Just a week before the long anticipated Coast to Coast trip comes a good luck omen - good wishes from the Odysseus of the
motorcycling world, - author of the best motorcycle travel book of all (Jupiter's Travels), Ted Simon;
"Well, Rob, I'm honoured. Brave of you to compete with the World Cup, but I'm sure grit and that other stuff will win through in the end. At least try to make it as far as Delhi.
Best of luck and best wishes too.
Ted"
You may recall that I dedicated this trip a scaled down homage to his unparalleled four year, 78 thousand mile
circumnavigation of the globe, a ridiculous premise of course, unless you take it in the fun manner in which it
was intended. Thanks Ted!
The Story so far in pictures;
Come Friday 23 June on the eve of the longest weekend of the year and ably assisted by brother Nick
we carted the Yakmobile
up to Hartlepool to carry out the promised attempt on the fearsome Coast to Coast trail, participating with
several other lunatics in the annual NACC Coast to Coast Run, 140 odd miles of
forbidding, challenging, uneven, undulating, unforgiving, writhing... er... B-roads.
All in all probably not
the most challenging expedition ever undertook but - (and this was the pivot that made this all an adventure)
- I had absolutely no idea if this contraption would get me 5 miles down the road, let alone over the lofty
ridges of the Pennines.
Come the next morning we were up early and made it to Blackhall Rocks by half past eight, stopping only
for fuel for the 'support car' and a jerry can for the bike.
The next hour or so was a blur as we unpacked the bike and started to prepare it for the run. - add fuel, oil,
connect battery, pump up the tyres etc, all with constant breaks to chat to the several people who wandered over to
ask questions about the beast. Such was my attention on getting it right I forgot to take a photo I wanted - one of
the bike with the choppy North Sea as the background, although Nick did capture some video footage.
Once pre-flight checks and adjustments had all been made, I attempted the starting procedure and took heart from
the fact that it started up promptly and settled down to the usual ring-ding idle. Now it was 10 O'clock and
time to go.
The Migration Begins!
A cough, a sputter, some smoke, some wobbling and then some clear running, before I knew it I was five miles down the road and in the middle of a widely spaced string of contraptions,
snaking through the country lanes that carried us inexorably towards the brooding bulk of the Pennines. The sun
was shining and I let out a whoop. Amazed that the trip was underway, but fearful that it might may all end too
soon - please God let us do at least twenty miles!!
In the event I needn't have worried. How was I to know though? After all I can't say that the riding was hitch free, - far from it.
For some reason hitherto unnoticed the front wheel had an annoying rub on the front mudguard stay - once per revolution
thrum, thrum and at the
first rest stop I noticed that the tiny screw that held the home-made choke flap on the carb was about to fall out
so I removed it, and pocketed it rather than lose it later on. Most significant though was a tendency to pink - any
time I used full throttle for too long (it's difficult not to on a 2HP motor) the motor would start to lose power
and make the dreaded metallic pinging that spells trouble if you ignore it too long.
The route notes handed out differed slightly from what I had previously thought the
route to be, so I had to struggle to keep a bike in view up ahead or else I was lost. Eventually somewhere near Trimdon I did
go wrong, but luckily soon realised my mistake and found the right way.
So the day began slipping by, a routine developing of trying to avoid pinking, stopping to fiddle with air filter,
adjust mixture, worrying about the route. Before you know it we had trundled deep into the Weardale Valley gaining
altitude slowly to the point where we were, erm, up a bit, and by and by came a welcome stop at High Force.
And a welcome stop it was too. The 'skeletal' seat frame was beginning to become a pain in the you-know-exactly-where
and I had made an interesting discovery in that operating the horn button cut the motor out, - flat battery methinks.
A change of battery, remove the silencer in the search for clean running, a longed for cup of tea (regrettably no cake!) , a natter and off we go again.
From here
it's no stop till Alston, another long pull up into the Middle Fells, rewarded by the far slope towards the resting
place for the night; - coming off the moors it's all downhill into the small isolated village of Alston.
