THE SUMMER SPECIAL
Leave the office early, tomorrow’s Saturday: the Bike team bunk off work, but instead of going home we head for the Yorkshire Dales. And it is bliss…
Great roads, hot tarmac and squashed flies: the summer starts on p 30
Before the off 0 miles The Bike lock-up, Peterborough, Cambs
The tempting prospect of riding some of the best roads in Yorkshire and enjoying pies and fine ales in a scenically located boozer isn’t enough to bring order to the Bike team. Honestly, herding cats is easier than getting five of us, with our own selfmaintained motorcycles, pointing north at the same time. It takes several failed attempts before the alignment of good weather, free diaries, functioning machinery and overnight escape passes from the relevant authorities is achieved. There are still hiccups to come.
As befits a plan for simpletons, the plot is… simple. We’d celebrate the arrival of summer by skiving off work on a Friday afternoon for a romp through the Yorkshire Dales, wiggling up Wensleydale and blasting over Buttertubs Pass. Then we’d pitch tents at the Tan Hill Inn, 1732 feet above sea level, to enjoy high altitude hospitality.
Art man Paul Lang, heroically venturing beyond the borders of Rutland on his pampered Ducati Monster, and I are due to leave the office at 1.00pm to meet up with John Westlake (Yamaha Fazer), Mike Armitage (Yamaha TDR250) and Ben Lindley (Suzuki GSX-R1000) somewhere north of the Doncaster by-pass at 2.30pm.
With Brunellian levels of ingenuity and some elastic bands Langy has attached overnight essentials (and, judging by the size of his pack, non-essentials too) to the back seat of his Ducati. My Honda VFR750, equipped with fresh Dunlop Roadsmarts in honour of Wensleydale, is ready for action too. So let’s run through the checklist… Tent? Check. Sleeping bag? Check. AA card? Check. Keys? Keys? Er… keys? No keys. Ah, they’re in a van, which is on its way to Northampton. I eventually leave at 3.30pm, just two and a half hours behind schedule. Langy, incapable of venturing beyond the borders of Rutland without support, isn’t happy. Hugo Wilson
Stage one 94 miles Peterborough to Skellow
I’m feeling naughty, like bunking off from school or going to the pub when the missus sent you to Sainsbury’s. Skipping work for bike riding is surely a guilty pleasure, but there is always a down side… camping. My colleagues love it, I hate it. The night before I’m attempting to attach tent, groundsheet, sleeping bag and the kitchen sink to the back of my Monster, which has a pillion seat the size of a mouse mat. Straps, bungees and even elastic bands are deployed to ensure a secure load. But all this hard work, and no little inventiveness, means when Hugo and I slope out of the office at 1.00pm I’ll be ready to go. 1.00pm rolls around. Hugo casually leads his Honda out of the lock-up and nonchalantly attaches a bag to the pillion seat with Rok straps. He then tells me we’ll have to stop at the petrol
‘After blundering up the A1 in a fug of boredom we hit the A6108 north out of Ripon. It’s blissful…’
station to refuel. Typical. I’ve already filled up. More time wasted. I hate being late. And then he starts looking for his keys. Hugo doesn’t use pockets like normal people. He has been known to find his keys in socks, shoes and even by the side of roundabouts (true). While I stand around in the sunshine, broiling in my leathers, he goes back into the office. ‘They must be on my desk,’ he reassures me. They aren’t. Today he’s decided the best place to keep his VFR750 keys is snug on the dashboard of the work’s van that’s now on its way down the motorway to Brackley. He tells me to go and he’ll catch up. I swing my leg over my Ducati and leave… Cruising north on the A1 from Peterborough is boring, but at least it’s sunny. I’m on my own bike, I’m not at work, life is great. I recover my composure and sense of yogic calm. Even lorries indulging in ten minute overtakes, 70-odd miles of filtering and inconsiderate right lane hoggers can’t wipe the smile off my face. 95 miles later, on the Doncaster by-pass, Jonners overtakes me on his Fazer. A mile further and we pull into Skellow services where we find Ben who’s just started on a sausage roll.
‘So you planned your packing and you’re still using elastic bands and a bin liner?’
My disappointment, and yes anger, once again rear their ugly heads as I explain the absence of Hugo. Mike’s not here either. An hour later (did I mention I hate being late?) Mike turns up. He’s had to take the wheel out of his TDR250 and re-fit the front mudguard in the correct place – an incorrectly located bolt had been scoring a groove in his new Avon Roadrider. Why can’t people sort these things out the night before? Paul Lang
Stage three 49 miles Skellow to Ripon
Seeing Paul Lang apoplectic with rage is always an enjoyable, and familiar, experience. He waits patiently (unheard of for Langy) until Westlake and I are stuffing ourselves with service station fries and then recounts the morning’s unfortunate events. ‘I’m just… apoplectic,’ he splutters, and goes as red as his leathers.
