Mikes Big Adventure

Thursday 21st August 2003 - Day Six

Strong wind rocked the old caravan and rain hammered down on the thin hollow roof all night. I was up several times to look out of the window to be faced by a grey murky restless sea. I don`t think I slept much but the next morning I woke about 8am and turned on the portable tv. The news was on followed by the weather report. Apparently there had been gale force winds and torrential rain in the night (I didnt need to be told this!) but the day ahead was due to be a little drier and calmer. Bad news was the same gales and downpour was expected for the following night. I rolled out of bed, stumbled about a bit and opened the curtains. Surprisingly the view was good. The sea was calm and there were no signs of wind or rain. However, my head was spinning, I felt nauseous and my balance was off. I was seasick!

After a brief wash and brush up my thoughts turned to the bike. This was the first time since it came into my possession that it had endured a night outside in the rain - and what rain! I`d worried all night that the ground it was stood on might soften because of the heavy rain and I might find my bike on its side in the morning. I dashed out to check. Not only was it still upright, the rain, which was very clean due to the virtually pollution free environment had washed all the muck off it and it was now gleaming! But, it had never had such a drenching so would it start?

Just as I was patting the seat of the bike and telling it how proud I was that it got me here I noticed the caravan owner pop out of his house. I looked up and greeted him a good morning. A brief chat later and he confirmed that there was no hurry to leave but there was someone else booked in to use the caravan that night. I said I wanted to be out by about 10.30am, two hours later, to give me an early start. I`d need it because I wanted to look around the area before setting off in search of a bed & breakfast house on the way back.

So, thoughts of how to get home with a non starting bike once again filled my nauseating brain. Sitting in the caravan I pondered my options. With few tools and no breakdown/recovery membership I really had very few. I wondered if I phoned a national breakdown service and offered to pay for a year if theyd take me and bike home. I imagined the reaction when I told them where I was! No, highly unlikely they`ll take me on and even if they did I`d probably be waiting a long, long time to be collected.

Time passed as I put on ALL of my clothes. I`d been frozen on the way up here and was expecting worse weather on the way back down. I probably looked like the Michelin man but I was well padded, dry and warm. It dragged on to 10am so just before putting on my biker jacket, helmet and gloves I walked over to the bike. John Wayne style, I slung one leg over the saddle, pushed the key into the ignition and turned. One very bright, vivid green eye of a neutrallight stared back at me. The battery was holding a very full charge. Good sign! My right thumb hovered over the start button.... staring intently at the green light, hoping it would shine just as brightly as I pressed. A firm jab and voila! The engine spun into life with a growl from the exhaust to say "Heck, what did you expect?!".

So, it was time to explore the little villages around John o Groats. With all my clothes on my body it only left one bag to pack onto the bike. I was soon on my way and heading west along the coast road to Dunnet Head. The roads are quite narrow but very open, amongst thistle and heather lined meadows, circling the Isle of Stroma. I encountered hardly any traffic at all so dropped my speed to a very relaxed 25mph as I took in the staggering landscape around me.

About ten miles later and I`m winding my way toward Dunnet Head, the most northerly point of mainland UK, as you can see in the picture. This is it! I can`t go any further and a sense of proud achievement fills me. There are a few camper vans pulled in at the little car park and just about every one of them bearing a foreign number plate. As I`m stood admiring the view of the coast I really want a picture of myself at that moment. The only people nearby are a middle aged German couple so.. thanks to my two years worth of German evening class I approach the gent and mutter "Sind Sie Deutsch?". "Ja!" he smiles as he answers. I tell him that I can speak a little German, his wife overhearing replies, in perfect English, "Well, we also speak a little English - shall we speak English then?". "Ahh yes!" I answer. Pleased that I`d broken the ice we continued the strangest of conversations. Me, stuttering and mumbling semi German with English words slotted in where I hadn`t a clue and they, Germans, speaking perfect English. Getting back to the purpose of my asking, I remembed I wanted a picture of myself. Now, mid conversation (of sorts) could I remember how to ask, politely, if he would take a picture of me? "Wollen Sie.. errr.. ein.. mmm.. Photo.. machen?". Along with a gesture or two and handing my camera to him, the kind hearted German understood.

