Newt's Long Night. When aliengravy first told me that Nutter was planning an 'End to End' in the week before Christmas, with the intention of completing it in under 24 hours, my first reaction was emphatically; ‘He won’t be able to do it’.
'Oh yes he will', said ag.
'£50 says he won’t', said I, so sure it couldn’t be done!
I bet he wishes he’d taken the bet now!
As you’ll know Nut (Neil, AKA Nutter GLC90) asked for anyone to join him, and over the next few days the idea grew like a germ in my head.
Now, my first experience of Nut was our involvement through him in the racing at RAF Wittering.
Neil, AKA 'Nutter' GLC 90, at the RAF Wittering charity Motoped Race, 2009
And given Nut’s mission to extract as much speed as possible from Scruff I have a notion that Nutter = Racing!
Actually, I sorta forgot that he’d previously made it clear he ONLY raced at Wittering!
I’m not the most competitive guy in the world, but I do like a challenge, and as I slowly and almost subconsciously cleared my desk and paved the way to take part in this hare brained idea, I was naturally thinking how I could keep up.
Nut already said it would take a 125 or so to keep up with Scruff, and when I gave a 10% maybe I’ll go, Nut offered the use of his other engine.
Well, I like MY cub and my engine, so I was wondering how I could use any advantage to keep up, and give a good account of myself, and not keep Nut hanging around for a day at Land’s End waiting for me!
The first thing really was I didn’t want to prevent him from achieving his goal of cracking it in under 24hours. At one point he wavered, with a view to accommodating me and ag (aliengravy) and Mav (Maverick)on the trip.
A very kind sacrifice, but I urged him to stick to his goal, also mindful that the potentially inclement weather was no place for two riders on ‘L’s with only a few months experience under their belt. Besides which, they’re precious!
I had a commitment on the Sunday 13th, which precluded me setting off earlier. Was this acceptable given Nut was raring to go from the 11th?
Also, I stipulated I would go if it was a ‘race’. This got me off the hook of slowing Nut down. You don’t wait for folks in a race! With the proviso, we only went to each other’s assistance in the event one of us got hurt / was in danger.
I awaited Nut’s answer with a fair amount of trepidation, and by this time, my desk was truly cleared and the time was booked off with the folks
'Yes!' I shouted out loud when I got his reply, ‘Game on!’ ag just looked at me, his father, like I had turned into some sort of lunatic!
This is what I sent Nut….
Nut!
First things first, given I cannot play until the Monday morning, am I in or am I out?
Let's not lose sight of things here......
a)We're talking end to end, objective less than 24hours, or, as quick as it can possibly done on our 'little bikes'.
b) It's a race.
c) I feel lucky.
d) you promise not to cry when I whup ur ass..........
And this was Nut’s reply….
Hi Newt.
In order:
Your're In.
a) As fast as our little bikes can go
b) Where we all win, just some sooner than others
c) If luck is with me I am happy, if luck is against me I shall become stronger.
d) It's better to burn up than to fade away
Do we meet at Bonchester Bridge and then ride up to John O groats together?
Nut and Scruff
Okay, Game on! Now, down to business!!
I looked closely at where I could ‘get the drop’ on Nutter, to at least give a good account of myself.
Firstly, with the crazy notion of going to the Elefant next year, I’d already started prepping the bike. I had extended the legshields to protect my legs and feet. I fitted a Rickman screen, behind which I was several degrees warmer. I had the boots, the gloves, the Rickman muffs, and goretex kit, so I had good weather protection, and Nut just had legshields.
Plus, I worked North Sea, and wintertime is a challenging time when it comes to keeping warm, so I had a wealth of experience there, in addition I had listened carefully to what Andy from Cub90 had said about winter motorcycling, and had the benefit of his experience.
The weather looked fairly atrocious, and I thought if Nut get’s wet, he’s going to get cold, and he will have to make stops.
I know Scruff is quick. So I began to turn my attention to the question of stops.
We all know the Cub’s bugbear is it’s limited range, about 100 miles max, and more likely 70 to 90. Scruff is not standard, and uses more fuel. I reckoned Nut would need 9 or more stops. We all know, it doesn’t matter how fast you pit stop, there is a time that is physically impossible to get under. I reckon this averages to about 7 minutes. Not staying longer, and avoiding the temptation to indulge in a little ‘comfort break’ is a matter of mental resilience. It’s easy for a fuel stop to become a 20 minute comfort stop.
One of the most inspirational things that have influenced my life, was reading Sir Edmund Hillary’s account of his ascent of Everest.
I came from an East London ‘overspill’ council estate, where everyone thought they were ‘hard’ or ‘tough’.
I read how this man, wearing hobnailed boots, in ice and snow and gale force winds, and without Goretex or the like, struggled to achieve his goal of 7 steps (or was it 9?) without stopping for breath, because of the altitude.
That’s ‘Hard’, in my book.
Courage, in the face of adversity. It’s something to aspire to.
Anyway, I digress. The question was, how tough could I be on myself? How resilient could I be to stopping, and could I deal with the pain?
Or was I now just a fat old 51 year old turned soft as shite?
Well I was interested to find out
So, I set about making sure that it was me that was the weak link in the chain, not ‘Git’, my steed!
It was impossible to carry enough fuel to travel non stop, and attempting to do so would only slow me down, so I prepared to carry fuel that would necessitate only one stop.
I thought at least one stop would be necessary!
I had new tyres and tubes on the bike, reducing the possibility of a puncture.
As followers of the thread will know, I had on trail type tyres, and I agonised over whether to leave them on or change them. They would be great if it snowed, not so good in the wet.
I know from cycling how much energy knobbly tyres absorb. I have tyres that require constant effort on the pedals, and I sound like a bumblebee coming down the road!
I have others, with a constant line of tread around the middle, that require much much less effort.
I studied the tread patterns of the tyres available, and partly on recommendation I bought two Conti Go!’s, resisting getting them bigger at 2.75 and even considering 2.25’s as thinner is faster! In the event, I got the 2.50's
I also decided to run over inflated, again for speed. In the event, I went for 35psi front and 43psi back, however at Exeter I found they were down to 28psi front 30 something rear.
The weather forecast twisted and turned in it’s predictions. To gain advantage, bad weather favoured me. I groaned at a good forecast, seeing myself left behind.
Anyway, I turned to the question of fuel. I had steel 20 litre jerrycans. I went out, and offered them up in the position of panniers. Hmm. A bit wide. I envisioned the fireball I would become in a slide off.
Plus, the weight was a lot. Plus, they would have to sit high up for gravity to do it’s work, or the last 10l in each tank would be inaccessible. I contemplated using a spare electric fuel pump I have for the Virago, using a manual switch to pump fuel up to the main tank.
I held a tank up, here, there, everywhere. It didn’t look right, or safe.
So, off to the auto parts shop in Diss where they do some dinky little 10 litre Jerry cans!
It was only when I had the cans in my hand I realised that I hadn’t thought about venting the things. The normal locking system for a proper jerry can doesn’t lend itself to being left undone.
