An Anniversary Waltz

It’s an inescapable truism that old folks don’t move very fast. There are of course many admirable exceptions to this rule, but certainly in my case just getting out of a chair is a slow deliberate performance. Another anomaly, as I’m sure other older riders will corroborate, is when said oldster is sitting on the saddle of a motorbike.

It turns out I can move pretty quickly when it comes to good ideas too. It was July 21st when it first occurred to me that this was my 50th summer riding a motorcycle and barely a fortnight later I embarked on a nine day, 1,500 mile, Golden Anniversary road trip.

I was riding my 2012 400 Burgman when the idea first began to germinate in my mind and while it would have been perfectly adequate for the purpose, I couldn’t help thinking how much nicer it would be if I still had enough pull to arrange something just a little more exciting.

I’m not talking Ducati Diavels or Beemer S1000RRs here. Having established that I’m best suited to maxi scooters after I wrecked my right leg in a freak walking speed accident twenty-odd years ago, I was kinda hoping I could get hold of a Forza or a T-Max. However, while I managed a surprising turn of speed coming up with my plan, the five or six working days between me emailing the good folks at Honda and Yamaha and my intended departure date, simply wasn’t sufficient notice and neither of them had my choices available.

My wonderful friend Jon Read offered to loan me his Indian Pursuit and while I appreciated his generosity and was sorely tempted – not least because of the spectacular statement it would make wherever I went – the prospect of being responsible for 900lbs of bike worth nearly thirty grand was just a tad intimidating to say the least. Not that that would have stopped me, we were investigating temporary insurance cover when the lovely folks at Royal Enfield offered to loan me a Super Meteor 650, replete with a screen and panniers.

So it was that I rode away from Spyder Motorcycles’ Silverstone premises (such lovely friendly, helpful people) on a sunny Tuesday morning. My old school, wired earbuds were plugged into my phone, which was as per usual providing my soundtrack by shuffling through a playlist containing over 6.5k tracks. I’d dialled Swansea into Waze and told it to avoid motorways, which left me free to get used to the Meteor.

I was acutely aware of just how long it had been since I’d ridden or driven anything with a clutch (the last geared motorcycle I had ridden was a Rocket III in 2009) so it was no surprise that I made a couple of basic forgetting to pull the clutch in mistakes within the first few miles. But neither of them caused any danger to me or others and by the time I reached light traffic in Banbury, it felt like I’d never been away.

I saw Stowe-on-the-Wold and then Gloucester recede in the bar end mirrors (which were remarkably effective and entirely free from vibration) and everything was flowing nicely on the single carriageway A40 when I came upon The Farmer’s Boy Inn, Longhope. They were advertising ‘Award winning pies’ and it was 2pm, so it struck me as the thing to do. I went with the Classic Shortcrust Tender Steak Stout Pie, which was alright, but it wasn’t a patch on the one that Sara served up the following Saturday (more of that later).

Rejoining the A40, I happily ambled along until I reached the turn off for the A465 just shy of Abergavenny. I spent every summer from my birth in the mid 1950s until I started work in 1971 at my grandfather’s house in Swansea and I’ve continued visiting my Welsh family ever since. In the early days, before the first Severn Bridge was opened (in 1966), it was a toss up between the A48 and the A465 the Heads of the Valley road, and the odd stretch of dual-carriageway aside the ‘high road’ had changed little throughout the years since. I guess I must have used the M4 for my most recent visits (I can drive to Swansea in less than three and a half hours from my house) because I had no idea that the valleys road had become a fast moving, well surfaced dual carriageway that saw me sitting in my aunty’s house in Townhill in what felt like no time at all.

 

I spent the night enjoying the wonderful hospitality at her son, my cousin Jon-Paul’s dramatically converted farmhouse in Llanmorlais on the beautiful Gower Peninsula; and in the morning I thought it was well worth the half hour each way to Rhossili, to get some snaps with the Worm’s Head as a backdrop.

I was due to break that day’s ride with a lunch stop in Llandrindod Wells with Eryl, but before I left Swansea I needed to visit the indoor market in the centre of town to pick up a tub of cockles and a load of Welsh cakes. Having stowed them away (minus the three cakes I ate on the way back to the bike), I opted for the Pontarddulais/Llandovery route. I suppose one of the other alternatives might have been marginally prettier and the roads could have swept me along slightly more dramatically; but frankly considering I was left trying to decide between ‘stunning’ and ‘spectacular’ to describe the ride, it seemed churlish to even think about it.

I was supposed to be staying with an old friend in Macclesfield that night but when I pulled into a lay-by near Chester I saw a message asking for an ETA, which I replied to with an estimate of 19:15. I wasn’t expecting “Too late for me, I shut the world out about now”, so I checked if she was serious and when she confirmed that she was, I said never mind I’d make other arrangements. A swift search on my phone revealed a cheap room in Liverpool 6, so I headed for the Queensway Tunnel.

The address was in a dodgy part of town and the top floor room was pretty dingy, plus there was something running around in the roof space above, so I decided a visit to Jack, Katy and kids in Birkenhead might be in order. I’d known Jack for his entire life having been Best Man at his parents’ wedding and the evening was so relaxed and comfortable that I gratefully accepted their offer of a bed there rather than going back to the room I’d rented.

In the morning I returned to L6 to pick up my luggage before taking the A59 to Preston where I joined the A6. I’d set off in intermittent light drizzle, which had turned to light rain by the time I left Liverpool and switched to a steady downpour before I reached Ormskirk. By the time I pulled into a lay-by just north of Cabus, I was soaked through. When I peeled my leather jacket off before sitting down to a full English, I was staggered to feel how much it weighed. The jumper I was wearing underneath had wet patches at the shoulders and the elbows, and my jeans and boots were absolutely sodden. In fact my hands, which had been inside my brand new Held Air n Dry II Gore-Tex gloves were the only things that were unaffected.

