Dreaming of the A1
That first long journey on a motorcycle is one that stays with us for the rest of our lives. Chris Dickinson tells how he and his cousin Michael took to the road for their first long road trips.
One of the positive things about the last 11 months has been the enjoyable stories and reminiscences in OBM. Pete Kelly’s article in the January edition, recalling his incredible winter trip to Scotland on a Royal Enfield Bullet combination, got me thinking about my first long trip on a motorcycle.
Many of my summer holidays were spent in Northumberland at my cousin’s farm. Michael often worked on the farm and used some of his earnings to buy a Raleigh Runabout. Having access to the farm tracks and long tarmac road meant that we spent many happy hours riding that machine. This small bike really got me hooked on the joy of motorcycling. We rode that bike flat out at 25mph up and down the tracks and lane, but it never refused to start and always accelerated like a scalded cat. The summer evenings were spent discussing the bigger motorcycles we would get, and the fantastic journeys we would go on.
In the summer of 1980 Michael passed his motorcycle test on the day of his 17th birthday; the following day he had arranged to ride from the farm just outside of Morpeth to Ancaster, Lincolnshire, where I lived.
This was a journey of 185 miles – an almost unbelievable distance as we were both used to riding our small bikes on local jaunts. Michael had bought a fine secondhand Honda 250 Dream; it was all taxed, insured and ready for the ride. He set off at eight o’clock and arrived at my house late morning, telling me about the fast journey down the A1 and how comfortable the bike was compared to his moped. The bike had run well and looked in great condition, all chrome and orange paintwork.
After lunch there seemed to be plenty of day left so we contemplated what to do and settled on a 20-mile ride to Tattershall, where I had previously lived. We elected to go on Michael’s big bike as, having passed his test, he could now take passengers. Climbing on the back, I was struck how big and comfortable it was – this was the kind of bike you could cover many miles on.
We set off and enjoyed the journey to Tattershall, calling in at the market place for chips. After a while we decided to return home, as Michael had been riding most of the day and had the second half of the trip to do tomorrow.
Ditchfinder generals!
Heading back, we passed through the village of Anwick and on towards Sleaford where there was a corner (now a roundabout) called Speedway Corner.
Coming over the humpback bridge that preceded the corner, I leant forward and shouted to Michael that it would be best to slow down for this one. Unfortunately, we probably needed to slow a little more as we ended up going straight on instead of round the bend, and then into the bottom of a 6ft deep ditch.
We were both still seated on the bike but because of the ‘V’ shape of the sides of the ditch we were wedged in place by our legs. Fortunately, there was no water in the ditch as from the road, but it was so deep that you could not see we were in there.
After a lengthy struggle we managed to free ourselves from the grip of the ditch and scramble to the top. Another rider stopped to help and we had one hell of a struggle to pull the bike up and out of the bottom of the ditch. I seem to remember that we were burned by hot parts of the bike and badly nettled.
Looking the bike over, it wasn’t too bad – a dent in the tank, slightly twisted handlebars and a cracked indicator lens. We were relieved to be in one piece but sad to see the bike a bit worse for wear, particularly as this was only the second day out on it for Michael. We straightened it out as best we could and checked it over before riding very slowly home.
We were greeted with the sight of a very clean and tidy looking Honda 400/4 on the drive. It turned out my sister’s boyfriend had ridden over from Louth to see her. They had gone for a walk and the bike was parked up on our drive. I thought I would try it for size and see how it compared to Michael’s 250. It was on its centre stand and had a small racing fairing with ace bars.
I crouched down into the racing position, imagining reaching the magical ton, when the bike toppled off its stand with me underneath. There were various cracking noises and it seemed an age before Michael pulled the bike from off me.
A terrible sweat came over me. For a start, I had never even met my sister’s boyfriend – he could be one of the
Hells Angels I had read about or built like a brick outhouse. One thing was for certain: he was not going to be too pleased to hear that I had damaged his pride and joy.
Back to the now familiar process of inspecting the motorcycle for damage revealed another cracked indicator (why do they put them out on stalks?) and a hairline crack in the fairing. Not too serious, but still not good. The indicator lens was cracked on the top so, shamefully, I went and collected my screwdriver and turned it through 180 degrees so that it could not be seen and then left the fairing alone.
Later the loving couple returned and seemed to have no eyes for motorcycles, By half past five he set off on the return journey to Louth and I was off the hook. All in all, it had been an eventful day and we were pleased not to break any more motorcycles by the end of it.
The next day Michael was keen to get going on the return leg of his journey, and was away around eight, arriving home at eleven thirty, although sadly picking up a speeding ticket along the way.
The whole weekend had been eventful and proved quite expensive for Michael. But it had really sharpened up my interest in making a long journey of my own, and I resolved to buy a bike suitable to travel that kind of distance.