The alternative was a plastic 10 litre can with a screw top. It looked ok, and I thought at least I can just ‘crack’ the screw cap, to let the air in.
Problem being, they only had one. With a promise of more being provided the following day I took the one, and set off in search of fittings.
It’s frustrating sometimes being an ex diver, as I know what fittings I need, but don’t have a clue where to get them, and if I could they would probably cost a fortune.
Anyway, we have a caravan shop that stocks 5/16ths inch gas fittings. I couldn’t find a ‘bulkhead’ fitting, but found a ‘Fulham nozzle’ with a backnut, not cheap at £6.30 each but two would do the job. I had a wade valve, another £6 or so, a T piece and a metre of copper tube.
A Fulham Nozzle
When I got back, I soon realised the only viable place to put the tanks was was in place of the top box, it had to go. We were doing B&B anyway, so no camping gear required.
At this point I thought I had a brainwave. If I kept the system on the back above the original tank, and kept it sealed, unvented, and soldered a copper tube into the original tank vertically, the feed would be like a pet feeder, and would automatically replenish the original tank when the level fell below the level of the outlet from the auxillary tanks.
Obviously, unscrewing the caps would flood the bike with 20 litres of fuel. So I realised I would need an isolation valve on the outlet.
Anyway, I soldered in the pipe using silver solder, quite a job, and I got to imagining all kind of scenarios where the system was compromised and I would be awash in petrol.
One source of concern was the flexibility of the plastic tanks. Another was leaning over, and the bouncing around of the tanks.
Plus, being ‘hard plumbed’ in copper, there wasn’t much flexibility, given I expected to be riding in snow, I was likely to fall off. I was worried such a system would be a bit fragile, and just dropping the bike could see me running from 20 litres of petrol.
In the end, I realised I was doing my classic over engineered, complicated sort of thing.
I only had to remove the fuel tap from ‘Blue Tit’ my little 50, and I had a tap with on, reserve, and off. So this I did.
In the meantime, I’d drilled a 13mm hole in the bottom of the can, and fitted the Fulham nozzle. I’d sawn off the ‘dick’ and fitted that to the inside of the can, using a PTFE washer on the inside, and a large flat washer on the outside with a smidgen of orange Hermatite, and secured it with the backnut. It was a bit tricky getting a socket in to hold the fitting, if doing this at home, remember to place the fitting under the cans cap for easy access.
As I was now using rubber, I picked up a plastic fuel tap from my local garden machinery repairer, another £6. I didn’t use it, I managed to fit the brass Wade valve to the copper I’d installed. I put a piece of copper into this, flared it, pushed on the rubber fuel hose and secured it with a clip.It took a blowlamp to get it flexible enough to do this, but there was no fuel in the system.
I went back for another can, and ended up with one green and one black. Oh well. I had contemplated a single 20 litre can, but that high up, and un baffled, I thought it might be too unstable. As it was I think this would have been the case as the two 10litre tanks were wobbling me around when full.
To mount the tanks on the rack, I put nearly a full tube of silicone between them then strapped them together to set. I strapped and bungeed them to the rack, and I could pick the rear end of the bike up by them with out them moving, so that was that. Oh, and I linked the two outlets in copper, to a T then to the wade valve.
I managed to thread the hose through the grommet for the electrics, and hooked it up to the ‘ON’ position on the carb fuel tap. The original tank feed I put to the ‘RES’ position. It was a nice tidy job.
At this point, I discovered the ‘OFF’ position isolated only the carb, and you could blow in one fuel pipe and it would come out the other!
Of course with the original setup, both feeds from the same tank, it wouldn’t matter, but in this case it meant putting the fuel tap to off, would allow the 20 litre tank to drain into the 3.6 litre tank. Note to self, do NOT use the OFF position!
In the event, this feature became really useful. Having run out the 20l tank and started on my reserve, when pulling in for a fill up, I immediately put the tap onto OFF and started to fill. I left the ignition on and watched the fuel gauge. When it read full I turned the fuel tap to ON, so I was able to fill the bikes tank with out lifting the seat. Handy, as my panniers went over the seat, and I had two dry sacs strapped on.
I did this a few times, on one occasion the smell of fuel escaping alerted me to the tank being full. No drama.
In the meantime, my compressor blew it’s head gasket. Not having it was like losing my right arm. It’s so useful for cleaning, and blowing crap out of stuff.
I remember looking wistfully into the two tanks before I fitted them, thinking I would have like to give them a puff to make sure nothing lurked within. Oh, well, they were new, I’d kept them closed, they’d be fine……
Also, I’d fitted a fuel filter to the line from the bikes tank to the carb, as the original tank wasn’t immaculate, and I’d been soldering the tank too.
However, I didn’t fit a fuel filter to the new tanks, after all, new tanks, new hose, wouldn’t need it…..
Still agonising over the tyres, and not able to pick the bones out of the weather forecasts, I flipped a coin. Simples. Conti Go’s it was, so on they went.
I took delivery of some reflective tape, and my intention was to make the bike visible in the event of being caught on the motorway in fog. I’d ordered orange and yellow and blue and white. The blue and white never came in time, so I plastered the new tanks and the legshields with it. I then mounted an amber flashing light on top of the tanks, which I could plug into the cigarette lighter twin socket I used for the sat nav.
'Git' loaded for departure! (I feel a right Palooka!!)
I thought I looked like one of those convoy vehicles that lead cars through the road works.
Mav thought I looked like a gritter.
Ag thought I looked like a nutter.
So, Sunday night, dress rehearsal! I got all the lagging I had, and with only an inkling of what I would wear I put the whole lot on! And it fitted!
I was like one of those Russian dolls, open it, there’s another, etc. etc.
Oh, the other thing was I decided to take the U.S. Army ‘sleep system’ I’d bought. Rated down to –50 celsius for 4 hours sleep. The logic here was, If I get in trouble with weather, or simply get too tired to carry on, I could simply climb in with all my gear on lie down and sleep, if need be. I never used it, but it gave me a lovely (false) sense of security!
The Monday morning was lovely and sunny, and four coats was just too much, so I put one in a dry sac, and there it stayed until the very last day.
I set off for Bonchester Bridge to meet Nutter GLC90 at 09:04 with 24902 miles on the clock.
Tally Ho!
50 yards up the lane the arse came round and I damn near highsided! Ooops! Brand new Conti’s, they need scrubbing in for at least 100 you know…
50 yards from home, and already I had the voices in my head! There were a lot of you on that bike with me there, I can tell you!
I was determined to use only Shell V Power, so I chanced running out of fuel making Thetford. The Shell garage there I remembered turned out to be a BP, by then I had no choice so BP ultimate I filled up with. With some trepidation, I filled my untested system!
No leaks! I did an almighty wobble as I left, felt like a flat tyre, it was just the weight of the fuel on the back though. It meant I couldn’t use the side stand, and even on main stand if the ground wasn’t level, it was predisposed to fall over. I caught hold of it at least three times.
