Devon TRF Group Forum

Read earlier parts in separate posting.

Day 6 The Big One

Having shown no interest in cars or motorbikes, at the age of 14 I suddenly became interested in all things with engines on two wheels. I was given a project in English to speak on any subject I liked, for 5 minutes, to the rest of the class. I dont know why but I picked "The differences between two stroke and four stroke engines". Researching that topic at the local library (no internet kids -  how did we ever survive?) I was introduced to a whole world of, what my children would now call really cool stuff. I persuaded my mum that as part of this project I needed to have two things:-

1. A book called the complete guide to motorcyclingand,
2. The "What Bike Complete Guide to Motorcycles 1978"  a sort of top trumps magazine with, supposedly, every bike manufactured in the world in 1978. Fantic Choppers, Malaguti 50s, Gilera 125s shared the pages with MZ125s, Jawa 350s and Laverda Jotas. I hovered every detail into my adolescent brain.

My journey to school now took a diversion past Daytona Bikes on Windmill Hill in Ruislip Manor. Every morning and evening at least 15 minutes was spent, nose pressed against the window asking myself the really important questions of the day. Whether the KE175 would suit me better than the XL250 (Purdy rode an XL250 in the Avengers)? Would I been seen dead on a Honda CD175 or CB200? Would my best mate's, older brothers, gorgeous 19 year old girlfriend ever notice me as she rode a blood red Honda 400-4 and I didnt even have a FS1-e?

There I first laid eyes on a Harley Davidson Electra Glide. It was in a sort of beige colour but to me it represented all that was great about the US of A, Hollywood, glamour, big skies, long roads, uber- cool. They even let me sit on it! My bedroom wall became festooned in posters and pictures of bikes but, I was a bike nerd without a bike. With a couple of quid a week from a paper round it was unlikely I'd have enough to buy a moped when I was 16 let alone a Harley or a real bike.

And then I got a quite unexpected break. We had a very overgrown back garden with a shed right at the bottom covered in ivy and brambles. I was charged with clearing a path to the shed so it could be cleared out. After a good hour chopping down nettles and brambles I cleared enough of the door to pull it open. Inside was an old 1960s light blue, rusty Mobylette moped. Flat tyres, rusty wheels and covered in cobwebs. Apparently my mum had tried to take her moped test 10 years earlier and failed (it wouldnt start at the test centre as she flooded it). It was dumped in the shed and forgotten about.

This little bike became my secret project. My mate and I pushed it a mile or so through Ruislip woods to a garage (we could have just fetched fuel in a petrol can but we weren't the sharpest knifes in the draw) and then half way back we had a go at pedalling it. After a few hundred yards it coughed into life and took off through the woods with me on it. It had two speeds,  stop and full ahead. Stop was difficult as the brakes didnt work. It travelled with its own self generated fog bank of white smoke which at least made it easy for my mate to find me when it finally wheezed to a halt after its 500m dash for glory.

Unbeknown to my parents, I kept the Mobylette in the shed gradually cleaning bits of it up. The only tools I had was some bicycle spanners, 3 in 1 oil and a hammer. But I managed to get the tyres pumped up (they would stay inflated for about 24 hours), change the spark plug and generally clean it so it would start after a mad minute of pedalling with it up on the centre stand.

I would get home from school before the rest of the family got in from work/school etc. I would wheel it out, put it on the centre stand and aim it down the garden. A furious pedal and then once started throw it forward off the stand and hang on. I toured the garden in figures of eight until it had had enough or I got lost in the smoke and crashed into a large soft-ish bush we had that doubled as my braking zone. I would then push it back into the shed and hope the exhaust smoke would clear before everyone returned.

I finally got caught. It was stupid to think I wouldnt as the bike made a fair amount of noise as well as punching a Mobylette sized hole in the ozone layer. While carving a particularly cool turn I looked up to see my Mum stood at the kitchen door, arms crossed. I crashed, missing the soft bush and embedding myself in a rose bush.

But I didnt get the bollocking I expected. She actually was a bit tearful and took me inside. There I was shown some pictures and medals of my Mums dad. My Grandad had died the year I was born, 1963. She had never told me but he had raced for the Wembley Lions Speedway team and then, opting out of having to be a butcher in the family business, illegally entered the USA via Canada to pursue a life with bikes. In the 1930s he had achieved his dream by working in an American bike garage only to be deported after he took up with another mans fiancée and got shopped to the FBI.