This marked the start of the journey home, but first, I had to get my photo to match the one I have of Lands End. The famous sign post is situated just by the small harbour at John o Groats. Glancing at my odometer reminds me I should have filled up with petrol a while back. It was reading 127 miles since the last fill up, 10 miles further than I`d been on a tankful before and 27 miles further than I normally would refill. That 10 mile stretch from the caravan at 25mph had extended the range, so with only half a gallon or so in reserve I very gingerly made the journey to the nearest petrol staion. Finally, reading 133 miles, the main tank was dry and I had to switch on the reserve. As I gently cruised along I worked out with a 2.5 imp gallon main tank the bike had managed over 53 miles to the gallon! Quite a difference to the 28 miles to the gallon I`d achieved on the return leg of last years journey!

Rolling up to the sign, unlike the crowd at Lands End last year, there is no-one waiting in turn. I trundle the bike straight up and with a big, beaming, proud as anything smile on my face I ask the photographer to take my picture. He prepares his camera, takes my details and Istand for a moment to absorb the atmosphere. I see another photographer with a camera just as impressive as the first man. Feeling on top of the world I say hello. "Hello" he answers, in a distinctly foreign voice. "Ah, sind Sie Deutsch?" I ask. "No, Frankreich" he says. Then tells me he is waiting to take my photograph for a French magazine, if he may. "Yes, I`d be happy for you to do that" I tell him, "and would you send me a copy of the magazine if my photo goes in there?". "Yes, of course" says the French photographer and he hands me his business card to contact him later.

The John o Groats photographer carefully places the letters on the sign to spell out where I`d travelled from and how far.. 1015 miles, according to my odometer, and every one of them hard fought. I`m now sat atop my bike and stunned by the crowd that had gathered. Click, click, click! there were other people taking photos of me and a hubbub of commotion as they read the sign - I felt like a star!

There was nothing left to do. I had nowhere to stay booked so I felt it was prudent to set off home early. I`d avoid the looming bad weather and could go at a leisurely pace knowing every mile was a mile closer to home. The petrol station in John o Groats is also the Post Office so I filled the tank and bought a postcard to send home. I wondered who would be there first - me or the card.

My plan was to go as far as I could before teatime then find a Bed & Breakfast perhaps 200-300 miles south, thereby breaking the journey roughly in half. The next morning, after a good meal and a shower, I could do the remaining miles. I retraced my path all the way back through winding mountain roads, passing lakes, sorry LOCHS, over bridges and through tiny villages then towns but this time, with the warmth of the extra padding it was a much more pleasant journey.

On the way up I`d taken the trouble to press the "Mark position" button on my GPS receiver as I passed petrol stations. That meant, on the return journey I knew exactly where and when they`d appear. I could gauge my petrol consumption and work out which station would be best to stop at much better than before. So, I stretched my distance a little, to about 80 miles before stopping to refill.

I remembered passing a Little Chef on the way up, which was just after one of the petrol stops. Little Chefs are great places to eat (in my experience and I`ve eaten at quite a few!). Theyre not too posh and not too "greasy spoon", they have a fairly good vegetarian menu and their prices are great value. This particular place was in Tomatin, just off the main dual carriageway.

After peeling of a few layers of clothing so I could sit behind the table I was greeted by a friendly young waiter. I ordered the "Buy a main meal and get a starter for half price", sipped on my fresh apple juice and waited. Right then I figured it would be a good time to visit the toilet. Leaving the top half of my biker clothing behind off I toddled to the Gents. Following the sign then taking a sharp left as I spotted an empty stall. It seemed a bit odd that Id only walked through one door to this toilet but duly relieved I stood up and turned to the door as I re-fastened myself. Then the door flung open and two young girls walked by! I was visible to the whole restaurant as I zipped up the last of my zippers. Apparently, I`d walked into the disabled toilet by mistake which had a completely moveable wall acting as a door but at that point it had been left wide open. A family eating at a table, in full view, had seen all of this and were staring, fork to mouth, like a set of abstract modern art statues as I tried to "act natural"!

After a thoroughly enjoyable meal I felt refreshed and ready to go. With about 100 miles under my belt and it being still quite early in the day I decided to head off and see how far I could go before it got dark. I was only about 2 hours away from England so, feeling ready to take on more miles, I set off to Aviemore which would be my next petrol stop. Not a necessary one this time as the further south you go, the more there are. Aviemore quite surprised me. Tucked away in the Cairngorms is this bustling little tourist village with brightly decorated shops and other attractions. There were as many people wandering about the street as Id seen in the previous two days! Also, this place didnt just have one petrol station with mini market it had two! I was spoilt for choice!

According to my GPSr I was less than 270 miles from home. Of course that was measuring a straight line but it felt like nothing compared to what Id covered already. I knew it would be dark soon but the traffic was very light and I still felt I could go a lot more miles before needing to stop. Actually I had another 400 miles to go, but I preferred not to think like that and just concentrate on the next landmark which this time would be... the Forth Road Bridge.

