Yamaha xj1300
Rider: Markwilliams
Reason for ride: toget towheels ‘n’ waves
Date: June2015
Bike: Yamahaxj1300
What constitutes a ‘ride of a lifetime’ is a conflation of so many criteria, but for me it means a great bike, great roads, great scenery and if possible, congenial companions. Destination and duration don’t really figure but in 2015 I found myself on the press launch of Yamaha’s XJ1300. This involved a 260+ mile trip from Barcelona to Biarritz and the much anticipated Wheels ‘n’ Waves custom bike wing-ding, by way of a two day blat through the Spanish Pyrenees which would become one of my greatest, if not the greatest ride ever.
Setting of with a bunch of other Euro-hacks from Yamaha’s HQ on the outskirts of my favourite Spanish city, it began across the sun-scorched Catalunya plain on the heavily trafficked but fast moving A2 autoroute. Here I began to get the measure of the last of Yamaha’s big, air-cooled multis as well as the pace that would be set by this gaggle of variously experienced and adrenaline-addicted compadres – both of which would suit me just fine. The bike itself was rooted in one of the all-time heroic sport-tourers launched three decades earlier, the FJ1100, and although emissions strangulation had invoked capacity increases to first 1200cc and thence 1300cc, improvements in engine and chassis design begat a hugely competent, surprisingly easy bike to ride, and ride fast. So great gobs of torque, slick controls, a comfortable riding position for my 6ft 2in frame and little in the way of numbing vibrations facilitated effortless progress along the A2 through the Depressión Central and then up along into the foothills of the Montsec d’rúbies on the single carriageway C-14.
As is often the case on these occasions some of us were intent on showing the cleanest pair of heels, but I was content to be a mid-fielder and take in the scenery and enjoy pushing the metal to my, rather than its, outer limits. After lunch at a huge barn of a restaurant in Agramunt alongside a legion of farm workers I was very ready for the twistier, more mountainous roads up into the Pyrenees proper. I had established a riding rapport with MCN’S Steve Hunt, Yamaha’s UK press officer, Jeff Turner and Faster Son’s Shinya Kimura. As declared earlier riding in a spirited, flowing rhythm with a few other riders along good roads is the essence of a terrific voyage: anticipating each others’ acceleration, braking and lines chosen instills a kind of unspoken camaraderie that’s a rare pleasure. Hunt’s company was especially notable since he was riding Lamb Engineering’s imaginatively customised XV950 courtesy of Yamaha’s Yard Built project which also spawned Kimura’s extraordinary hand-beaten, alloy bodied XSR700, both with minimal upholstery and, erm, ‘distinctive’ riding positions. Admiration grew as we swopped places up in the mountains, due to the XJ’S optimum braking and handling and Steve’s somewhat gruntier acceleration out of slower corners and Kimura’s hard throttling.
This became more so come the afternoon as sullen clouds released their heavy, sodden loads and the superiority of the XJ’S Dunlop Sportmaxes evidenced considerable surefootedness, whereas Hunt’s front heavy bike got all slidey in some of the twistier bends. However here I should mention another ingredient vital to such excursions –
‘A “ride of a lifetime” is a conflation of many criteria: great bike, great roads and congenial companions’
well maintained and signaged roads. Spain, even up in the mountains, is blessed with really well maintained roads, good signage and few other travellers, so as the hours passed and soggy tiredness set in, one could take hidden exit corners and ascend blind brows with much confidence.
But by the time we reached our hotel in the Valle de Serrabio at Ainsa, and despite being cold, soaking wet and finding its restaurant closed, I had that feeling of elation that only great rides can engender.
Dawn, and a drizzly early morning promised a challenging 160+ mile voyage along the switchbackery on towards Jaca and Candanchu on the French border. Here we were blessed with a few hours of sunshine which dried out surfaces and permitted more fast thrills and some gosh-gee views from the mountain passes. Onto OloronSainte-marie into the Basque country it was mainly downhill into the Vallée des Aldudes where the heavens opened again, albeit with rainbows during sunny interludes..
