Riding Motorcycles In Britain

(Originally published on Motorcycle.com)

Forget the Frogs, the UK is best for motorcycling

Not too long ago Tod Rafferty wrote a piece for Motorcycle.com in which he intimated that France is the best country for motorcyclists. As a resident of the country that is France’s oldest and closest enemy, I feel I am duty-bound to inform you that, with all due respect to Tod, his assertion is codswallop.

Yes, codswallop. Tommyrot. Poppycock. Flapdoodle. I’m sorry to use such strong language. But if you’re anywhere east of the Atlantic Ocean, it’s Her Majesty’s United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland you want to be visiting. Britain is home to civilised riding. That's civilised with a 'S,' thank you.

I’m from America, but have lived in the UK –– in Wales, specifically –– for roughly a decade. I often pine for Minnesota thunderstorms and Texas cooking, but one thing that keeps me from going back home is knowing how much I’ll miss motorcycling here.

Germany (or possibly the United States) may be able to claim to have made the first motorcycle, but the UK is the country that made motorcycling. Triumph, Norton, Vincent, Brough Superior, and dozens of other great names. The rockers (and mods), the ton-up boys, the Isle of Man TT heroes, and adventurers like Ted Simon, Elspeth Beard, and, of course, Ewan McGregor and Charlie Boorman. Eric Gardner, the man who invented the crash helmet. Geoff Duke, the first man to wear a one-piece leather racing suit. Café racers and streetfighters. It all started here. 

Motorcycling runs in British blood. It is a part of the people’s history, a part of their present, and, as roads grow ever more congested, very much a part of their future. Just last month, MO reported sales of commuter-sized bikes are at an all-time high in the UK. That’s not surprising. I’ve driven in Houston, Los Angeles, Boston and Manhattan, and I assure you: no American has seen traffic congestion of the sort experienced in London or Manchester. Motorcycles are allowed to filter (a.k.a., lane split) in the UK, which means they are generally the best way to ensure you’ll show up on time.

Additionally, a motorcycle-friendly culture means toll roads are often free or discounted. In most cities, motorcyclists are allowed to use bus lanes. Parking lots and parking garages usually have allocated free spaces for motorcycles, and many offer locks and helmet storage.

Police enforcement of speed limits is rare, and on the occasion officers do post themselves roadside they take a relaxed view, disinclined to stop anyone going less than 30 mph over the limit. By and large, though, authorities leave speed enforcement to our machine overlords. Around cities, radar cameras are the scourge of British motorways (a.k.a. “freeways”), but the good news is: those cameras are almost all forward-facing. A motorcycle has no forward plate.

Meanwhile, the good ol’ British punk spirit means many cameras will be damaged –– lenses smashed or spraypainted –– by locals who hate them more than you. Especially in parts of Scotland and Wales where nationalists see rules as a form of English oppression.

Outside of urban areas, roads are generally free flowing. Off the beaten path, Britain’s narrow B roads and country lanes make it seem as if it was built for motorcyclists. In truth, it was built for horses and carts by Roman soldiers; it’s simply that no one since has put in effort to widen the roads. In my wife’s native Devon, roads leading to her father’s house are so narrow that hedgerows scrape both sides of a car.

It’s a situation that plays to a motorcycle’s size, allowing you to explore nooks and crannies that are effectively inaccessible to cars. Well, assuming your motorcycle is set up with good suspension. There’s a reason the BMW R1200GS (including the GSA) is the best-selling big bike in Britain. Followed closely by the Yamaha FJ-09 (known as the MT-09 Tracer over here). The country’s best-selling Suzuki (V-Strom 1000) and Triumph (Tiger 800) are also adventure-styled.

That’s not to say all the roads are awful. Routes known as “A roads” are generally in good condition and offer plenty of opportunity for engaging and spirited riding. FYI, “spirited” is British motorcycling code for “in excess of the speed limit.” Especially in Scotland in Wales.

One of the real advantages of British geography is the fact this place is so small. Run top to bottom (John o’ Groats to Land’s End) in less than a day and you’ll still need to ride a quarter of the way back to earn an Iron Butt badge. So, everything is close. Long, boring, tire-squaring rides on the interstate aren’t necessary for great riding.