I didnt get totally away with it though, as a week later I sneaked back to the shed to find the Mobylette gone. Mum had sold it to a scrap merchant for £20. As she said, "You may remind me of your grandfather but bikes are still dangerous and youre ruining the garden!"

In the HUMM garage Tim and I worked away at trying to find the fault. We changed a few obvious connections, checked fuses but no joy. Tim sent me off for supper and when at mid-night we still hadn't solved it, having almost completely rewired the front end, I started to panic. This could be me out with a DNF.Then turning the ignition key I noticed a bit of movement in the key barrel. A closer look showed it to be loose and that was it!

Hit a bump, the ignition barrel jumps up 2mm, just enough to pull the spade connector away, then it drops back and the connector touches again. Tim you're a star and anyone ever needing a big Moroccan off-road adventure and a truly dedicated mechanic use Tim from http://www.locoformotos.com/

Happy to bed the next day dawned bright again' all the heavy rain and lightening having passed over in the night.

The waiter had given up even frowning at us as Dave and I staggered out from the dining room with most of the fruit bowl, a loaf of bread, a whole plate of cheese and half a pigs worth of ham. The results from the previous night had us in 11^thplace and with a bit of luck we could get a top ten finish.

We had our longest ride ahead of us and decided to try and make some time by heading to Baga via the huge toll tunnel through the mountains. The tunnel is something like 9km long which seems unnaturally long. It was certainly a spooky experience rumbling for minute after minute through the heart of a mountain and it was a welcome sight to see its end. By the time we had paid the toll - 9 euros! -  and found the start of the trail I don't think we'd saved any time at all but, no worries, we were off climbing towards checkpoint 211. After an easy initial accent the trail turned steep and gnarly for about 1/2km and then settled down again. A feature of the day was the number of walkers and cyclists we came across. We heard but didn't see any other bikes. The most bizarre group of travellers we came across was at our highest point, Colle de torn, where having spent a good hour and a half riding the trails up we came across a family sat in a Volvo estate. God only knows how they got up there or back down!

The scenery today was very different, open country side and mountains and very few trees except in the valleys. This meant we could pick the pace up. Dave and I spread out a bit due to me pushing on and the fact that it was safer that way. If you can see clearly ahead no point sitting on the other guys back tyre. I was happily bimbling through some open bends with cows either side, alpine bells a-ringing round their necks, when suddenly what looked like a small brown missile shot out of a tussock of grass on my left and smashed straight into the side of the bike. I had startled a calf that had been hunkered down at the side of the trail and it had been all but invisible. As I had passed close by it had decided to go home to mummy through me and the DRZ. I was thrown sideways but managed to keep my left foot and hand on the bike. I had been doing about 30mph and the bike careered off to the left with me hanging on looking like a member of the white helmets display team leaving the rest for a solo career. I managed to somehow not fall, recovered and ride on to a suitable stopping point.

Dave rode up and asked why Id kicked the cow. I explained that I didn't kick it but that it had done its very best to do the human equivalent of "cow tipping".

"Look like you kicked it from where I was," said Dave, "and then you were showing off riding with only one foot on the pegs." And off he went convinced that I had a downer on cows and their ilk plus a predilection for stunt riding post bovine assault. These things are all a matter of perception.

We made good time and my map reading was now tuned into the HUMM frequency. I was stopping saying "the checkpoint should be here" and 25m around the bend there it was. The 3^rd time that happened I started to get complacent and then, of course, we missed the next one by a mile. I missed the bend that should run us alongside a river. Whilst we went a good ½ mile out of our way the bonus was we went through a camp site where what looked like a coach full of bikini clad, 21 year old, Spanish girls had just gone swimming in the river to cool off. Turning round we rode back through the campsite again. This time they smiled and waved, clearly oblivious to the fact that the two motocross helmeted knights of the road where both in their 40s without a head of hair between them.