From Thetford I headed to Kings Lynn, then off down the A17, not so bad, I had done it before going to Matlock.
I stayed off the motorways as long as I could, going up through Lincoln, and I mean THROUGH Lincoln, I lost a bit of time there, up to York, and eventually changing the sat nav to ‘Fastest’ from ‘Shortest’ and doing some seemingly convoluted route onto the A1(M).
The weather was nice, all was fine, I did a bit of road rage with a lorry who cut in on me on the A17, beeping my pathetic little horn and trying to give him the finger in a pair of mitts…
His response was to put his nearside wheels onto the dirt and puddles and rain shite onto me. I hung onto Git for the next twenty miles or so, wringing her neck, nearly caught the lorry at one of the roundabouts, but he got away.
Never mind, delicious thoughts of pulling him from his nice warm cab and bludgeoning him to death with a soggy mitt kept me going for hours….
So, first motorway experience on the Cub, and no drama at all. Git was going like the wind, cruising at 50 or more, and I think that made the difference.
I already don’t remember much of the journey, just the last 80 miles or so. Darkness fell, and I was on some lonely roads. Then came the fog, so thick I couldn’t see the edge of the road. I realised I was lucky to keep up 30mph, and so, torturously my 5pm arrival became a 7pm or so arrival. I don’t remember exactly.
Finally arrived at the Pub, feeling tired and triumphant, checked the phone and Neil had already text me to tell me he was there. Damn, no signal to reply.
No drama though, Neil was sat in the bar, already with people so friendly it looked like he’d known them forever!
I got a few looks at the amount of kit I hauled in, you’d never think I was in a race!
Snap of the SatNav Detailing my journey to Bonchester Bridge
Nut & Newt in t'pub at Bonchester Bridge
Anyway, the room was good, unfortunately the place was fully booked by the time Neil phoned, so he was staying in a guest house just a few doors away, but over the bridge.
We had a (good) few pints, a very nice meal and turned in, after deciding that ‘Git’ would be better off around the back of Neil’s guest house than sat outside the front of the Pub, on the main road.
In the morning I breakfasted alone, as Neil was a few doors away.
Inevitably, I got in conversation with two business types out on the road. We chatted about Neil and I our intended plan, and they showed polite casual interest as you do.
Until I mentioned the bikes we were using, at which point their ears pricked up and the enormity of what this dishevelled red eyed lunatic was telling them dawned.
Referring to where I’d come from the day before, and the time it had taken, they were incredulous that I had done it in the time I had.
That is, 326 miles in 8 hours 44 minutes, reaching a maximum speed of 58 mph (SatNav)
They reckoned it would be hard put to do that journey in a car in that time.
Regarding the race, they couldn’t believe my intention to do it non-stop, not eating, drinking, or sleeping, and were so incredulous I felt a little bit foolish!
Anyway, I went round and got ‘Git’ to load her up, and before I had, Neil was round, fully booted and spurred with Scruff foaming at the bit looking for some action!
Kitting up is a laborious process for me, I don’t have the memory I was born with, so it’s not unusual for me to find I’ve packed the keys when I’ve gloves helmet etc in place. Very frustrating!
I don’t remember what time we left, fair to say it was later than we had anticipated.
Our Sat Navs had different ideas about which way to go, so we followed Neils until mine concurred, then I took the lead to set the pace, Git being a bit slower than Scruff.
We did the inevitable ‘pigs in space’ bit when the sat navs, because running old maps, thought we were heading cross country on some of the new roads up there.
Fortunately Neil knows the area, and being ‘well off my turf’, I waved him on before we ended up on the M blah to Timbuctoo.
We crossed the Forth Bridge.
It was memorable. It was magnificent. I had a notion to fumble for the camera around my neck, looking vaguely at my gloved and overmitted hand, and realising the experience I wanted to capture forever, would be gone if I attempted to video it.
Some things are best just the way you remember them, so forsaking the camera I just drank it in!
We rode side by side over the Forth Bridge, grinning and shaking our heads at each other in wonderment, as if we couldn’t believe we were doing this, like if we were pinched, we would wake up. Truly awesome!
Eventually we started to climb, and found ourselves among the Cairngorms. It was cold, and there was snow on the hills, and the views were great.
Aware that tomorrow would leave little opportunity to stop or inclination to record our adventure, I called a stop for a photo call.
And I ran around on the dual carriageway risking life and limb to set up a shot so when we pinched ourselves and woke up, we would know it had not been a dream.
In the Cairngorms!
Other little snippets of that day? Well, I was determined to use the hills and the wind whenever possible to get Git to 60 miles per hour.
We had a couple of goes at it, mostly it involved tailgating lorries into steep declines, and though the speedo showed over 60, I was struggling to get 60 on the satnav.
All too often, the lorries baulked or braked as they approached the 60 mark, and stymied my attempts. I either had traffic bearing down in the outside lane precluding me from pulling out, or it wasn’t dual carriageway and would have been suicide. Which of course, didn’t stop Nutter!
I have this hilarious image of Neil, his bike, adorned with soft luggage in the way of two soft panniers on the front, two soft panniers on the rear, his ‘Treasure Chest’ style topbox looking like a battered trunk, with Neil laying flat out on scruff, and I mean flat, with feet up, spreadeagled over the top, looking like someone on a runaway baggage trolley, alongside a huge lorry loaded with roof trusses, with three 4x4’s right up his jacksie, each about 2 feet off the bumper of the other, and Neil seeming to take a full five minutes to get past, while these perplexed drivers did their best to keep back from this amazing sight!
I lost a couple of pounds in tears of laughter!
I did overtake one lorry, by the skin of my teeth, but there was nothing to match the man on the runaway baggage cart!
Anyway, we got closer and closer. It dawned on me we were going to arrive quite late, and about 90 miles or so from the end, I was flagging. I nearly suggested stopping for the night, but no way could we have ridden 90 miles up in the morning and raced, it would have meant a relaxed next day, and postponing the race until the Thursday.
I kept my thoughts to myself, took two ibuprofen tablets at the next opportunity, and slowly, dreadfully slowly, the miles fell away.
The pain in my shoulders was the worst. It was as if I had a dagger in my back, high up on my left side. Eventually the pills kicked in, and it became a dull ache.
We explored new dimensions in motorcycle body popping, indulging in sometimes dangerous exercises, to restore circulation to dying limbs.
And slowly, the two mental motorcyclists progressed, unaware of the St. Vitus dance which had taken them over.
Neil had to stop for fuel, but we couldn’t see high octane anywhere. Eventually he had to fill with ordinary, and I declined to do so.
And so it was noted, that tactically, even the evening before, the race was already begun!
By this time, we were so knackered, and so desperate just to get there, we were getting past caring. We split at one point, Neil’s sat nav disagreeing with mine.
We were in town, I couldn’t stop, and by the time I could, I was at a roundabout which said straight on for JoG.