Okay, it’s true what they say about the weather. It rains. If you’re one of those people who refuses to ride in the wet, you should probably stay in Arizona. The good news is that, except in winter, it doesn’t tend to rain very heavily or for very long. Besides, wearing waterproof gear isn’t uncomfortable because temperatures rarely exceed 75º F. Every few years we’ll get a day in July that hits 90º F and they treat it with the same sense of alarm and confusion as Houstonians do snow: cancelling school, closing offices, panic-buying things from grocery stores, etc.

In the case of Britons, though, the thing they’re buying is booze. This speaks to an aspect of Britain that helps one overcome the wet weather, an aspect that makes this such a great country to ride in: British people. Quirky, irreverent, foul-mouthed and quick-witted, they are a people who know how to have fun. British motorcyclists in particular.

Moto-journalism legend John Burns has written a few times about the feeling of asking oneself: “Why doesn’t somebody take this thing away from me?” The feeling that we motorcyclists are somehow pulling off a great trick on the universe, that we’re getting away with something: “Whee! Somebody’s slapped some wheels on this metal box of explosions and I’m going to sit on it! Ha-ha!”

That spirit is strong in British riders. They are mischievous and silly, and happy in their silliness. We Americans often feel need to make what we do seem more important than it is; we don’t just go on a group ride, we Ride in Support of America’s Warrior Heroes. You don’t tend to see that sort of thing here. Britons possess a sense of adventure that they don’t seek to justify or rationalize. After all, it was a Brit, George Mallory, who said he wanted to climb Mount Everest simply “because it’s there.”

I can give you plenty of reasons to come to Britain. Americans are generally well-liked. Everyone speaks English (though, the Welsh appreciate when you use the greeting: “S’mae”). Drivers are better than those found in California, Italy or Spain. You can’t drop a bike without hitting some historical something or other. The food is far better than some would lead you to believe, especially if you like pork. And the quality of the ale will help you not care either way.

But the real reason, of course, is simply that it’s here. It’s odd and it’s beautiful, but most importantly –– and they’ve fought wars to prove this –– it’s better than France.

ADSENSE HERE

Part III: Leaving John Muir's native land

At Carter Bar, marking the England-Scotland border.

If life were a TV series, this episode would probably, for the sake of dramatic license, start with me standing on a no-name country lane, somewhere off the A91 in Perthshire. Actually, I'm not standing, I'm jumping up and down in circles, waving my clenched fists in rage and screaming at the top of my lungs. 

I am angry at a whole host of things, not least of which the present moment –– in which I am suddenly unable to control my temper enough to safely ride a motorcycle. And I am subconsciously aware of just how ridiculous it must look to see a 38-year-old man throwing a tantrum in full riding gear and full face helmet at the side of the road. To that end, I have deliberately chosen this remote spot for this moment. But I am aware, too, that I need to sort myself out quickly because even on Scottish country lanes it is never so very long before a car comes along.

It is a little past 11:30 a.m. and this moment is a boiling point –– a culmination of annoyances that have been building since 7 a.m. That was when I had rolled out of bed in my hotel and headed downstairs for breakfast. For those of you playing along in the United States, the hotels here serve actual breakfasts. My goal was to fill up my belly for a full day's riding, pack my things and be rolling by 8:30 a.m.

I should have known from previous experience this goal was stupidly overambitious. An offer of free pints of Schiehallion the night before had meant I'd gone to bed without packing, leaving it for morning. Throughout the trip, stuffing the Viking Bags AXE Saddlebags was in and of itself a fiddly process; in combination with the packing of my backpack and tank bag, it meant that just getting everything ready to go on the bike took at least an hour.

So, it hadn't been until just before 9 a.m. that I found myself finally lugging everything out to the car park to begin strapping it all to my bike. I took off the heavy duty cover I had brought, rolled it up and packed it into its bag. By this point I was already sweating profusely, the sun of Perthshire morning being warmer than I had anticipated. I strapped the cover bag to the rack, along with cans of chain lube and GT-85, and the heavy security chain I had used to lock the bike to a birch tree. Then I put the fully loaded saddlebags on, adjusting the straps several times to ensure everything was secure. I strapped my backpack to the seat. After that, I pulled rain covers over the rack-and-chain bags and over the backpack. Two straps of Velcro, two luggage straps, four trident buckle straps, five bungee cords, and one cargo net. I would go through the gear-loading process four times on this trip and at no point would it take me less than an hour.