Getting onto the right trail it was clear it had suffered from the previous nights storm. There were trees and branches down all over the trail. The downed trees were about 6 inches in diameter but completely covered the trail making for bouncy progress. 3km of this and we finally broke out of the woods onto a stone trail that skirted the river. 1km more and we reached the indicated wooden bridge and a fork in the trail. We stopped to check the road book and plan the next stage.

We then had our only fall out although it was very British and no voices were raised.

Dave and I had muddled along to this point with me geeing him along when he started to falter. I am sure I got on his wick as I am an eternal optimist. If I was given a 5 ton pile of manure I would jump in with a shovel and start digging because there must be a pony in there somewhere. Dave, nice bloke though he is, not only sees a glass that is half empty he'll comment that the glass is dirty as well and whatever is in the glass isn't cold/hot/fizzy enough. That Ying and Yang can be very useful in some circumstances, his cautiousness against my impulsiveness but, planning our assault on the last checkpoint of the HUMM it wasn't. He wanted to turn back, retrace our steps to the road, ride 18 km round and then nip up the trail to get the last checkpoint. I hadn't come all the way to Spain to ride roads. I wanted to ride trails and the next checkpoint was only 5km away. Also, the road book note for the next checkpoint stated:-

"The secret trail that leads from here to CP209 is a hidden treasure. If you dont ride it you have failed, yes, failed." Pretty clear then.

After Dave having his say and me having mine, there was a pause, some silent sandwich eating; a big drink of water and then a compromise was struck. We would take the secret trail by the river (not marked on the map) and if it got too bad we would turn back. Deal struck we mounted up and rode on. The trail quickly got rough, with numerous large, basket ball sized boulders having been brought down off the cliff by the storm. I pushed on with no intention of turning back. The trail climbed up the side of the mountain and the river we had been riding along the edge of now dropped away to our left. Up and up we went, I daren't stop in case Dave asked to turn around. Thankfully the trail levelled and contoured the mountain and became smoother. The river appeared to be a good 1,000ft below us but as we travelled on the view opened up. We rode into a truly stunning panorama of the valleys and mountains.

Dave had been progressing steadily and was now also taken by the amazing landscape. 15 minutes later we both recognised that we had reached our final checkpoint and all the angst and atmosphere dropped away in the elation of the moment. We shook hands, patted each other on the back and took photos. To stand with our bikes in the Spanish mountains, inhale the beautiful clear air and know that we had actually done what 9 months ago had been nothing but a load of chat felt wonderful.

There had been some tough moments but what achievement is valued which doesn't involve overcoming some hardships.

The ride back to HG La Molina was just  sheer unfettered joy. Swinging through the bends up past the cement museum, past the road marker poles used to find the road in winter. Easy rider eat your heart out. Then, as I went to tip into one of the hairpins I had overshot all week, a coach appeared around the bend on my side of the road. I actually saw the driver screw his face up as he saw me coming towards him, an impact inevitable. I lay the Suzuki as hard over to the left as possible and aimed for the tiny gap between the coach and the mountain side. I didnt take my eyes off that shrinking gap and in my head screamed, "oh shiiiiiiiit!"Someone must have been watching over me as I shot through unscathed millimetres to spare between the hand-guards and the mountainside.

Back at base we signed in and straight away got down to changing chain and sprockets over for the return journey. It was now I found out that I was missing every nut off the back end of the bike. The split link was also missing off the chain but amazingly it was still holding together. Once again BMW Ian came to my rescue as the one spare nut I hadn't brought with me he happened to have in his waist belt. My guardian angel was working overtime.

That evening was the HUMM dinner and awards. Team REVS had come in 9^th in our class which was good enough for me. One of the teams got the spirit of the HUMM award for finally managing a finish after 3 attempts. One of their DNF's caused by stopping to help a fellow contestant. The other, well feed and rested, DRZ team won the award for the fewest points, a rather elegant china snail.

Amazingly the team that came second in our class was two guys who had never met before the event. They would have won but they decided to cut across country to a road and lost a bike over the edge of a wooded cliff. It took two hours to drag the bike back to the path and that meant a late finish with a hundred plus penalty points. Other tails of daring do included one of the KLE500 teams. A holed engine casing and no steel putty in the tool kit meant that the bike was towed off the mountain and along a road until they reached a house with a local working in his garage. After a lot of pointing and gesticulating he allowed them the run of his workbench. Ingeniously they drilled the hole to a size where they could pass a coach bolt through the casing. Then with a couple of O rings on each end and these cranked down with nuts they had made an oil tight plug. This was still oil tight when they got back having picked up several more check points.