I went over, around the bend, and pulled over to wait. I gave it a few minutes, and thought perhaps Neil knew another way, and knowing we were both grown ups capable of sorting it out, I pressed on. Sure enough, ten minutes up the road I could see Scruffs orange headlight glowing behind, and gaining. We pulled over, agreed if it happened again we’d just meet there, and pressed on.
In the dark, with such a small headlight, I just had to slow the pace. I couldn’t go flat out into the curves, trusting the road would go the way it ought to. Neil was having to use his visor, as he was wearing contact lenses.
I could peek between the top of Git’s screen and the bottom of my strategically opened visor, and see clearly, but slight movement either way meant wind and rain full in the eyes, which were tired and getting sore.
And on and on we went.
Eventually, we rode in. Jubilant, but quietly so.
I think it was beginning to hit home, just what we were attempting to do.
I remember thinking, ‘God, that’s a long way. And after, I have to ride home….’
A quick look at the Hotel, and our spirits lifted, and Neil said let’s go look at the ‘top’.
We rode up to the deserted plaza/boulevard/ and harbour area. We rode all around enjoying our liberty to do so! I went right to the tip of the harbour on Git!
We took a couple of pics at the sign on the harbour wall, the main one having been safely stowed away somewhere so it didn’t blow away.
Then we went back to the hotel to rest for tomorrows adventure!
There’s not much to recommend the Sea View Hotel at JoG, other than the fact it’s there!
We had a couple of beers, kept it light as we knew we’d need all our wits for the morrow, and had an ok meal. There were a few bods about, a visiting darts team, and the rest were workmen. We exchanged pleasantries with some shopfitters, who complimented us on our courteous riding, in that we’d pulled over to let the traffic pass, in their case several times, apparently, as they passed us more than once!
I was proper ready for bed when I climbed the stairs, so the fact that my room was stinking was tolerated, as I just didn’t have the energy to complain, and move my stuff.
I ran water into the ‘en-suite sink’ in case the trap had dried out allowing the smell of the sewer up, then put the plug in followed by water to seal it, then sealed the overflow with paper and opened the windows wide, & chocked the door open while I went for a bath.
And what a bath! Old, enormous, copious hot water! As I laid completely immersed, (Yes, it was an old whale tank…) I couldn’t help but wonder, how many weary End to Enders had soaked away jubilant aches in that tired old bath, as their trials and tribulations slipped away to become, just a distant memory……
We decided that there was little point in rising early next morning, if we left at 8am we would, if successful, invariably find ourselves at Lands End before 8am with little to do and time to kill.
Besides, we wanted to do the photo-call bit at the signpost before we left.
We did the full breakfast bit, aware it was all that would sustain us for a good few hours. For my part, I had no intention of stopping for food on the way, I’ve plenty of reserve and was hardly going to fade away!
We spent 20 minutes or so going over the bikes, we tightened and greased our chains, and topped up our oil.
Neil was ready a good 20 minutes before me as I faffed about getting gear right etc. etc. There was no intent on my part to do the ‘psychological’ bit , and I was embarrassed really that it took me so long.
Eventually we went up to the Harbour, did the photo bit by the sign on the Harbour wall at the slipway, there being no evidence of the normal touristy one, it having been tucked away so it didn’t blow away I should imagine.
By now Neil was frothing at the bit & keen to get going!
‘Right,this is the line!’ He said pointing to a crack on the slip.
‘Ok, time check’, said I. ‘Its 10:33’
‘Ready! Steady! GO!’ Nut shouted!
He proper roared off the line! And I was giggling like a loon as I opened the throttle and see the watch roll over to 10:34, which I took as our true start time.
Nut was weaving his way out of the touristy bit, before I’d barely cleared the slip!
I was undaunted. Tortoise and the Hare, I reminded myself, Tortoise and the Hare….
As the tortoise followed in the wake of the Hare, still chuckling away at the absurdity of it all, the tortoise’s bike ground to a halt, barely half a mile from the start, and with Nut disappearing over the horizon!
‘Nut, come back!’ I muttered feebly, then staring intensely at him, look back Nut, look back, look back and see me broken down….
And then he was gone.
I was nonplussed. I knew I hadn’t touched the fuel tap, I’d taped over the access hole to keep out the draught. Was it possible someone else had fiddled? Not likely. I’d also gone further than a bowl full of fuel will take you, so I had this sinking feeling in my gut that this was serious.
I contemplated phoning Neil to get him to return, sort the bike, and restart. I realised the chances of him hearing his phone, and answering it, were almost nil. Besides, this was it. This was the race, this was my lot.
I got the bike on the centre stand and wiggled my way off. I had a moment where I was unsure of the fuel tap position, and forseeing this with my memory shotcomings, was unsure that I’d marked it up correctly. I remembered, ‘up, up and away!’ and it confirmed the tap was indeed in the run position.
I fiddled it a bit, got back on, and it fired up.
Not a mile on, it happened again.
And again.
And again.
How frustrating!
The next time it happened, I took off my helmet, gloves, and unloaded all my luggage. I lifted the seat, checked the fuel cap, and I got out the tools. I cracked the carb bowl drain screw, and fuel poured out. I took off the 17mm fuel bowl on the carb, and checked it was clear.I played with the isolation valve on the tanks, and recall the flow seemed reluctant to stop. More doubts about the tap position. I took off the fuel pipe to the top inlet of the carb, and determined beyond doubt the fuel tap position was right in my head. I let it flow, and let it flow, and then replaced it.
I saddled up & set off.
About 3 miles this time, almost daring to be hopeful, and Git stopped again.
You, you,… YOU BLOODY GIT!!!!!!!!!!!
I had to dismount to do the fuel tap, there was no room with the screen to bend down and do it. I put the tap into the ‘reserve’ position so I was now running on Gits integral tank.
Sorted. After about ten miles, I realised it was the auxiliary tank system that was the problem. Oh how ironic. There I was, I’d started with a horseshoe in my boxing glove, and I could cheat no more. The playing field was level, and I was doomed!
I was extremely, extremely, pissed off. If there was a God, I hated him. Never mind the ‘fair’ bollocks, I don’t do fair, I do get the drop on someone and WIN! And I felt thoroughly thwarted.
I contemplated the journey ahead. I’d already wasted unknown time, I was too focused to even look at my watch. I reckoned I’d wasted 35 minutes already?
Nut was miles ahead, I was burdened with 20 litres of fuel I couldn’t use, and I didn’t even have a spare can. Misery.
Oh well, do the best you can. I was sad our paths wouldn’t cross as we’d anticipated on the way down. We fully expected to see each other on the journey, and now it was not to be. It was to be a tedious drudge, from petrol station to petrol station, alone, and no expectation of seeing my chum. My race was over.
I carried on, on my reserve, contemplating the crap journey ahead.
I had an idea. I stopped, and I screwed the lids tightly on the reserve tanks. I then bear hugged them squeezing them quickly in succession. I imagined the back and forth movement of fuel in the pipes, dislodging any blockage. I drained the carb again, to be sure. I left it draining, and squeezed the tanks. Then I opened the lid and blew. I blew one to the other. I must have let a litre or more of fuel drain away, and I was minded to move the bike before starting it, unsure of the integrity of the HT lead.