So, when I finally rolled out of the hotel's car park at about 10:45 –– more than two hours after my intended departure time –– my annoyance level was approaching a 6 on a scale of 1 to 10. At the petrol station, the guy at the counter wouldn't wait for me to dig 53p out of my pocket so I could give him exact change. When I tried to give him the 53p regardless, so he could give me a £5 note rather than an overflowing handful of coin, it was clear he was unable to do such math on his own. The cash register had told him to dispense £4.47 and he was unwilling to trust the arithmetic trickery of an American. My annoyance level notched to 7.

I rode out of the petrol station and almost instantly spotted in my side view mirror that I had forgotten to zip up the jacket pocket in which I keep my wallet. I immediately pulled to a side street, performed an awkward U turn, cut the engine, made sure all the zippers on my jacket were secure, started the engine and couldn't help feeling that the clock on my dashboard was taunting me. My annoyance level notched to 8.

The countryside of Northumberland National Park

Within a few hundred metres I realised a lot of air was pushing up my right leg; I had forgotten to zip the leg of my riding pants. I immediately pulled to a side street, performed an awkward U turn, cut the engine, made sure all the zippers on my riding pants were secure, started the engine and promptly found myself stuck on a too-narrow-for-filtering road behind the slowest driver in Scotland. My annoyance level notched to 9.

Before long, though, I made it to the motorway. I opened up the throttle as a kind of emotional release. When I tucked down I noticed that I had neglected to hook my tank bag to the headstock. That's just a safety measure, the bag actually being held in place by magnets. But after several minutes I managed to convince myself that despite my lateness and annoyance, or perhaps because of it, this was not a good day to ride without strapping the bag to the headstock.

So, I took the first exit I found and discovered it to be one of those exits where there is no return ramp to the motorway. I had been dumped in the relative empty of the Perthshire countryside with no idea how to get back on track. I would have to stop, dig out my map and sat-nav just to figure out where I was, and burn even more time getting back to where I wanted to be. My annoyance level hit 10.

Which brings us back to the present, where we started this episode. I have ridden just a short way down the quiet A91 to the most backcountry-looking road I can find. I have cut the engine, carefully stepped off the bike and immediately launched into a full-on toddler tantrum. My face shield is fogging up and I am hyperventilating slightly from using up the oxygen in my helmet. Through the fog, though, I am suddenly able to see my bike is listing severely. I have parked it in mud and the sidestand is sinking.

In a panic, I rush over and muscle the bike upright. Then I push it well onto the solid pavement of the road. With all the calm I can muster, I remove my helmet, set it careful on the ground on top of my gloves, and return to jumping up and down and shouting obscenities.

I cannot figure out why I am behaving this way, but also I cannot stop. Some part of my brain feels it is better to get it all out of my system rather than risk carrying any of that negativity on the bike. My throat is starting to hurt from screaming. I am drenched in sweat. And suddenly I have this sense of myself and my place in the universe. If life were a TV programme, the camera would be rapidly pulling back, showing a ridiculously angry middle-class white man throwing a fit in the tranquil late spring beauty of Scotland because... uhm... he's running a few hours behind on an arbitrary schedule. A schedule that has no meaning. He doesn't have to be anywhere at any time. The whole point of this day is riding and meandering to a budget hotel in Northern England where he'll spend the night. That's it. There is nothing to be upset about.

I stop screaming and within seconds the birds in the tree I'm parked near go back to flirting with one another. It is quiet and warm and I am surrounded by green. I dig my map and sat-nav from my tank bag, figure out where I am and where I need to go, then suit up –– triple checking that all zippers are zipped and buttons buttoned. As I start my bike, an attractive woman in a high-end Land Rover rolls past and winks.

Border country

At Carter Bar. The trailer in the background is the roadside cafe.

Getting through Edinburgh was confusing because in order to go south and east you had to follow roads that claimed to be heading to Glasgow, which is due west. Eventually, though, the traffic opened up and I was speeding to the English border. It was well into that part of the day that could be called "lunch time" by the time I hit Carter Bar, home to a 16th-century border skirmish between England and Scotland, and I considered grabbing food at a roadside cafe but decided to press on.

I did this despite the fact I knew I was entering Northumberland National Park, which holds as its claim to fame the fact it is the least-populated region in all of England. Which, of course, means pubs are few and far between. But the thought of stopping to eat a bacon sandwich served from a dirty old van made me willing to try my luck. 