I had a run of several miles
flat out with the speed gradually edging up through the high thirties and the open exhaust blaring like a firecracker,
for some reason this was wildly exhilarating. It all got a bit hairy towards the end though as unknown to me the clutch pivot housing
had been steadily unscrewing itself all day. Now when I went to scrub off some speed - (as Alstons cobbled and still
downhill main street appeared) - I found it impossible to disengage the clutch. I crackled and popped down the road with the
inadequate brakes hard on and just managed to stop amongst a gaggle of other riders;
"Sorry!, anyone got a screwdriver?"
Overnighting was a pleasure in the small friendly village, the campsite (follow the track *through* the
scrapyard sir)
was truly something else, but it turned out well. However the Clutch episode was not over, I couldn't get the clutch
to release properly, - someone pointed out that
the clutch adjustment screw was not the correct part, and should be a longer threaded rod and locknut,
Luckily the bolt that holds the silencer to the frame was the right thread and just
long enough to get the clutch working. So I was back in business but the silencer would stay off for the rest of the
trip. Having established a chance to carry on tomorrow it was time for the pub where steak and beer was most welcome.
Less welcome was a downpour that lasted fully throughout the
hours of darkness. Mercifully it finally abated around 9 a.m. and so we struck camp and fired up the Yakmobile.
Running, it seems worse than ever, I half pushed it to the start point in time for the 10 a.m. off.
As the motor warmed it ran better, enough even to overtake Hugo, however before you knew it the pinking was back,
time to rein it in and be repassed by all and sundry.
Now the longest pull of them all, the fearsome Hartside Pass. Up and up we climbed into mist, cold and damp. Luckily one
of my last additions to the bike had been a set of modern day bike lights, - the rear one I'm sure helped avoid being
splatted from behind by faster traffic. Eventually the summit was attained - break out the Kendal Mint Cake - and a quick breather
until threat of hypothermia indicates a need to move on and shed altitude.
Back down the other side I go and the motor is cracking and popping like a toad in a microwave, will
it ever run clean? In a reverse of yesterdays descent into Alston the clutch holds and the speed falls off.
Once back down into the sunlit valley it's more fiddling with carb and more trundling.
Finally at stop near Penrith I break out the socket set and retard the ignition and swap support car duties
with brother Nick. He soon discovers things are now going better especially with the addition of the air cleaner.
A kind of equilibrium ensued, the motor finally began to settle, and although still pinking a bit would
go about it's work without undue protest, pulling steadily uphill and gathering 'pace' down. So we crossed the M6 and
skirted the Northern margin of the Lake District with the scenery becoming suitably majestic.
Not always but often you find the journey drawing to a close before you're ready for it to end. Over a brow in the road
and the end is suddenly tangible.
Down the last hilly lanes, a network of switchbacks, all the while downhill and before you know it,
down the streets of Whitehaven - the whole population it seems attired in England shirts - yes there is a World Cup
on while I'm fooling about.
A couple of trips round the
one way system and what do you know - St Bees and the Beacon.
What can I say - All of a sudden it's Job Done! Who would've thought it? (I'm not as miserable as this photo makes me look!)
It's all a bit of an anti-climax of course, there's no bunting, no laurels,
after all it's just a few old boys fooling around on glorified bicycles.
The statistics gleaned from the bicycle speedo are suitably modest. 150 miles covered in some 8 hours actual running
time, a maximum of 40.5 miles an hour - cripes that must have been the descent to Alston, an average speed of 20 point
not much. Less than two gallons of fuel consumed, so thats more than 75 miles per gallon, plus a few calories spent
pedalling here and there.
Still I did what I set out to do starting from a no-hope non-running
contraption destined for the abbatoir of e-bay, and by making it to the end I avoided having to calculate where I would
have ended up in the world based on the scaled down homage to Jupiters Travels.
Finally I believe this - any time you set out without knowing if
you're going to make it, - you've the right to call it an adventure!
Just one postscript - the pinking turned out to be down to a spark plug of the wrong heat grade, and a few sharp edges
on the decompressor. Fixed in five minutes once you have time to ponder the problem logically!
Another constant worry was the route.
The Yak resting in it's summer pasture. It seems to have found a mate.
Time Lapse Photography creates the illusion of Speed
Somewhere near Hesket Newmarket
