Frank’s last word

In the presence of greatness. Or the presence of someone who covers astounding mileage on his favourite machine!

Living in Cornwall, Frank is on the main Land’s End to John O’ Groats route. The sights he sees...

I’ve just this minute got back from an unexpectedly remarkable lunch. There's nothing remarkable about lunch, I hear you say wearily, but there is when you've shared the culinary delight with a chap called John – John Young.

“I'm riding up from Land's End. Fancy a cuppa?”

“Sure. Where? Roadford Lake in Devon has a tearoom.”

“See you there…”

Nothing unusual in this, you might say, and you would be correct. However…

I've known John, on and off, for many years. Although I know who he is and have spoken with him several times at events, I'm far more familiar with his exploits aboard his favourite machines, Triumph Tridents. I knew, for example, that he covers prodigious mileages – improbable mileages – aboard Triumph Tridents. Not just the one, either; John has a considerable collection of the things, including, for example, a racing car powered by a Trident, a huge scrambles outfit powered by a Trident, and several famous racing examples of the brood. He also owns a large accumulation of the expertise, determination, knowledge and parts required to keep the fleet on the road. Or road-ready. Or race-ready. Delete as appropriate.

I was late. This is not entirely unusual. It was a Sunday, after all, and although it had been suitably drizzling when I set out, the sun was blasting down by the time I arrived.

Modern riding gear is very warm. I tell you this to deflect your attention from the fact that although I was also Triumph mounted, I had ridden less than 25 miles and my Triumph is less than a year old. John offered sympathies. It is possible to go off people.

Feigning interest, as is only right in situations like these, I asked when he expected to reach John O'Groats. I've been living on the famous LE JoG route for very many years now and am unhappily familiar with a surprisingly large number of old bike nuts who decide – for no reason I've ever understood – to ride the entire length of mainland Britain. And if this appears slightly bonkers, many attempt the feat aboard some elderly British motorcycle. Or Honda Step-thrus, out of some entirely bewildering approach to motorcycling as we know it.

John regarded me with thinly disguised pity. He'd ridden down from John O'Groats the previous day. Of course he had. I enquired – with mounting humility – how long it had taken? How many days? Although I had guessed the answer.

“Set off yesterday morning; arrived yesterday evening.”

“And today you're riding back?”

John didn't even answer that, simply hopped back onto his seriously laden

T150 and rode it over to park next to my machine. He did this because I had also remarked that he'd parked in an invalid bay. I know how to take control of a situation. The markings were worn out, but, hey, a chap needs to observe the rules, no matter how daft. And being a trained observer of these things, I also observed that there was no apparent effort involved in starting the T150. Certainly none of that kicking nonsense. I kept quiet about this; embarrassment is unbecoming.

Lunch follows breakfast as night follows daylight, and hours skimmed by like Son of Sam as we chattered like lunatics about long-distance motorcycle touring. I've never done any myself.

JY was sympathetic – understanding, even. Comfort, he told me, was the key. If a rider's comfortable, he can ride for as long as he likes. I revealed I had ridden 400 miles in only two days in the middle of the previous week. He was unimpressed.

John is equally unimpressed with himself, remarkably. If I could ride 800 miles in a day and avoid A&E, I would be fabulously impressed with myself. It takes all sorts. He thinks it's unremarkable because he's always done it. I think it's astounding and although I'm too old for hero worship, I was developing a worrying level of respect.

We chatted about the various mods he's made to his elderly triple to make it suitable for the sort of long-distance haulage more usually associated with giant adventure bikes and the time passed, as it does. Soon it was time for us to part: me to pen these words for you, and John to ride somewhere very far away in very little time.

“I don't think I'll get my ride to Vladivostok this summer,” he remarked, by way of a parting thought.

“Nor me.” Said silently. In the company of giants, then.

“I’ve been living on the famous LE JoG route for very many years now and am unhappily familiar with a surprisingly large number of old bike nuts who decide – for no reason I’ve ever understood – to ride the entire length of mainland Britain.”