The roads of Northumberland were fantastic: well paved by British standards, with little traffic and good sight lines on the curves. Again I feel the need to praise my Michelin Pilot Road 4 tires, because ever since having them fitted I've felt more confident in corners. I was able to ride smooth and flowing, and was having such a good time I almost didn't mind that I was hungry. Almost.

I slowed at the only place I had seen for miles, the Camien Cafe. Its car park deserted, a sign out front declared: "BIKER'S AND HGV'S WELCOME!" (a) Some day in the not too distant future I plan to write a post about what makes a good motorcyclist pub/cafe. To me, one of the tell-tale clues that you have not arrived at a good place is a large, grammatically incorrect sign out front welcoming your "kind." To me, such a sign is, in fact, saying: "WE EXPECT YOU TO HAVE LOW STANDARDS!"

I rode on. After realising my options were incredibly limited I followed signs to Otterburn Mill, where I got a meal that wasn't pre-processed pub food. Not that homemade sausage casserole is so much healthier, mind. But, hey, those grilled onions and bell peppers count as vegetables, right?

With food in my belly, my mind seemed to unwind some and I found myself able to enjoy Northumberland even more. On certain sections of road I would like the run so much that I'd turn around and ride it again. When I hit the long straight of the B6318 I delighted in its undulating hills, hitting the throttle right as I crested so as to lift the bike just a little.

That road is straight because it runs parallel to Hadrian's Wall, a 1,900-year-old defense built by the Romans to, well, prove that the Romans could build a wall from one end of Britain to the other. And perhaps to serve as everlasting proof that it is actually possible to build stuff in straight lines in Britain, despite the circuitous and nonsensical planning habits of the island's native inhabitants.

The view from some of the finest toilets Rome ever built.

I stopped to stretch my legs at Vercovicium, a fort along the wall that housed a large Roman garrison for about 275 years. I sat on Hadrian's Wall and thought again on the issue of significance within the universe. Here I was, a middle-class white man in the tranquil late spring beauty of Northumberland, sitting on a structure built by an empire that ruled this place for nigh 400 years –– a space of time greater than the space of time between the present day and when the Mayflower pilgrims arrived in North America. As I thought about this, my phone rang and I suddenly got looped into a conference call at work, a surreal situation that allowed me to utter this brilliant statement: "Well, I'm afraid I can't answer that question right now as I don't have my computer in front of me. Presently, I'm standing in some latrines built in 122 AD. They're quite impressive. So, if you'd like to learn about Roman toilets, I'm your man. On other topics, it might be best to wait until I get back to the office on Monday."

I lounged for as long as my anxious self could allow. Despite having no particular place to be I still had the pressing feeling I was running behind schedule. Plus, I wanted to get back on those Northumberland roads. Sadly, they soon became crowded Cumbrian roads and thereafter Lancashire motorway. I arrived at my hotel just before 6 p.m. I got all the luggage off my bike, oiled the chain, took a shower and discovered that like the staff in every hotel everywhere the people at my hotel were utterly clueless about the surrounding area.

In hindsight, I should have just eaten at the restaurant in my hotel. But I felt there would be a tiny bit more atmosphere at the chain pub across the road. I was totally wrong on that one. My first-ever experience of eating at a Brewer's Fayre served not only as my last-ever experience of eating at a Brewer's Fayre but also one of the most depressing dining experiences of my life.

Walking back to my hotel in the warmth of late-spring sunset, though, I shook it off. I thought again of my place in the universe and what a lucky little place it was to be: a man out on a road trip across Britain, with another full day's riding ahead of him.

––––––––––––––––––––

(a) HGV stands for "heavy goods vehicle." A semi-truck, in other words.

ADSENSE HERE

Part II: A ride to John Muir's native land

A panoramic view from the summit of Cairngorm Mountain in Scotland 

I spent a few days in the Lake District, my bike protected from the frequent rain by a heavy-duty cover I had bothered to strap to rack. I was up there for a conference, which somehow translated into walking up a mountain in the pissing cold rain and wind, followed by many pints of German lager. The second part I liked most, obviously, but in hindsight I enjoyed the first part, as well. It was one of the most fun work-related things I've ever been to. Next year's conference is in the Broads and I am already planning my route.

Back in the Lake District, a perfectly timed break in the rain meant I was able to strap all my gear to the bike in the dry. It started raining again right as I pressed the starter, as if the button were wired not only to the Honda's engine but the clouds. I settled into it and hoped my motorcycle gear would hold up better than my hiking gear. The day before, I had ascended Scafell Pike with a group and discovered that my rainproof hiking gear was ridiculously sub-par when confronted by eight hours of constant rain.