A dream comes true
Fast-forward to the summer of 1981. I had bought a matching Honda 250 Dream of my own from FK Sharpes in Lincoln. It was well used but in reasonable condition, apart from the shocks which were bottoming out as I rode away from the shop.
I took it straight back but the ever-cheerful salesman told me it was ‘sold as seen’ and he could sell me a set of Koni Dial-a-Rides for £50. They would fit them for free! I was over a barrel as the bike was unrideable and he had no intention of offering me a refund. I begrudgingly paid up and rode off on my dream touring bike.
Now, I had seen pictures of BMWs and I knew that any real touring bike needed to be equipped with a fairing. In those days there seemed to be motorcycle breakers in every town and one such concern was in an old quarry in Waddington, just outside Lincoln.
Calling in at the breakers was always exciting. It was a great big shed left over from the quarry, full of partially dismantled and crashed motorcycles. The owner had little interest in greeting you and seemed to spend most of his time smoking in the makeshift office, so you were left to rummage about and dismantle what you needed, then take it to the office for a reckoning.
Having a good look around, I found a huge Rickman Polaris fairing. It had been involved in an accident and was smashed on the right lower; otherwise it was in reasonable condition. I also found a large rear rack from some other unidentified machine.
Carrying the haul to the office, we settled on a very reasonable price. Getting it home was another matter, as whatever I tried, I could not get it strapped to the bike safely. In the end I went back home and collected a friend who sat on the pillion and wore the fairing on his back like a giant fibreglass coat.
Once home, I found a good black pen and sketched onto the fairing a new aerodynamic form, effectively turning it into a three-quarter fairing. Then, armed with a jig saw, I cut both lowers to match.
Fitting the fairing to the bike went smoothly as it had all the necessary brackets and screws. The rack went on as if it had been made for the machine, even if it was a bit on the large side, and I felt it would carry plenty of luggage.
Sitting astride my newly enhanced beast, it felt fantastic, huge, and a machine which would cover any mileage in any weather. Test riding it at night was an interesting experience now the headlamp was fitted into the fairing and not directly to the forks, but I soon got used to it.
Off up the A1
The repeat journey took place in early July and I set off, heading for the A1 at Newark in lovely sunshine.
Rolling up the slip road and onto the great north road felt fantastic. I soon had the throttle on the stop, although, with my monster fairing, 75mph was flat out.
In those days the A1 was full of roundabouts and slowed progress, but I was soon approaching them as smoothly and fast as I could in order to not lose any precious speed, although the last 10mph took a while to regain after each roundabout. The further north I went the darker the clouds became, but I felt confident behind the huge Polaris and we blasted on.
Around Durham the heavens opened but I progressed onwards, dry as a bone apart from my lower legs and boots which were out in the breeze. The rain eased as I approached Newcastle and I went on to tackle the Tyne Tunnel with its toll. I remember being very nervous about how this would go but it passed without event and I continued north toward Morpeth.
The journey had taken around three-and-a-half hours and the bike had not missed a beat.
Michael inspected my new bike, a little unsure about the giant white addition. He sat on the bike and tried the controls. “Did you know that when your left front indicator is on, the rear right one comes on?” he asked. Slightly crestfallen, I set about adjusting the electrical connections under the seat until it worked correctly. I couldn’t believe I had ridden all that way with crossed indicator wiring.
We went to my aunt's for a good lunch and, in the afternoon, we decided to visit a disused airfield called Tranwell, where locals took their bikes to try drag racing.
We rode over on the Honda and watched the spectacle. Two bikes of any type or capacity would line up next to each other and then a third person would begin the contest with a wave of their arm.
There were some great bikes, some spinning their wheels as they set off down the strip and making a fantastic noise. Michael said we could give it a try on the Honda but I thought it would be best to spare the clutch, considering I was so far from home. He knew one of the riders on a Honda 900 who offered Michael a ride on the back. When he came back he looked distinctly green, although he said it was an amazing experience!
Return journey
The next morning, I readied for the return journey. I fuelled in Morpeth and we set off down the A1, riding through Newcastle and stopping at Westgate Road where Michael showed me around the bike shops, and we looked at the bikes parked along the road.
Parting company, I set back off down the A1. Unfortunately, a strong cross wind was blowing which gave the bike some interesting aerodynamics, especially when overtaking lorries. Stopping for a rest and cup of tea (at something called the Swiss Cottage?) at Wetherby, I arrived home early afternoon, full of enthusiasm from the long journey.
I kept the Honda for another year, completing many other long-ish journeys in all weathers, selling it to a friend who still has it, although in a dismantled state as it burned out an exhaust valve.
These days Michael has a Norton Commando and I have a Triumph T140. We both enjoy local riding but we have yet to complete our much discussed Land’s End to John O’Groats trip.
But, with Pete Kelly’s inspiration, perhaps we will do it soon.