It was growing dim as I approached the bridge. On odd occasions I`d catch glimpses of it as the mountains turned into valleys, the tall wire ropes reaching into a dark forboding sky. With no toll to pay going south I maintained a steady 40 mph, alongside an articulated lorry to shield me from any chance of gusting winds. Before I knew it I was back on solid ground, a smirk on my face and a mental "pah" as I shrugged off silly thoughts of bridge phobias.

Signs pointed me to Edinburgh, a large historic city on the east coast of Scotland. More significant to me was that it wasnt too far from Glasgow, another city, over to the west of Scotland, but a place I`d been to before - and one that I knew my way home from! There are shorter routes from Edinburgh to home but going via Glasgow took me along the motorway, a luxury after the tight, winding A roads and open dual carriageways I`d travelled so far.

The M8 turned out to be a nightmare. It was pitch black and virtually the entire route was one enormous road works. If I ever see another traffic cone I`ll....!!! The road was bumpy, very bumpy, so bad in fact I couldnt keep up with traffic. Just as I`m winding back the throttle in submission I pass yet another speed limit sign, 40 mph, then FLASH! I look behind and see a speed camera. NOooo!!!!... but was it the camera flashing or was it the headlights of the cars behind me as they passed over the bumpy road surface? Checking my speedo I see Im going at 40mph.. but I`d only just backed off. Granted, I knew Id been going at about 50mph but had I slowed down in time? All I could do was worry.

Soon, I was passing signs for Gretna, the last town in Scotland before I would cross the border into England. That spurred me on despite the now constant drizzle covering my visor with a million specks of water, glistening like tiny diamonds amongst the coal of darkness. Stopping for petrol, happy in the knowledge this was perhaps my last or next to last stop, I rested for a few minutes, drank a bottle of Lucozade Sport then set off.. in the wrong direction! Reaching the roundabout back to the north slip road for the M6 I realised my mistake and turned back. Maybe my attention was starting to slip, there had been little in the way of scenery and no traffic to speak of to keep me alert. It was also getting quite late, thoughts of the B&B ran through my mind, albeit very slowly. I told myself "only about 150 miles to go, the weathers lousy, its pitch black and starting to get boring but in two hours I could be home". Motivation enough!

The warm green glow of the GPSr screen with its ever decreasing estimated time en route and distance to go readings kept me company. Despite the incessant rain I kept up good speeds. The only traffic through the Peak District were artics grouped together in bunches of three or four. Gradually though, the scenery changed from open moorland and rough hills and dales to cities with fuzzy bright street lights and "normal" traffic. More familiar sings appeared, Morecambe, Blackpool, Preston.. the blanket of rain now becoming a nuisance but spirits hoisted as my ETA came down from hours to minutes.

Opening the throttle to pass a grannymobile, the bike hesitated, spluttered, held at 70mph, then surged forward and back again to about 70. Past the little grey car with little grey lady inside I wondered what was going on. I tried to accelerate again, the same happened. Twisiting the throttle would make the bike hurl itself up to about 70mph, twisting further made the bike decellerate! Carburation was the likely suspect, maybe a torn diaphragm, maybe water in the fuel, maybe factor X. Only 30 minutes from home, this was no time to be breaking down. Holding the speed limit wasnt a problem, only the worry that if had to stop it may not re-start, so planning a route home with the least number of traffic lights and other "gotta stop" junctions became objective #1. The motorway took me 90% of the journey so no stops there. Then a medium size A road, followed by a dual carriageway and finally a short stretch of road that wouldnt be a problem even if it meant pushing the bike home.

Thankfully, the bike performed flawlessly, up to 70mph, all the way home. Although it was now after 1 in the morning there was still a light on in the living room as I knocked on the front door. My wife opened the door, jaw agape, she uttered "What you doing here its only Friday??!". The grin on my face, forcing my numb, frozen face apart prevented me speaking. Pushing the bike into the garage, checking the mileage, I then staggered into the living room. Asked for help to remove my soggy jacket, trousers and boots then handed out the presents. Proud as hell I recapped a few of the days events. "Oh whats 11,022 minus 10,517?" I asked, as my brain had given up. "505, why?" came the answer, "because thats how many miles Ive just done!". "Well, how many have you done altogether?" she asked. "The mileometer read 9502 when I left and now its 11,022"...

I`d travelled 1520 miles in 6 days.