Off I went. I got a few miles, I was almost hopeful. By now I was on a stretch of the A9, with heavy lorries and a busy road. No hard shoulder, just a drop off onto stones, on which I couldn’t get onto main stand, in order to get my cumbersome self off the bike, so much lagging was I wearing. I could barely swing my leg over the bike.
It cut out, with a lorry barely ten feet off my tail. I tried to put the bike in neutral, and of course, it went into second and slowed even more.
I dived into an extremely opportune field entrance not daring to touch the brakes until I was off the road, tensing for the impact from behind, and feeling the rush of air as the lorry thundered past missing me by mere inches.
Then braking in the width of a lane to avoid the fences. This was too hairy.
I switched to reserve, and rejoined the heavy traffic. I watched the fuel gauge go down in dismay. So much fuel, so little to use. If I ran out, it really was going to be game over. I was in the middle of no-where, and had no idea how far to get fuel. The whole journey was going to be like this, I was getting nowhere.
Then my switch went. You need to sort this, once and for all.
I found a lay bye well off the road. I stripped off the kit, and this time I got down to business.
I suspected three areas. One was the plastic washers I had used inside the tank to seal the outlets. Had they melted? They were plumbing items designed for water, not petrol.
Secondly, was the gas valve I had used as an isolation tap on the tanks outlets. It was a tap I was unfamiliar with, and I had no idea if there were ‘meltable’ seals within it. ( Subsequently I spoke with Neil about this, and he explained how it’s a metal to metal taper, and the fault was certainly not there.)
Thirdly, where I had come off of the copper with rubber fuel hose, I had flared the copper so when I put a clip on it it would be securely retained.
I’d had to heat the pipe to get it on, it was very difficult, and there was a possibility I’d disrupted the inner sleeve of the pipe. Though this was likely, it was my least favourite option, as I had to use heat to get it on in the first place, and the system was dry when I did it. With about 15 litres of fuel or more racked up behind it, heat was out.
I got a torch, and peered into the tanks. Eventually I could make out the outlets. They looked ok.
I disconnected the hard pipe on the downside of the isolation tap, hoping the olive would seal again. I opened the tap, and it flowed freely.
Out of sheer bloody minded ness, I must have let a litre pass, watching for any foreign body to emerge, as I wiggled the tap on and off, on and off, but nothing.
So with trepidation, I removed the clip and pulled off the hose. This negated the option, as yet untried, of passing fuel into the bikes own tank by using the off position on the carb. Theoretically this was possible, but as yet I had not tried this, and expected it to be a lengthy and haphazard process, and not sure if it was viable or not.
When I opened the tap, it flowed so quick I can’t be sure if I fleetingly saw crap flow out. I inspected the bore of the hose with the torch, it looked ok. I opened the bowl of the carb and blew down the hose. I could do no more. I eased the pipe with the tips of long nosed pliers, and took no prisoners slipping it back on the copper pipe, I was just in the mood for it to be awkward, My hands were cold and dried from being awash with petrol. Of course it went on, I beasted it.
I slammed down the seat, and as I did, I saw the pipe move at the back of the seat. Squishing down the seat, the pipe joggled. The weight of my panniers and kit and my own lardy 15 stone, was likely cutting the fuel off!
I flipped up the seat, picked up the 10" adjustable and beat the crap out of the back of the seat, turning it under until I was sure it wouldn't crimp the pipe.
After that, I was off and never looked back.The seat had been cutting the fuel off.
It was game on, and though my journey was to be easier, I was sad that I had lost, at best guesstimate, about an hour or more and was long behind Nut, with no chance of catching him, or seeing him on the long journey ahead.
I got underway, mindful that there wasn’t an awful lot of light left, and recalled Nut saying, it’s imperative we’re off that A9 before night fall. It’s no place to be in the dark, with the lights on a Cub.
That said, I drank in the magnificent play of light, as I ran down the East coast of Scotland. Showers and sunshine, moody skies and zeniths lighting the landscape, it was captivating to behold. I mourned my inability to stop and capture it with my camera, to have it forever. I passed a castle, I tried to remember at least the name, but it escapes me. The surreal and magical light, that lit the scene I will never forget, it was a rare and beautiful delight.
As the light faded, I came to a huge downhill run, and saw at least 62mph on the SatNav before it was heads up to negotiate the turns at the bottom!
I had another mini adventure. I ran out of fuel. No great drama, but for a time I couldn’t be sure my problems hadn’t returned, the torch in the tank reassured me I could see they were dry.
I ran for a bit, not really wanting to deplete the reserve tank, knowing I’d have to unclip the straps, take off the two packs, then the panniers, to lift the seat to fill the tank.
Unconcerned at first, I wondered if I was going to have to leave the main road, which seemed new, to find fuel. I saw a sign for fuel pointing off to my left, and there was a hotel type complex there. No sign of fuel. There was a coach unloading passengers so I spoke to the driver, where’s the fuel I asked.
He said it was about five or six miles on, not down the A9, but to some God forsaken small village. Nah, I thought, too far out of the way. I’ll push on.
Still no sign of civilization. I pulled over, poked the SatNav a couple of times, and it bought up a list of garages. There was one about 2.8 miles away, so I poked that and off I set.
It took me off the road to the right, down into a winding valley, past some ramshackle dwellings with no sign of life, and as I started up out of the hollow that was Godforsaken Village, there was the garage.
The sign said 86p a litre. The trees growing out of the windows gave it an eerie quality like something out of the Casper the Ghost magazines I used to read as a kid. No hope there.
I felt a shiver, as I realised the situation was becoming, well, a situation.
I got back on the main drag, and I think it was about 26 miles to Inverness. With everything crossed and a wary eye on the gauge, I made Inverness with the needle well below zero.
Fully fuelled and free of worry again, I took off.
There’s not much to tell really about the ‘Long Night’, except that it was a very long night indeed.
The Glasgow ring road was an interesting experience. Pretty showers of sparks bouncing off of Git woke me from my reverie.
Further down the road, it happened again.
And again, this time, I saw the fag end come out of the open van window! Ya! Missed!
No kidding, five or six times this happened, I think it’s some Glaswegian rite to flick fag butts at anyone on a small motorbike!
If I’d stopped to pick ‘em up, I could have chain smoked all the way down to Bristol!
Bloody Porridgewogs! I was glad to clear the place without stopping, thankful to leave it behind. I felt as though I’d ridden through some ‘70’s time warp!
After, it was just a cascade of familiar place names slipping by.
Carslisle, a long time coming, passed behind. I see the signs for Kendal, and rued the Lakes I know and love, slipping by in the darkness.
I see the signs for Blackpool, I’ve never been there. I’d love to see the tower. Not much chance in the dark
.
Sohthport, Manchester, Liverpool. Another shower of fag ends? Nope, they’re much more refined here.