Tim, me, Grant & Susan Johnson

Homeward

The ride home was largely uneventful and relaxed except for a couple of key moments. Team Revs was heading for Route 66 on the Friday, about 350 miles. Just past Toulouse the A route was jammed with traffic following an accident and due to the road being closed ahead wasn't likely to move for hours. After a few miles of filtering (the bike friendly French will do their best to get out of your way) the gravel verge and grass bank became too tempting for us off road veterans. We pulled out of the traffic, crossed the emergency lane and standing up on the pegs we cruised the motorway verge. Before long we had picked up Ian and Nick and Sara and Steve, also on BMWs but F800s.

Stopping at a toll booth we decided to all stay at Route 66. By the time I pulled into the hotel court yard (I had stopped for fuel and a pee) the others had all showered and were in the bar. I got off my bike, was called in for a welcoming cold beer and then the next thing I remember was waking up on my bed still in the clothes I had arrived in. It was 8:30am and breakfast was being cooked downstairs. Apparently, we had had a great nights revelry and had been particularly entertained by Jerry, an Irish man on an African twin heading off to a nudist camp in the South of France for 6 weeks. I hope he packed plenty of sun screen.

Two days later Dave and I rolled off the ferry. Back in blighty on a cool, late summer Sunday evening. The ride across Dartmoor and through a deserted Exeter was magical. The DRZs gorgeous engine note truly sang as I raced up the empty Exe valley road. Every bend a delight and the head light doing a first rate job of showing me the way home. I will never forget that night ride. It was one of those moments of absolute motorcycling ecstasy you occasionally get. Everything working as it should, the bike an extension of your body and the biggest smile on your face. I really felt the presence of my old friend Colin riding with me.

HUMM along if you know the tune, its certainly a song worth singing.

Steve nasher Nash

Sept 2010

Thanks to :-

Lois Pryce and Austin Vince  Austin for inventing the HUMM and showing what adventures can be had on a shoestring and Lois for telling me to, just go.

Susan & Grant Johnson HUMM organisers and such lovely people

Tim of locos for motos - ace mechanic and a very patient man

The wonderful folk of the Devon TRF their knowledge was invaluable and so freely given. They are the true guardians of motorcycle freedom and democracy may your tyres never go flat.

The guys of the Devon Trail Adventurists Forum Gents you need to do this.

Ghost bikes for the cheap kit.

All the HUMM competitors who rally around to support each other truly wonderful folk.

Dave thanks for the company and well done for keeping going to the end. You did good.

And finally, my beautiful and supportive wife Tracey. Without her helping to juggle work and family this little dream would have never been realised. She is a real star.

Cost

The bike cost £1600 and I probably spent another £400 on it rack, spacers, tyres,tubes, handle bars etc.

The HUMM was £130 plus £30 a night for the hotel and about another £500 in ferry, fuel, food and travelling costs. It would have ben cheaper if we'd camped more.

Top tips

1. Milk is a pain to carry on trips as the shaking turns it to butter. Pop into a McDonalds and they will give you 40 or 50 UHT milk tubes for free or a small donation in the charity box.
2. Resealable Sandwich bags keeps documents, wallets and phones dry. Also useful for carrying small spares. At a push can be used for holding sandwiches.
3. Eye bolts replace fairing bolts with collared s/s eye bolts. Gives you bungee and towing points.

Essential Kit Bike

Cable ties

Duck tape

Spare nuts and bolts

Spare tubes

Tools and tyre levers (plus scalpel)

Chain splitter/press

small battery powered compressor

Tow strap

Chain links and split links

Metal putty

Riding Kit - travel

EDZ merino wool long sleeved vest and long johns

non-armoured leather trousers

Walking coat -15year old gortex re-proofed before trip

Body armour jacket, Force field shorts and knee guards

Forma trail boots

Camel Pack/ Sun glasses & Goggles

Riding Kit event

As above but motocross trousers and jersey.