criticism seemed to be that it 

would be quicker to ride a bicycle, and while 

I knew this wasn’t true it all came to a head 

when one of my most vocal critics bet £5 

that he could ride his ten-gear racing cycle to 

the pond in the nearby village of Southfleet 

quicker than I could get there on my moped. 

Although I’m not a gambler I felt duty 

bound to accept this challenge, and on the day 

of the great race spectators were arranged at 

each end, and a couple of Fizzies followed me 

to make sure I didn’t cheat. 

I’m still not sure if they expected me to 

fit a nitrous kit or arrange for a tow from my 

brother in law, but in the event I was sitting on 

my Raleigh and halfway through a Rothmans 

King Size by the time my challenger arrived at 

the pond. Despite initial half hearted protests 

about getting a puncture or his chain coming 

off he eventually admitted that I’d beat 

him fair and square and duly handed over 

a fiver. 

After that things quietened down. It wasn’t 

that I was accepted into the ‘gang’ or anything 

like that, they just didn’t mention my old moped 

any more. I kept the Raleigh for the year and in 

the days approaching my seventeenth birthday 

(having left school) I was trying to persuade 

my dad that if he loaned me the money to 

buy a bike I would be able to get a job and pay 

him back. Amazingly he accepted. 

By this time my older brother Andy 

was working at the local Yamaha dealer 

and I got a good deal on a brand new 

Yamaha YB100. Just like a Fizzy but twice 

as powerful. As promised I did indeed 

find a full time job and started paying my 

dad back. 

Life was now sweet with the Fizzy gang 

too, and they seemed happy to go for rides 

down to the coast, despite me charging off 

into the distance or passing them at what 

seemed like great speed as they struggled on 

hills. Eventually several of them grew tired of 

my showing off, and one by one they started 

to mutter words like ‘Escort’ or ‘Capri’ as their 

doting parents persuaded them to sell their 

nasty dangerous bikes and take driving lessons. 

I took driving lessons too, but despite passing 

my test I was still bitten by the biking bug. I 

started to go for rides with my brother and his 

mates on their 175s and 250s, but after once 

again experiencing the humility of knowing 

that my bike was too slow to keep up, the 

YB100 started getting even slower and eating 

spark plugs. 

It seemed that it needed a de-coke, and 

also the exhaust was full of carbon, despite 

the bike having autolube, and my using the 

correct Yamaha oil. It goes without saying that 

I was becoming a bit disillusioned with the 

bike, and once I’d paid my dad back I couldn’t 

wait to trade it in for a new Yamaha RD200, 

with electric start and disc brake, and available 

in any colour you like as long as it was bright 

orange. 

It was a quick bike, a little quicker off the 

mark than my brother’s RD250 in fact, but 

once the novelty had worn off I realised that at 

nearly six foot I was too big for the bike, and 

next to my brother’s bike it was tiny. 

I started helping out at the bike shop at 

weekends, doing minor repairs, deliveries 

and taking various bikes for MOT tests, and in 

return began to load the 200 with the many 

accessories that were given to me in exchange 

for my services. I became used to riding bigger 

bikes, and after leaving what I considered to 

be a reasonable amount of time managed to 

part exchange the little 200 for what seemed 

like a huge bike, (a well used Yamaha XS500), 

and I saw out my teenage years astride this 

illhandling, heavy, overcomplicated beast, 

but at least it felt, looked and sounded like a 

‘proper’ bike. 


127

By this time my respectable middle class 

friend from the Honda 50 days Jon returned 

from Lincolnshire, looking like a Hell’s Angel, 

complete with shoulder length hair, a denim 

cut-off and a BSA 350 with a very basic sidecar 

with an old door as a wooden platform. 

The remnants of the Fizzy gang and a few 

other friends made a strange convoy when 

we went out anywhere, with a Cortina, an MG 

Midget, a Marina, a couple of Japanese bikes 

and of course the old BSA combo. I guess we 

were hard to ‘pigeonhole’. 

