VINTAGE ROAD TRIPPING
Riding a 1932 Douglas on a 1600-mile round trip to a remote Scottish island wasn’t the most sensible notion Jason Hearn had ever had – but moments like this made it all worthwhile. And there were plenty more where that came from...
Jason Hearn takes his 1932 Douglas on a back-roads ride from Cornwall to Scotland – and even makes it all the way back, too
Last summer I found myself riding from Cornwall to Tiree, in Scotland – a distance of about 800 miles – and back again. Over the years, I’ve often ridden that kind of distance in 24 hours, but this trip was a bit more taxing due to the bike – a 1932 Douglas T6 ‘Airedale’. I had plotted a route that avoided dual carriageways and major towns as much as possible. And as it’s not a particularly quick bike, with the hand gearchange providing an additional challenge in continuous stop/ start traffic, I gave myself around 15 days of which three were spent on Tiree, the most westerly island in the Inner Hebrides.
Of course, such distances are child’s play to the likes of Bob Fulton Jnr, who circumnavigated the world in 1932 on a very similar Douglas. Unlike Bob, who announced his world trip in front of the proprietor of Douglas Motors, who promptly gave Bob a bike to do it all on, I had to supply my own motorcycle.
The T6 in question is jointly owned by my uncle, Pat Gormley, and myself. He gets to use it as regular transport throughout the year, while I get to use it for one month of the year – after which Pat has 11 months to fettle it back to good health.
So why was I doing it, and at that particular time? Well, apart from timing it so I could be at the Tiree Festival, the island is also in one of the most remote parts of the UK, so it would scratch an adventurous itch. I’ve often wondered about my own round-the-world trip, having read quite a few books on the subject. Jupiter’s Travels by Ted Simon was the first of many, while Mondo Enduro by Austin Vince et al was also another entertaining read. A couple of years ago I had the opportunity of joining Austin Vince for a Mini Mondo week in the Pyrenees. Off-road all the way, it was huge fun. And on a visit to India, I also rented one of the new Royal Enfield Himalayan models. Boy, was I hooked – and not only that, I had found my perfect bike for my own potential round-the-world venture. Then one day, One Man Caravan was waved under my nose. Read it if you can get your hands on a copy. It’s the story of Bob Fulton’s journey around the world on the Douglas in 1932. Thus the idea was planted into my head that, perhaps, I could take the T6 in place of the Himalayan; ‘Secondhand Caravan’, if you like.
It was a completely daft idea, of course. The bike is older than myself – I’m half a century old as it is, and I have a fairly
damned good idea as to which one will fall apart first. And that was the beauty of it – the whole idea was so ludicrous that it had to be done. Such a choice would force me into using more local roads and potentially allow me to see much more along the way.
My journey to Tiree would really be the first step to my roundthe-world trip: getting to know and live with the bike over the space of a few weeks, riding it a considerable distance, finding camping spots, blagging floor space, meeting old friends, finding new ones... and just basically living life to the full.
The first leg from Pat’s place in Liskeard was done without any serious luggage. Up over Dartmoor was the way to go – going fast was not an option, in fact as I was almost at walking speed up some of the hills, I decided to stop and take in the views.
The sheep just grazed and gazed nonchalantly.
The brakes (or rather the slow retardation device affixed to the front wheel) nearly caught me out on a sharp, steep 90° lefthander that had roadworks and a big, red stop light around the corner. Only by adding the grip of my Altberg boots, which effectively tripled the amount of braking power available to me, did I avoid becoming an ornament on an oncoming 4x4.
A few days of preparation ensued at my place in Blandford Forum, including buying a GPS speedometer so I had an idea of the mileage covered (and the petrol in the tank).
Packing things precariously on the back,
I made the next leg, thankfully short, to my sister’s place, and the home of the Love
Beer brewery in Abingdon that had a beer festival on. I still hadn’t got the technique of starting the bike when cold; it had been quite comforting to watch Pat show how easily it can be done, but it certainly wasn’t being easy for me! I also needed to reorgansie my precariously teetering luggage before it fell off the bike completely.
Thankfully hangover free, day three had been planned as the first serious riding day. Navigation was easy, as the route I’d chosen was very familiar from years of attending the National Rally and living in the Midlands. In order to make things more interesting, I had been fed with little titbits of misinformation, the first being that it was a three-gallon tank on the T6 and I should be starting to look for petrol stations around the 100-mile mark. Hence, at 91 miles, as the bike spluttered through fuel starvation, I had to U-turn back to the petrol station I’d just missed. I stopped to offer help to a Ducati rider at the roadside who I had already passed three times, but he was just stiff and sore from being folded up on his bike! The rest of the day was a pleasant ride, apart from the concrete jungle that sprawls between Liverpool and Leeds. That night I stayed with friends Orb and Alex in Rochdale, with lamb and wine on the menu. Whilst in Rochdale, one of Orb’s mates came round waving wildly his latest find at Aldi – a waterproof bag. I had to have one, so day four started with a bit of shopping. Suitably equipped with a bright yellow bag and a small camping chair, I repacked and tooled up the long hill to the Pennines. It was a glorious ride. Then it was on to the Lake District – another glorious ride with the bike handling like a dream. I stopped off for a pub lunch just before Kirkstone Pass.