It was on this stretch of the M6, I did over 400 miles, non stop, at full throttle all the way. Just hanging on, occasionally fidgeting about to get some blood in my arse, and watching the place names cascade by.
Stoke On Trent? My mother’s former home, what was THAT doing over here, should be more to the East, surely?
Birmingham, only 40 miles, why, that was nearly home, wasn’t it? Well. 2 ½ hours away from home, was all. If I’m going to break down, let it be here, I thought.
Worcester. Home of luvverly sauce. Home to ag’s uncle, in another life. I recalled the visits, and walking the hills there, with James and Sam as little kids. Oh, and the visit to Cadbury’s factory.
Cheltenham next. I wondered if Nut had dodged off home for a quick nap. I would have been tempted!
Not sure on the timescale where it happened, but I stopped for fuel. I decided to call ag, to get him to ring all, and let them know I was OK.
He was pleased to hear, and really excited! You’re in front! He said, You’re in front! And you’re flying!
Was Nut okay? I asked. There was nothing in his manner that made me think Nut was hurt, but I was worried for a moment, then as ag told me briefly Nut’s tale of rebuilding his wheel at the side of the road, my face lit up!
Game on! GAME ON!!!!!!!!!!!!!
You were 70 miles ahead at one point he said, and now he’s gaining, he’s got it down to 60!!!!!
I was galvanised! I couldn’t think straight! All I could think, was run! Tortoise, RUN!
I couldn’t get off the phone quick enough, and with Nut ‘Hot on My Heels’ I was back on with the throttle to the max, hanging on for dear life, and grinning from ear to ear! We had a race!
I got down to Bristol, my old Mum’s birthplace, and looked forward to the more familiar territory. I’d done the journey down to the West Country many times, it held no fear for me.
I’d had a bit of an adrenaline rush, with the news I was in front and all. By the time I got to Exeter, I had started to come down, and tiredness set in big time. I was yawning non stop, and tears rolled down my face with each yawn.
Behold the crying motorcyclist. See how he freezes, see how he cries for a nice warm car….
I limped into Exeter services for my last stop with a very negative attitude. I reckoned I could sleep, for up to 30 minutes, and combined with my fuel stop advantage still beat Nutter.
As this Red eyed, filthy dirty, tear stained madman walked into the services he was duly followed by security, into the lavvies where they watched him pee. Obviously they were used to tramps and dossers coming in from the cold to have a nap, and they’d well and truly got my measure!
I washed my petrol soaked hands, I washed my face. I put the blower of the handwarmer into my down jacket, and stood there, soaking up the warmth.
I bought a packet of ProPlus tablets and swallowed two or three. I ate three Ibuprofen tablets to ease the burning pain in my shoulders.
And in the absence of a bush or hedge under which to rest my weary head for a nap, I was off again.
Excitement was building now, and anticipation was high, that I was indeed, going to finish comfortably inside the 24 hour goal set by Neil.
It was the early hours of the morning, and the roads were very quiet. The night was clear, and I came to the huge hill on the A30 just outside St Dennis.
As Git picked up speed in the clear night air, I pondered for only an instant how sad it would be if it all ended here, with a blown engine, so near and yet so far.
But with a story to be told, and mindful of the SatNavs ability to record the event, I awoke Git from her reverie.
She got to the uncomfortable juddery 58mph I see occasionally, then there was the tonsil spitting, grating, protesting screaming that follows, the scream that hurts, the real scream, the one where nuts and bolts fly past bloodied tonsils, and the end is certainly nigh!
Then something strange happened, Gits ‘Death Scream’ became a Pure tone. It was like we were airborne for a moment, Git’s pure tone the voice of an Angel!
Almost Ethereal, it was like a boat hauling itself up onto the plane, and we flew!
It was cold, it was still, there was no vibration, it was silent except for this pure tone as Git sang with the Angels, and I had time to see 65mph on the SatNav before it crossed my mind I might be about to become one!
Then we were up the other side, and the familiar protestations flew again as we slowed to a more familiar 50. Magic!
It was a dark night as we reached Hayle, but by now cars were busying about getting early workers to poorly paid jobs, and time clocks were waiting for cards to be punched.
There was little patience for a tired bedraggled figure on a slow moving ‘moped’. I had a few occasions to sound my pathetic little beepy horn.
I got past Penzance, and headed out on dark twisty lanes for our goal. It was a nightmare. There was much traffic coming the other way, with headlights dazzling tired eyes, and a headlamp fighting back with all the power of a candle, I had a few hairy moments where I knew not where the road lay ahead.
Within 15 minutes the black became dark grey, and as I headed down the final stretch of road with Land’s end in sight, I did so with the purple hues of the most magnificent sunrise in my mirrors.
And so I made it. First thing, check the watch. 07:32 twenty hours fifty eight minutes! I could barely believe it!
All at once, the phones were buzzing! I got one out too slow to answer, I think it was Bob. And there were texts. Suddenly I wasn’t alone! It meant a lot.
But where was Nut?
In the middle of my reverie, some jobsworth appeared, and started telling me I couldn’t park there, there were deliveries, they were coming, didn’t I know? My bike would be in the way….
I stared blankly at him, wondering if he had any idea what I had just done, and all I could mutter, was, ‘I’ll move it, if they come, I’ll move it…’
I don’t know if I phoned ag or he phoned me, but Nut was the first word. He’s 40 minutes behind you, I heard, with relief! He was safe, he was going to do it in under 24 hours, fantastic!
The time flew as I drank in the realisation of what I’d just done. It was the most beautiful of mornings, and in the distance I heard the wail of Scruff’s silencer (or lack of one!)
It gave me ample time to get out the camera and film Neil & Scruffs glorious arrival!
Yes, Nut did wish he’d had a congratulatory welcoming band lauding his achievement, instead of a fat bleary eyed tramp screaming ‘Loser! Loser! At him while making L’s with his fingers, but that’s what you have to put up with, with a mate like me!
However, My pleasure at seeing him safe and well, and my congratulations at him achieving his goal, were, I assure you most sincere. I could have kissed him. Almost. Nearly. Ok, I couldn’t. But I was pleased to see him!
As we stood there, heads full of mush, nerves still jangling, but revelling in what we had done, he appeared.
The Cub admirer!
Like some amiable Leprechaun, this chap appears and engages our addled brains in a conversation about the bikes! It was surreal!
Anyway. Nut was off to look for the signpost for the finale picture. I was mindful that the sign and site is ‘owned’ and set up for profit, and I was uneasy about being ‘caught’ with our oily bikes on their ‘stage’.
Neil had no such qualms, and proceeded to change Scruffs plug for my unworthy NGK one, and carry out all sorts of maintenance!
Oh well, I just enjoyed the scenery, and the sunrise!
I think it was Neils way to wind down after the event, to immerse himself with the workings of Scruff, as he was totally absorbed and oblivious to my hints to get the pictures done and beat it!