The BSA proved handy on a few occasions 

for transporting up to half a dozen of us at a 

time to various pubs and parties around the 

town. Fortunately none of us fell off the sidecar, 

and somehow we were never caught by 

the police. 

But that was all more than 30 years ago, and 

as girlfriends were somehow attracted by our 

raggle-taggle band of characters and modes 

of transport, talk of pub crawls and parties 

eventually turned to talk of engagement rings 

and mortgages, and slowly we all drifted apart. 

Since then I have lost touch with most of them, 

and we’ve all moved away from the old home 

town to far flung places, but I wouldn’t want 

you to think that I’m sitting here in my lonely 

turret mawkishly yearning for my lost youth. 

Inevitably, as anyone who rides a bike will 

know, you make new friends very easily, and in 

the years since, I have bought, borrowed traded 

and swapped many a two-wheeled beast, and 

apart from a few years when my own kids were 

small I’ve never been without the need to get 

in the saddle and head of into the sunset, or for 

that matter the sunrise. 

I became an RAC/ACU instructor, started 

a club, took my IAM test and helped form 

the Kent Advanced Motorcycle Group. More 

recently I dropped my BMW R1100S on my 

foot and after 35 years of riding took (and 

enjoyed) the Bikesafe course. An old dog 

taught new tricks. And I probably owe it all to 

my old neighbour with his Norton and side car. 

Thanks mate. 

Martin Haskell 


Bitz 

Held Talin Gloves 

£129.99 

I’ve been wearing a pair 

of Held Nordpols for the cold 

bits for the last five years 

and would still be happily 

utilising them if I hadn’t had 

occasion to explore their 

abrasion resistance (my hands 

were fine but the waterproof 

membrane was well and truly 

‘compromised’). I understand 

the thinking behind two 

fingered gloves; by providing 

your pinkies with a little 

company, they get to snuggle 

up together and keep each 

other warmer than they would 

ever be if they were sitting out 

there on the end of those cold 

handlebars all alone – and 

in my experience they work 

very well. So with yet another 

winter approaching I had a 

look in the Held catalogue to 

see how much another pair of 

Nordpols cost these days and 

was pleased to discover that 

they are still good value at 

£39.99. 

Then as I flicked through 

the Winter gloves section of 

their 372 page catalogue to see 

what else they had, I spotted 

their Talins alongside a picture 

of a hardy motorcyclist riding 

through thick snow. They were 

ninety quid dearer than the 


textile and leather palmed 

Nordpols but their outer 

shell is made entirely from 

the fabulous treated ‘Pittard’ 

leather that I’ve experienced 

with other Held gloves; and 

with Goretex, Thinsulate, plus a 

lambskin lining, they sounded 

like a serious bit of Arctic 

weather kit. 

They arrived a few days 

before Xmas and while it wasn’t 

(entirely) a sexual thing, there 

is something tremendously 

tactile about Pittard leather. 

Unfortunately – or luckily 

depending how you look at it 

– it was over a month before 

there was any of the kind of 

weather I needed to give them 

a decent road test (I tried them 

once on a shortish journey in 

early January and I had to swap 

to my middleweight gloves on 

the return trip because my 

hands were overheating!). 

However, as I’m sure you’ll 

all recall, by the middle of 

February temperatures were 

dipping below minus 10C 

across the UK, even in the 

southeast, as the prevailing 

weather front blew in from 

Siberia – perfect weather 

to find out how well they 

shaped up. 

And how did they do? 

Very well indeed; definitely 

warmer than I’ve ever been in 

extreme weather on any bike 

that wasn’t fitted with heated 

handlebars. You can say what 

you like about the various 

synthetic linings you find in 

modern winter gloves but for 

me there’s nothing feels quite 

as warm and snuggley as a nice 

bit of fleecy lambskin (must be 

the Welsh in me!). They have a 

neat double cuff arrangement; 

the bulky outer one can 

tighten down using a couple 

of velcro straps so that it will fit 

inside your sleeves if dripping 

dampness is your biggest 

concern; and when you’re more 

worried about creeping cold 

draughts they’re plenty wide 

enough to wrap them around 

the outside of your jacket. 