So, we sloshed as best we could on towards Biarritz along the minor highways and eventually the fast, flat sweep of the A64 auto-route. Our late afternoon arrival at our Biarritz hotel provided welcome hot showers, dry clothes, cold beers and tall tales rounded off two days of fabulous fun, travel and adventure – a momentous ride indeed.
Rider: Markgraham
Reason for ride: Manx Grandprix
Date: September1992
Bike: 1981BMWR80G/S
Asinking feeling is never a good one. Especially if you are actually sinking. On land. It’s hard to imagine anything more dispiriting. But try.
One’s heart always goes out to anyone trapped in a bog of any sort – think of poor old Anthony Quayle in Ice Cold In Alex. Although his rescuers knew him to be a dirty spy they still felt compelled to drag him out. Had either the (now) boss of Bike magazine Hugo Wilson or I gone trail riding alone that September day during the Manx Grand Prix in 1992, it’s quite conceivable there would be human remains and 1981 BMW R80G/S found at the bottom of the worst section of The Millennium Way. It’s a trail/green Lane/rupp/whatever, winding from Castletown to Ramsey, and was used back in the day for transporting Mona’s rulers and other Dark Age dignitaries: people like King Ferry, who the IOM Steam Packet Company later named an Orry after. It’s still there, but only part of it is OK for bikes. By OK, that means legal, but not OK for bikes. We joined the Way near Ginger Hall, all very jolly after powering up a steep trail on Laurel Bank on our G/SS, and generally succeeding in doing a lot of Gelande and Strasse on our fine dual purpose machines. The whole trip had so far involved more trail than tarmac, much of it conducted in the foul weather the IOM sometimes specializes in. For much of it we’d been joined by our American friend John on his 1972 Ducati 250. ‘Look, they call it a Scrambler,’ he reasoned. ‘So it’s designed for exactly this kind of thing.’ He did well, until second gear called time on day three.
John was left to meander on tarmac with his depleted gearbox, and the dirt action was left to me and Hugo. The Metzeler Easter Egg pattern trail tyres seemed pretty good on hard and soft(ish) stuff, and we were now enjoying the delights of the Isle in full-on sunshine. Life was good. But it was about to deteriorate.
Rough tarmac gave way to loose gravel, which then became a sort of heathery moss. There were ruts to follow, but soon those ruts were subsumed by a dark, foreboding liquid. The going became soft enough for us to stop and wonder if we were (a) well off-track, and (b) heading into something bothersome. So, we carried on. It got much worse. We stopped again, and this time spied what looked like a shining path of gold through the morass. It was almost that. There was a trail of wooden duckboards over the vast bog – the sort of things last used in WW1 trenches.
Being about a foot and a half wide we could easily keep the Beemers on top and avoid the Stygian pit on either side. This went well until we got to a bridge. By bridge, we mean a raised section of duckboards with a banister/ handrail thing on one side. There was no turning round. We could only go forward. Over we went – and over we went. There was just not enough grip, we had not enough skill, and into the peat nightmare we tumbled. This was bad. Hugo’s Bee-emm now had a smashed kill switch, which we bound back together with a handkerchief, but of way more concern were the bikes in relation to the waterline. We’re up to our knees, the only thing keeping them above ground are their protruding cylinders. Until this point I’d never imagined what it would have been like to be a woolly mammoth stuck in a tar bog.
The only way out was one bike at a time, one of us alongside on the throttle, one behind pushing. It was desperate and if we hadn’t found a scaffold pole to slip under the frame of the second bike when we went back to rescue it, it could have been game over. It took two hours to go a hundred yards – twice. We emerged near Mountain Box, in the exhausted hysterics only eventful trail riding seems to deliver. But never again, thank you.
‘One’s heart always goes out to anyone trapped in a bog’