Eventually we decided to make tracks. I had agreed to join Nut at Helston where we could sample the ale from a micro brewery unique to that particular pub. However, in conversation it was evident Neil hadn’t seen many of the Cornish delights and as I considered the area my second home, I was happy to be his guide.
I had a hankering for a pasty. The best Pasty in Cornwall, in my opinion, is a Warrens pasty. You can scream ‘Phelps’ all you like, their pasty’s are made with shortcrust not flaky, and there’s never enough salt or pepper in them
.
And so it was that Nut agreed to let me show him the Warrens Pasty ritual/experience.
It was something I regularly did with the kids. On our way to the beach, we’d stop at Warrens, go across the road and sit on the grass banks of the little harbour by the viaduct, eating our pasties before going to the beach.
Nut was uneasy at leaving the bikes, but gave in to my reassurances. We got to the location, and all was right in my world. Happy memories of many happy times spent sitting munching pasties here when the kids were younger.
Nut looked at me strangely. Yes?
‘What’s to see here?’ He said. ‘Is this it?’
Er, yes, nice spot eh? I said.
‘Oh, yes’, he said, looking around for used needles before joining me on the grass.
‘Is it the view of Jewson’s yard that commends this place, or the muddy hole full of rubbish and broken boats?’ He said, swigging his pasty eerily like someone swigging from a bottle in a brown paper bag….
Laughing, I phoned ag. ‘Guess where we are?’ I said. ‘Dunno. Gimme a clue…’
‘Well, we’re eating a pasty.’
‘Warrens!’ Ag said excitedly!
And where are we sitting? I asked.
‘Aahhh, you’ll be sitting by the old harbour’, he said wistfully.
‘That’s right’, I said. ‘And Nut’s rightly pointed out, I need to reappraise my life’, and I explained, and we all laughed!
Anyways, after, we did go on tour, and I did impress him, or rather the places I showed him did.
We went down to Gwithian Towans, and the sun and the blue sky, the seven miles of golden sands, it was truly the Cornish Riviera. A beautiful sight.
We did Hells mouth, and I tried out Scruff when we stopped to admire the view.
It was at this point the pain in my shoulders was burning unbearably, and was driving me to distraction, it was sooooo sore!
Have a look for me Neil, please?
Turned out to be the two pairs of braces I was wearing, had rubbed me up. I took them off, but it was over a week before the soreness subsided.
We made our way into Helston, we found a very accommodating little guest house, and while Neil had a nap, I went out to buy some trousers as I’d forgotten to bring any!
We went out and sampled the ale that night, it wasn’t really my cuppa tea. We talked profoundly into the early hours, and with our common achievement, our friendship was sealed.
I slept well, the alarm for breakfast woke me, and I put the telly on to see the weather forecast. Not good. A heavy band of snow sweeping London and the home county’s.
Outside the sun was shining, it was glorious, but it was bitter cold.
It was a long way home, for sure, I’d done it many times.
I managed to call up the message boards as a I lay in bed, and read some of the heartwarming posts that our friends had posted up. There was a sense of anticlimax, but I had a feeling that actually, the fun was about to begin….
My post that ‘I may be some time…’ was a hint of this, I was genuinely concerned at the prospect of riding into the heavy snow forecast. With good reason, as it transpired.
I spoke to Su, and we agreed she would prep brother Andrew in Reading for a possible sleepover from yours truly. Well, if I got to Reading at least, I could hole up.
We had breakfast and saddled up. Neil said he was going to adjust his chain and lube it, was I going to do Git’s, and did I want a squirt of his chain grease?
Nah, I think I’ll be ok, I said. Words that would come to haunt me.
We set off under a cold cloudless sky, agreed we’d ride together, but I’d not stop when Nut refuelled, he’d catch me up, or not, whatever.
The following is from my earlier post on one of Neils threads under ‘Project threads’
Neil,
I haven't had too much time to write up my exploits, but there's a fair bit to tell after you turned off for fuel just before Exeter!
A few miles down the road, 'Git' started 'baulking'. I feared it was a recurrence of the fuel problems, or, I was unexpectedly running out of fuel. I pulled over into a lay bye; a bit reluctantly as I was curious as to how much ground I could make on you, for your fuel stop.
Anyway, I pulled over, and messed about fully expecting you to arrive at any moment! I found a stick, and dipped the fuel tanks, and lo, plenty of fuel.
Mindful of the need to get on as the weather was seriously closing in, I thought stuff it, I'll go on Git's main tank, rather than risk the motor cutting out again. So I kicked Git a few times, scratched her paintwork with a new penny with the queen’s head on in a symbolic gesture of spite, and carried on.
The baulking / lurching continued. By the time I got to the M5 interchange, I was convinced the gearbox was mushed. I turned off for the services, and at the bottom as I pulled away, Git barely made any ground as a ratatatat came from the gearbox, leaving me stranded on the roundabout with lorries bearing down on me! Oh, You Git!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I limped into the services, and parked way out in plenty of space, threw off the lagging, the lid, the panniers and the waterproof stuffsacs, and some bloody tart came through missing me by 6 inches! She pulled up in the next row, and I gave her a piece of my mind! 'All this space, and you nearly run me over, missed me by 6 inches you stupid woman!' I got the blank stare, from this moron with a huge question mark over her head, and she never even took the phone away from her head for an instant!
At this point I phoned Su. I had really mixed emotions, on the one hand I was looking at bagging a ride through the worst of the snow in a nice RAC recovery vehicle, and on the other, I was wussing it. I knew, I was riding into some SERIOUS weather, and I wasn't relishing it.
Plus, conditions were all ok at Exeter, so I could imagine the breakdown services were not mega busy and available, whereas in an hour, under darkness, and among snow, I might have to wait hours for assistance. Mixed feelings. Anyway, I ended the conversation with Su saying, I just better check it's nothing silly, or I'll look a plum........ And what a plum I looked!
Do you remember as we left, you said to me as we went outside, ‘I’m just going to tighten Scruffs chain, and give it a spray, would you like to use my spray?’ and I said, ‘Nah, I think mine will be fine thanks’.
Well, did I throw an almighty f*** into the force there!
As I contemplated taking off the left side cover to look at the condition of the drive sprocket, I took the easy option of popping the inspection plug out of the chain guard. Immediately I could see a very dry and forlorn chain laying along the bottom of the case. So slack, it had been jumping the front sprocket. It had been a brand new chain when I left.
I adjusted it up, and with trepidation called Su to tell her I would be continuing on Git.
A bit up the road, with still 250 miles or so to go, I realised that it was already ‘backlashing’ i.e. going slack again.
Sitting at full throttle on dual carriageways gives one plenty of time to think. I had put Git’s lack of power down to a headwind. She’d been very reluctant to bounce up to her usual 50+, labouring at 45 or less.
I thought of the times I had run a chainsaw chain out of oil, and how it had bound onto the bar so solidly it was nigh impossible to turn by hand, and couldn’t be started.
