8th December 2004

The RC RE Round Britain Ride: A-505-O-Crikey!

Emm gets some practice in for the girls' 2222 mile ride, and has a thought or two about riding round Britain on a Royal Enfield (or is she having second thoughts?)

It was just one of those days. It started when I put my helmet on and then sneezed - with my visor down. 'Things can only get better', I thought, cleaning the inside of my visor with the back of a glove. I resolved not to be downhearted and to enjoy the ride ahead, instead.

His Toastiness had mentioned, in passing, that it might be an idea to get some distance in - what with a 2222 mile journey looming on the not-too-distant horizon. He had a point. So, with the habitual 'check-up on the Aged Parents trip' to Norfolk appearing on the calendar, I suggested we take the bikes - including my Royal Enfield - out for a couple of hundred miles.

Wincing at the frost outside and overcoming a sudden urge to dive back under the duvet, he resigned himself to a slightly slower journey than normal up into East Anglia... and gallantly headed off towards the Shed with keys in hand.

Now, as Royal Enfields go, my Bullet 500 usually behaves itself and starts up first or second prod. This morning however, I decided to throw caution to the winds and have a go at doing things the old-fashioned way. After all, I am now a many-mile-motorcyclist, and should be used to this kick-starting thing, yes? Besides, I've been able to kick over the Suzuki T500 throughout the summer without any worries, and one day I'm going to be in the middle of nowhere without a supercharged battery to save my bacon.

I hoisted Olive onto her main stand and started the prodding-of-the-kick-start ritual. Push decomp-ressor lever - the engine sighs, knowing this is going to be painful - lean on kick-start to push things round a bit further, open throttle a tad, thump with hefty right boot... much turning over, but no actual starting. Push decompression lever again - listen to engine sigh - lean on kick-start, throttle not so far open this time, thump with hefty right boot... more turning over, no actual starting.

Three more goes, and then it was my turn to heave a sigh. I sat down on the seat, pulled the clutch in and pushed the little button. Whirr, whirr, cough, and splutter, happy little Royal Enfield. Toast appeared looking at me suspiciously, but I think we just about got away with it.

We headed off, Bullet in front and Moto Guzzi bringing up the rear, in search of petrol. Less than twenty yards down the road, our imminent port of call reminded me of... something... there was something important... I hastily switched the petrol over to run and just about avoided the wobble of the century across oncoming traffic in the process.

Fifty yards further on, I remembered something else and managed to do the right-hand-throttle-thrust which means flicking the choke up and, er, avoiding Toast being choked to death behind me by too rich a fuel mixture. 'Concentrate, concentrate', I thought, 'no time for being an idiot when you're out on the bikes.'

After fuelling up though, things felt much better. Tyres warming, toes starting to get cold, gearbox behaving for a change, that mist on your visor which means it might not rain yet (but it's just murky enough so that some of the traffic might decide to stay at home in the dry); I started to feel better about life, and relaxed into the ride.

From the rolling countryside that sits just to the north of Luton, out along the A505, there's a bit of everything as you head towards the wilds of East Anglia. After about twenty minutes meandering through town traffic the route brought us up briefly onto the A1.

Good. Time enough for the Enfield to have warmed up properly, even if I could no longer feel my nose. Time to open the throttle... head down... filtering out into the first lane.... Meeeeoooowww! Something big, plastic (and probably Japanese) shot past at a great rate of knots. 'OK, no worries', I thought, 'there's obviously a conspiracy, and I'd better triple-check my mirrors today rather than double-check them.'

Have you ever had one of those days when nothing, but nothing goes right, no matter how careful you are? On those days, I'm sure you'll agree it would just be much easier if something important fell off in the driveway - thus preventing embarrassment at least and endangerment to life and limb at best. We all have good rides, and not so good rides, but I was determined to lose the metaphorical training-wheels and be able to crack a couple of hundred miles at a time without thinking about it. Long distance has to be second nature by May next year and this was too good an opportunity to miss.

'So stop moaning, and get on with it', I thought.

OK, concentration back in focus - and in the distance I could see the off-ramp for the A1 exit through Baldock. No problem. Pulling onto the off-ramp, it was time to decelerate slightly, down a gear, chuff up towards the roundabout and... where the hell did the Peugeot think it was going? Did I have 'Mow Me Down' painted on my jacket, or what?