Another velco fastener at the 

wrist allows you to tie. Held’s 

Talins are hardly cheap, but 

then again they are a seriously 

warm pair of winter gloves and 

if you’ve ever experienced that 

horrible scary feeling where 

your fingers have frozen into 

rigid talons so you can barely 

feel the controls, you might 

well consider them worth 

the outlay! 

Dave Gurman 

www.held.de 

129

Bitz Bitz 

Box Magic 

Roundabout 

Helmet 

For the last nineteen 

months I have been wearing an 

Arai helmet. The only reason I 

know this is because I can read 

and therefore could hardly miss 

the large logo in the middle of 

the forehead advertising its 

make. Not that I have anything 

whatsoever against the Arai; 

the editor informs me its worth 

a small fortune so it’s probably 

one of the most expensive 

things I’ll ever wear but when 

it comes down to it it’s simply 

a legal requirement and a 

functional bit of kit that plays 

havoc with my hair and whose 

sole saving grace is that it 

matches the bike! 

Safe to say then that I 

never imagined I could get 

excited about a crash helmet. 

Well that just shows how much 

I know because on Christmas 

day I received the best present 

ever. And I mean that! And 

guess what it was? Yeah a lid! 

It’s not expensive and it 

doesn’t co-ordinate but it is 

the epitome of cool. It’s quirky, 

it’s funky and I want to wear 

it wherever I go, whether I’m 

on the bike or not. So what 

brought on this complete 

turnabout? A lovely sparkling 

helmet adorned with the 

characters from the Magic 

Roundabout. I am in love. Not 

just with the lid but also with 

the editor who understood 

exactly what I require in 

a helmet. 

Ruined hair? Who cares, I’m 

the proud owner and happy 

wearer of a Magic Roundabout 

helmet and if my hair looks too 

bad I’ll just keep it on – with 

pleasure! 

I thought I had covered all 

the important details above but 

I am reliably informed by the 

editor (and in instances such as 

this I must bow to his superior 

knowledge) that I am expected 

to write a few lines about what 

it is like to wear outside of the 

house! So to prove that I actually 

don’t just sit and gaze upon its 

glory let me tell you this; it is a 

snug and comfortable fit and 

as light as feather compared 

to the Aria. Now I was a bit of a 

dunce in all matters motorcycle 

related and didn’t actually 

realise that the pain in the neck I 

suffered from trying to support 

the Aria wasn’t an inevitable 

consequence of keeping safe. 

So when I first went out in my 

roundabout helmet I really did 

think it was magic because it felt 

like I wasn’t wearing anything 

at all! So I can comfortably 

say that it ticks all my 

boxes – even those I didn’t 

know I had! 

Wendy Dewhirst 

As she has a self-confessed lack 

of interest in lids per se; and her 

Xmas pressy came as such a 

happy surprise that she almost 

wet herself; Wendy might have 

failed to cover the who, where, 

why and what in quite the 

way you would expect from a 

professional journalist. The Box 

“Magic Roundabout” helmet is 

no longer being produced (Why? 

Surely Zebedee, Florence, Dylan 

and Co have as many nostalgic 

fans as they’ve ever did?) but a 

swift Google search revealed 

that there were still plenty of odd 

sizes out there (with at least one 

XL for only fifty quid). However, 

finding a medium size to fit 

snugly around Wendy’s bountiful 

locks proved more difficult but I 

managed to locate one among 

the extensive range of helmets 

at Moto Central for ninety quid, 

which seemed like a very small 

price to pay for something that 

caused a grown woman to get 

that excited. Boing! – Ed 

www.boxhelmets.com 

www.motocentral.co.uk 


131

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