Just after lunch, I found myself wondering how the hell modern cars could actually hold up a fully-loaded T6 going up one of the highest passes in England. Overtaking is a tricky business, but bailing an overtake is even hairier, as I soon found out – but I eventually managed it on the downhill stretch. Traffic aside, the bike waffled along nicely on narrow lanes up to and beyond Carlisle. An old, straight and, above all, empty A-road led me to Moffat and my first overnight campsite.
The Duggie was an instant hit, but it didn’t get me any discount at the Camping and Caravanning Club site. Disgusted, the bike marked its spot on the pavement outside reception. The other ‘old’ bikes that I was pointed towards turned out to be EFIengined Enfields!
On leaving Moffat, I gave the bike the remainder of the pint of oil that I was given. Naively, I thought that this would be sufficient for the trip. Apparently not. The sump was still hungry for more... a pint, as it turned out, was probably good for 200 miles. I had ridden about 500 by that stage!
I woke the next day to the sound of rain. I knew it was going to be a wet one and I half-anticipated waiting the day out, but... sod it, rain will stop at the skin. (Wet) suited and booted, I rode up through some of Scotland’s finest roads and, apart from a brief negotiation
‘NAIVELY, I THOUGHT A PINT OF OIL WOULD BE SUFFICIENT FOR THE TRIP. BUT THE SUMP WAS STILL HUNGRY FOR MORE...
of the Glasgow-edinburgh barrier, had a very enjoyable ride. I learned to veer to the shallowest parts of the puddles on the roads – and to shut off the throttle when going through them, as the air intake points down and is about six inches from the road surface. (I might try to mod that somehow as there were a couple of times the engine coughed as it inhaled the wet stuff.)
A relaxing day in Oban followed. I spent the morning in a motor factor’s that had managed to get hold of five litres of straight 40 oil. I put the fuel reserves in the tank and filled my three fuel bottles (and the sump) with oil. Tickets to Tiree had sold out five months ago but I was reliably informed by Calmac ferries that I could wing it on the day (I did). Grey and misty, there wasn’t a great deal to see until Tiree, when dolphins welcomed the boat on entry to the port. I rode to the festival site. I had made it! I was greeted with: “Ooh my dad had a Douglas... how old is that?” Needless to say, the T6 made a popular sideshow. It was also so great hooning round the local lanes that, after the festival had finished, I ran out of petrol on the way back to the ferry. And I had no spare fuel – just spare oil! There is only one petrol station on the island – at the ferry port. I switched on to reserve... nothing. Reserve, as it turns out, works as well as the front brake. With a couple of tilting-the-bike antics, riding up a bank, and then both, I managed to get enough juice into the carb to make it to the port. A long line of people trying to get off the rock indicated that I wasn’t going to wing this one with Calmac, but I did finally get off in the evening. No dolphins this time, but a glorious sun-filled day.
The ride back featured more of the same glorious, empty roads. After the longest ride of the trip, I had a campsite stop-off south of Carlisle – although there’s no hurrying this bike, so even after seven hours in the saddle I didn’t feel tired. Riding through Wigan and the surrounding area was painful, and the bike was getting hot and bothered after a couple of hours of it, but the second return stopover was outside a pub that fellow Douglas rider Mark Jones took me to, just outside of Shrewsbury. With two Duggies zipping along the lanes, it constituted an official ride out. Hope to see Mark on one of the annual meets.
Riding and living with the bike was really getting to be second nature now. The anticipation of ‘will the bike do the journey?’ or even ‘can I do the journey on this bike?’ had fallen away and another glorious day in the saddle followed. Time for some sightseeing and popping in to see friends. Breakfast at Ironbridge, a tea stop at Ian’s place in Northleach (he has a hard job selling bikes that he buys, as he doesn’t advertise them – and as he runs a bike business, some might see that as a weakness). A stopover at what remains of the Douglas factory site in Kingswood, Bristol followed and then onwards to an overnight stop at my friend Jack’s.
The last day was wet. Hissing it down. But the bike started first time and we sploshed away. The weather cleared up until Taunton and then hissed it again. I enjoyed a coffee stop at Moto Velo in Crediton – highly recommended but dangerous for the wallet as they have interesting bikes in the room. Back into the wet gear and splashed down to Tavistock and back to Liskeard for a very welcome pint.
So what next? Well, by any account this was a successful ride in so many ways. I can’t believe the calmness of the bike. You can be in a rush, but the bike will never be. It will go at its own pace. It did 1500 miles with no issues other than a clutch adjustment. It certainly felt very strange not to be riding it the next day. The bike could go on further. I could have, too. And one day, I will...
‘IT WAS SO GREAT HOONING ROUND THE LANES OF TIREE THAT I RAN OUT OF PETROL ON THE WAY BACK TO THE FERRY’