I jumped on the brakes (which you'll know, is something of a leap of faith with Royal Enfields anyway), put my feet down just in case, and avoided the Peugeot bumper and brake lights by millimetres. Millimetres, you understand.

Mumble-mumble-Peugeot drivers-mumble-mutter... the Peugeot pulled away, and I followed it out into the flow of traffic on the roundabout. Where, for some reason known only to the Peugeot driver and whoever he was yakking to on his mobile phone, I found myself changing up, down, up and through a number of neutrals in search of enough torque and a small miracle to steer me around the lurching 205 that had now decided to do all of 8mph... and off towards Baldock.

There, Toast did nothing to endear himself to me as he pulled up beside me at the traffic lights.

'Could have been turning the heater down to medium-hot now. Could have been opening a packet of Maltesers. Could have been changing the CD, listening to Jethro Tull...' a malicious grin through a wild beard and partially open faced helmet is a scary thing, and I was about to say something in defence of winter riding, and heroic deeds... but the lights changed. Having only recently mastered the devious art of locating neutral on purpose, I decided to concentrate instead on the clunk, thump and throttle blip necessary to successfully re-engage first gear.

Several miles of 40mph roadworks later, and I'd started to get into the swing of hovering around the boundaries of top gear without pulling too much on the engine.

If you know the road at all, you'll be aware that the Baldock bypass is due to open in 2006: until then the Highways Agency apologises for the inconvenience, etc, etc. Never mind, the scenery's worth taking in. The dusky earth of turned sod in autumn fields... the odd boundary hedge - so rare to see these days, as farmers maximise their return on every possible acre - lonely, cold looking pigs all muddied up in the corner of a field...

Toast lifted both hands off his handlebars (which always un-nerves me) and made two-handed cuckoo whirls towards his helmet. I backed off to a more sedate 91 (56mph-ish) and he pulled in behind me again; whether or not he'd understood was now irrelevant.

Roads blurred by under happy wheels, Suffolk disappeared and Norfolk hove into view. As we barrelled down the dual carriageway towards what's locally known as the Mildenhall roundabout, I thought once more about petrol. Forgetting for a moment that Bullets manage some of the best fuel economy on the road, I tweaked my indicator and headed into the garage.

The Toast-mobile pulled up alongside fleetingly, popped up its flip-top lid, and warbled something that sounded like 'ket-sum futtherrup?' He had a point; from the globby swishing in the tank, Olive probably didn't need any fuel just yet. So, indicator on, clunk first gear, look back down the dual carriageway, check up-head and pull out...

PPPPPPPPAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRPPPPPP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

When your entire life flashes in front of you, followed closely by the rear trailer of an empty car-transporter two inches from your right ear, you know you should have stayed in bed. The non-kick-start was a sign; the Peugeot was a warning; the car-transporter was a ruddy great clip 'round the ear.

OK. I was stupid. I looked, saw a flashing indicator, and believed the transporter was going to turn right at the roundabout. I was wrong, and I was nearly squashed oyster for my trouble. That's not a very descriptive reference, unless you've actually seen a squashed oyster in which case you'll understand PERFECTLY what I mean. The car-transporter was THAT close.

Toast pulled up alongside, and kicked me. Which I probably deserved. When he'd put his heart back in the right place, and I'd checked my underwear and found it all still reasonably wearable, we pulled off again, and continued without incident to the middle of Norfolk, where my father promptly took the michael and made me promise to look twice in future. At least twice. And three times if possible.

It's funny how little things - like impending disaster and being mounted as a hood ornament - can make you think. Will I manage 2222 miles in May next year without making a mistake? Unlikely, but I'll be trying extremely hard between now and then to minimise the severity of cock-ups. Did Toast carry out his threat and buy a book to read on the way home, and do Moto Guzzis suffer from being ridden in third gear for a hundred miles? I'm not telling. Will the Electra behave itself and be an 'easier' ride than my Bullet? That's a hard one. Between Rowena and myself, I'm the one with least riding experience - by thousands of miles - and the ride to Norfolk reminded me of that, in no uncertain circumstances. But will that show in the way the Electra performs? It might do. Who knows? What do you think?

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