I realised I was going to HAVE to lube the chain before I got home. I decided to use engine oil, of which I had about 300ml left. I was pontificating how I could get the oil from the bottle onto the chain. Pulling into a lay bye, I had decided that I would find a twig, and dribble the oil down the stick onto the chain. Yeah, right!
I was simply too tired to unload all the gear, the panniers were in the way. Eventually, I removed all the kit. The weight of the fuel in the additional tanks meant I couldn’t spin the back wheel on centre stand, too much weight on it. The chain was so dry, it HAD to be oiled, what could I do?
I put the bike on side stand, balanced it with my left while trying to feed oil in with my right. The bike was on a slope and took off, and oil went everywhere. I ran the bike along the kerb, to stop it running away. I poured oil into the cap of the bottle, and proceeded to painstakingly dip my finger in and lube each link one at a time, grovelling along in the gutter as Git tried to escape into the traffic. Several times I left the oil bottle too far behind to replenish what was in the cap, so there I am, laying in the gutter, trying to hook the oil bottle towards me with my foot, oil all along thirty feet or so of kerbing, and my luggage scattered along the grass banking! I must have looked a sight!
And all the while, dark is descending, and the weather is closing in, and here I am, rolling around in the gutter like a drunk, thinking, if only…….
Anyway, I swear I went faster afterwards, and I strongly believe that with so little power available, even oiling the chain helps, as I was easily cruising at 50 after. Its many little things that add up to these little guys running well!
It’s true. If my bike will only do 45mph, it’s time to lube the chain, then I’m back up to 50mph again I’ve ridden sufficient since to be certain of this.
Anyway, on I went. It was snowing at Reading, and before I could make a decision I was past it.
I also spoke to my daughter, who was supposed to be caring fro my old mum in my absence. She’d been forbidden to go out in the snow by her mum, as she’d only been driving a few months. And somehow she’d scraped through on her first test, and was still driving like Mr Bean. (Sorry Sam! J )
So her mum had called my neighbours to feed her, and doing that should have been my call not hers so I wasn’t best pleased.
I realised I’d given little thought to the matter, being so immersed in events.
Best I just get home, I thought, and the decision to ‘go for it’ was made, and Reading slipped behind.
I hit the M25 in Blizzard conditions. I watched as the completely white fast lane encroached, and the slow lane become white too.
I was on the M25, riding on thin snow, with the traffic right up my arse, which I can tell you honestly, was going half a crown, sixpence…..
I was in the lap of the Gods, that’s all I can say. As my exit for the A12 approached, I was glad to be getting off the motorway but mindful it was worse in Suffolk. What lay ahead?
At some point my phone rang. For five days I had been riding with the phones in a plastic beach bag around my neck. Handy, because I could hear them, and sometimes just about see who was calling, which meant I cold determine whether to pull over and answer or not.
They rang, I fumbled, and I couldn’t give it enough time given the road conditions to make out who was calling. Never mind, I had more pressing things on the go.
A few miles up the A12, I felt this sliding action from my chest down to my lap, and off to my right…..
I knew instinctively it was my phones, and I swore out loud!
I pulled over at the exit ahead, and leaving Git in the kerb, I walked back up the carriageway towards the traffic, grateful indeed that I had a high vis coat on.
The snow meant there was only one lane open, and there was a couple of inches of snow right and left of it. I thought, maybe, just maybe, the bag had bounced off left or right of me and would be retrievable.
However, as an oncoming lorry thundered past followed by cars, I could hear the bits of phone tinkling down the road in their wake.
Taking my life in my hands, I dodged the traffic picking this and that up. It was for insurance purposes now, I knew, and I only needed to collect sufficient evidence.
I found a sim card from my second phone, I found the main body of my primary phone smashed up, and the sim was gone, along with all my contacts…..
Bits were hidden in the snow, and the tinkling of bits was ever lengthening as traffic went past. I gave up while it was only the phones that were lost.
A very poorly phone....
It was a lonely, cold, and snowy ride. I was mindful if I fell off and ended up in a ditch or a field, I couldn’t even call for help.
Copdock came gratefully into view. A14 next. Snow across the road, and a blinding blizzard. With trepidation I took the A140 turn off, thse slip goes down a hollow, and it’s often icy.
I negotiated the roundabout and headed up the A140, and the laying snow got thicker. Even though the bottom of the A140 is dual carriageway, the snow lay so thick there was no-one stupid enough to risk moving out of one lane, and so it was, with a long line of impatient cars up my jacksie, I led them the 12 miles to my turning at my ridiculous pace, making frequent hand gestures for them to get back.
I indicated in good time for my right turn, and three cars behind took this as a signal to overtake me on snow, as I turned right. How I beeped my silly little horn. Fearful of others doing the same, I peeled off for the turn far too fast, knowing too well I was going into an uncleared/unsalted side lane too fast.
The snow was about five inches deep, and I wobbled, lost it, and barely kept the bike up. The next 3 ½ miles were feet down at about 7 or 8 miles an hour, with about 5 serious near offs. Bear in mind I was on the Cont Go’s , and they have very little tread.
Eventually, just after 10pm I arrived home. I waited outside beeping the horn until ag came out, and took a picture of me and Git for posterity. He was as pleased to see me, as I was to be home!
Home at last!
1907 miles in 107 hours.
The End.
Some stats from the 1000 miles in 24 hours that I did, not this ride.
My average speed was 45.012 MPH. 79.977seconds per mile.
In total, I used exactly 53.17 litres of Shell V-Power Nitro+ at a cost of £77.30. Ie. 7.19pence per mile.
The bike returned 20.214 miles per litre, at 4.54 litres per gallon thats around 91.77 mpg.
The engine was completely standard. Gearing was + 1 tooth on the front sprocket.
Main jet was raised from 85 to a 92, deliberately running rich to aid cooling.
There was no oil cooler.
The bike carried 23.6 litres of fuel for this attempt reducing stops to those required by Iron Butt UK for verification purposes.
Thanks Glen, I must get the Photo's and Videos in....
Then write up the Elefantentreffen....
Not so much of a yarn there though, it won't be so long.....
"Then something strange happened, Gits ‘Death Scream’ became a Pure tone. It was like we were airborne for a moment, Git’s pure tone the voice of an Angel!
Almost Ethereal, it was like a boat hauling itself up onto the plane, and we flew!"
I love it when they do that!!!
Great write up Newt. I was really with you there. Sometimes a few words can paint a thousand pictures!!
Cheers, (from the comfort of an armchair) Boo.
It's nice to fill in the details of the journey that so many of us were following. Just in case some of you don't know, Newt and Nutters phones were being tracked by Bob on the Cub90 site and he was posting updates throughout the night. There were quite a few of us following their journey and that is how AG was able to tell Newt that he was ahead. I, at least, was looking up every location on Google Earth to track their journeys. As Newt said though when there was a long stop-over it was worrying not knowing why. I'm sure I wasn't the only one who did a "Whoopee!" when you both reached LE, and so close together too.
at a cost of £77.30. Ie. 7.19pence per mile. 