Your faithful correspondent at the summit of Cairngorm Mountain.

On the motorway, the rain turned to hail at one point, which was less than pleasant, but I stayed dry. And huge love goes to the guys at Michelin for the Pilot Road 4 tires they gave me recently. Honestly, those tires are (so far) fantastic. They hold so well in torrential rain that I legitimately thought to myself at one point: "You know, when pondering which bike I want next, I may want to consider limiting my options to those bikes that can wear these tires."

So, you know, bikes like the BMW F800GT or the other sport tourers I wrote about not too long ago. Indeed, despite my extreme love for bikes like the Victory Cross Country, I couldn't help feeling that a middleweight sport tourer is considerably better suited to my present needs. Effectively, that's what I have now in my Honda CBF600 SA. And, but for a few additional creature comforts, I can't say I desired for much more on this trip than the bike I already had. That was especially true when I had to ride on gravel or spin the bike on its centre stand. Less weight means a bike that's easier to push around. Middleweight sport tourers aren't the bad-ass rumbling machines that some part of me seems to want, but this trip showed they are ideal for zipping around Europe.

I pumped my fist in celebration as I rolled across the border to Scotland. In total, roughly 9 years of my life have been lived in the UK and this was the first time I had managed to get to this part of it. By way of welcome, the rain subsided as I rolled into the services at Gretna. I ate a KFC lunch and took in the Scottish accents around me.

If you follow Steve and Sash and their various Road Pickle adventures, a common occurrence with them is their eating at unique, local places. It's much harder to find such a thing in the UK. At least, it is if you're just rolling into town and don't know the place. This is in part due to the fact that eating out in the American sense is a relatively new concept over here. They've long had fine dining, of course, as well as hotels with (usually not that great) restaurants, but they didn't really have a large middle class with lots of expendable income until the 1990s. And as such they didn't have a whole lot of stand-alone restaurants.

When I first came here as an exchange student in 1996, a restaurant of the sort like TGI Fridays (ie, not terribly expensive but also not a greasy spoon cafe) was extremely rare, usually very new, and generally only to be found in ultra-cosmopolitan places like London. I am inclined to digress into a train of thought on how utterly different Britain is now than it was two decades ago but the point is simply to say that when you are travelling from point A to point B in the UK you still too often find yourself eating at chain pubs and American fast-food joints. The best places are hidden and generally not open for lunch.

With my belly and gas tank full I got back on the motorway, riding through increasingly sporadic squally showers. The rain was never so heavy that it obstructed my view, and as I rolled toward Perthshire, the picturesque mountains of Cairngorms National Park loomed enticingly to my north. By the time I got to Perth, my home for the next four days, the sun had come out.

Loch Morlich in Cairngorms National Park

Traffic, too, had thinned to the sort of levels one might experience in farm areas surrounding a major US metropolitan area –– not so quiet that one could even begin to think about setting up a baseball game in the street, but sparse enough that I could maintain a steady speed for more than a minute. If one had such a feature he or she could almost –– almost –– consider clicking on cruise control. I have some very good friends who are originally from Scotland and they have long responded to my complaints of Britain's crowded nature with suggestions that I visit the wide open spaces of their homeland. I suspect that if I were to take them to a place like Paint Rock, Texas, the sheer quiet and solitude of it would cause their minds to melt.

But in comparison to the claustrophobia and pollution I had encountered between Liverpool and Manchester it was bliss. The air smelled fresh and clean. The vast majority of drivers around me behaved in a sane manner (safe following distances, reasonable speeds, etc.). And already, within hours of arriving, I was making promises to myself to return to Scotland soon.

That night I ate dinner at The Bothy, a great local pub in the heart of Perth that sources many of its foods locally. I drank pints of Schiehallion, I struck up a long conversation with my waitress who said her boyfriend looked like Benedict Cumberbatch (she showed me pictures; he does) and felt thankful for the life I have. Then I went back to my hotel and sent rude texts to Jenn.

Some pictures from Scotland

A field of bluebells I came across whilst walking in Battleby.

Looking up to the Cairngorms from Loch Morlich.

View from the summit of Cairngorm Mountain

Gorse flowers in Battleby

The tranquility of Perth city centre on a Sunday evening

ADSENSE HERE