‘So let me get this straight,’ says Westlake through a mouthful of chips. ‘You planned your packing in advance and you’re still using elastic bands and a bin liner to secure stuff to your bike?’ Langy pipes up again and it takes Armitage arriving on his mirrorless TDR250 to break up the ensuing squabble.
Soon all four bikes are lined up and ready for the North. The two proper bikes (Westlake’s Fazer Fow’ and my GSX-R1000) are so loud at idle they drown out Armitage’s bicycle while Langy fusses over his rattly bag of Ducati-branded bits ‘n’ bolts in a corner. There’s a pool of fuel under it because the worrier brimmed it with petrol that’s now, because of the hot sun, expanding out of the tank. And it makes a sound like someone’s thrown a tool box down a flight of stairs.
In Hugo’s absence the general consensus is to sod him. A text confirms he’s still sat on his throne in the office: reliable gear-driven cams in the VFR750F aren’t so useful when the keys are touring Northamptonshire in a van.
We pull out and I lead up the A1 at a steady 85mph, but only Langy and his red Monstrosity keep up. Armitage and his little 250 diminish in my mirrors. Good-natured Westlake must be keeping him company. We let them catch up, I drop the GSX-R to first gear and slide alongside Armitage at 10,500rpm. He must be doing 6000rpm in sixth. More than this and I expect his head gasket will relocate, conrods self-destruct, the crank jettison, or the rear axle dance loose. Or, possibly, all of the above. So we trundle on up towards Ripon, taking turns to sniff the glorious honey smell of two-stroke oil billowing from Mikey’s TDR. Ben Lindley
Stage four 36 miles Ripon to Hawes
After blundering up the caravaninfested A1 in a fug of boredom and TDR two-stroke fumes, we hit the A6108 heading north out of Ripon. It’s a blissful wake-up call – there should be a sign over the road saying ‘Welcome to Yorkshire: you’ll need your brain for this bit’.
It’s fast and sweepy to start, with convenient straights to overtake tourists and gentle curves to get the blood pumping again after the A1 anaesthesia. This is more like it. It would be perfect on something like an old VFR750, but – as might have been mentioned – there are none to be seen.
Out front on his GSX-R1000, Ben is warming to his task of toasting the rest of us by using the Suzuki’s ludicrous power to smash overtakes into gaps only he can see. Behind him Mikey
‘The road whoops and swoops alongside the River Ure. It’s another level of heaven’
looks like he’s riding a very fast moped – compared with the bulk of the Suzuki and elderly Ducati there’s nothing to the Yamaha. Even the rear tyre is half the width of everyone else’s. But he’s keeping up – just.
After filling up in Masham things get more interesting as the road whoops and swoops alongside the River Ure until we take the A684 into the Yorkshire Dales National Park proper. It’s another level of heaven. If the road is straight, undulations provide entertainment with the GSX-R and my FZ effortlessly wheelieing over crests (not sure what the Ducati and moped are doing – they’re some way behind). Then you dive into another swirling tangle of corners that thread between hedges, through woods and over the Ure (again). I’ve been trying to sell my FZ1 Fazer for the last month. It’s off the market. John Westlake
Stage five 13 miles Hawes to Tan Hill
A brief search shows Wilson to be conspicuous by his continued absence, so we depart Hawes and skip north. The roads from Ripon were wonderful, but I’m eager for Buttertubs Pass. Its knotted climbs and plummeting descents are an opportunity for my 250 to leave the heavyweights trailing thanks to its gymnast agility, supple suspension and terrible brakes. Hopefully it’s also an opportunity to see Langy’s woefully insecure luggage cartwheel down a hillside. Enduring hours of incompetence has been worth it. Road, weather and bike are breath-taking and the only other living things up here are nonchalant sheep. Attempting to unleash
‘In the middle of nowhere and basking in golden light, it feels a million miles from the office’
Ben’s GSX-R between the stone walls must be like trying to do keyhole surgery with an axe, in the fog. And with the Monster’s ride causing blurred vision I have to wait for the rest of the intrepid travellers to catch up at Thwaite.
A right turn could take us to the villages of Crackpot and Booze. Fitting, all things considered, but we hook left on the B6270, which appears to run mainly through people’s front gardens. A series of daft first-gear hairpins lift us to shadow the Pennine Way and the road becomes comical; all yumps and belly-floating dips and scratchy corners (and more of those sheep). TDR territory.
And there’s Tan Hill Inn. In the middle of nowhere and basking in golden light, it feels a million miles from the office. We’re midway through stuffing poles into canvas when a second whine joins Langy’s incessant anti-tent whinging. Geardriven cams. Hugo saunters up having entirely missed the glorious ride that was his idea in the first place. It matters not a jot. Furnished with suitable refreshments (four proper ales, plus fizzy tasteless piss for the Ducati pilot) we sit back, soak in our astounding location and gush over the trip. Bikes. They are brilliant, eh? Mike Armitage