I couldn’t help reflecting on all the occasions over the previous 50 years when I’d made exactly the same mistake; you’d have thought I’d have learned by now. It’s not like I hadn’t brought waterproofs, it’s just that all too often the weather’s like the metaphor about boiling a frog in a saucepan of water, by raising the heat gently. Light drizzle isn’t really a problem, I certainly wouldn’t put waterproofs on for it; then you’re pretty confident that the rain won’t last and consequently by the time it turns into a full on deluge, you’re already drenched so it’s too late to bother. The owner of The Beltie Cafe – who had his Tiger 1050 parked alongside – empathised as I struggled back into my heavy saturated jacket.

But hey, ultimately I only ever make that mistake in the summer; and OK the rain’s every bit as wet as it is in late November, but it’s rarely quite as bone chilling in early August. Besides there’s always the chance the sun will come back out and sure enough the rain had stopped by the time I pulled away from the cafe and pretty soon after the sun made a comeback. One of motorcycling’s greatest tricks is the way a little heat combined with cutting through the wind at 60mph, has an amazing blow-drying effect. Best of all any negative feelings that might have seeped in along with the moisture before breakfast, evaporated even quicker than the dampness, once I was exposed to a little sunshine.

I decided a higher cruising speed could only help the process and little motorway travel wouldn’t exactly be the end of the world, so I joined the M6 at jct 36. I’d forgotten just how delightful the scenery surrounding that section of motorway is. I left the motorway at jct 40 and took the A66 to Cockermouth. I was hoping to find a friend I’d lost contact with some years ago and I managed to locate her cottage, but there was nobody home and I decided that the impeccably presented garden suggested that she longer lived there.

I’d intended crossing the border and finding somewhere to stay in Gretna, but its tweeness and the fact that there were weddings, which invariably seemed to involve kilts, happening everywhere put me off (it didn’t help that I couldn’t shake the image of Scottish combo Wet Wet Wet singing “Love Is All Around”). I checked online and found the Clonyard House Hotel, which was  reasonably priced and just over an hour away on the Solway Firth.

The ground floor room in the family run hotel was clean, comfortable and perfectly adequate for my needs; but it was particularly good value because the £67.50 I paid included a wonderful breakfast (along with orange juice, cereal, tea and toast, I chose two perfectly poached eggs with fresh smoked haddock), which set me up perfectly for the comparatively short hop to Erskine a mere 102 miles away.

What can I tell you about the A roads that took me there via Ayr and Irvine? Very little as it happens. I know that I stopped at the Loch Ken Marina and at a lay-by just north of Patna because I have photos that tell me as much (thank gawd for geo-tagging), but the truth is I was simply enjoying the ride and letting the woman from Waze take care of the directions. Much is made of the merits of mindfulness these days and there can be no question that a motorcycle is the perfect vehicle to take you there because I spent a little over two and a half hours completely involved in the ride and utterly enjoying every moment.

It was a good thing it was relatively short jaunt because Archie and I had a hell of a lot of catching up to do. When we met on a sink estate in Peckham in 1979, he along with his housemates were all studying photography at the London College of Printing, while at the other end of the third floor balcony, our flat was home to three motorcycle couriers; but we all got on so well that we’d invariably end up in whichever flat had most people in it. We’d had a brief catch up about 20 years ago, but that had been at a mutual friend’s 50th, so we barely scratched the surface; whereas with a whole afternoon and evening at our disposal and plenty of red wine to ensure our mouths didn’t dry up, we spent hours nostalgia tripping and it’s to Tracy’s credit that she indulged us throughout.

The last time I embarked on a tour like this was 16 years ago and as anyone who’s reached my sort of age will verify, there’s likely to be a substantial difference between 54 and 70, especially if you have broken bits. My left shoulder in particular tends to give me gyp on long distance drives/rides irrespective of how comfortable the car or bike might be and my boney backside is another source of discomfort after a while. Consequently when I was sitting in the cafe in the lay-by in Lancashire staring out at a steady downpour on day three, I’d decided that if it all got a bit much and turned into a painful grind, I would scrub around my trip to the Highlands, which would shave a couple of days and almost 300 miles off of my overall trip.

However, the previous day’s ride had been a low-stress, low wear & tear, unadulterated biking pleasure and it’s a tribute to the comfort of the Meteor, including the saddle (which is really saying something because the Burgman’s seating is exemplary) that I mounted it looking forward to the run up the side of Loch Lomond and the dramatic Highland scenery I was expecting between me and my next overnight in Lochailort. Two and a half hours later, I was waiting for a seat in the decidedly fancier – and dearer – Artisan Cafe, struggling to get out of a sodden jacket that seemed to weigh almost as much as I did, after I’d repeated my dire failure to respond sensibly to the deteriorating weather.

Once again the rain had stopped by the time I returned to the bike, but once again I was decidedly damp as I climbed onboard. Being thoroughly wet wasn’t quite the killjoy it would have been 45 years ago if I had another half a day’s despatching ahead of me, not least because the Highland scenery was every bit as spectacular as I remembered, possibly even more so glistening as it did with fresh rainfall. I could have done without the drizzle as I rode through Glencoe, but it did little to detract from the awesome landscape.

I stayed with the A82 as it swung across Loch Leven and just as it began tracing the banks of Loch Linnhe after Corran, the sun came out, which in spite of my dampness, turned the ride to Fort William into a magical experience. Nonetheless by the time I joined the A830 for the final 25 miles, I’d just about had enough and I failed to really notice let alone appreciate Lochs Eil and Eilt  as they sped past on my left or the 21 span Glenfinnan Viaduct on my right, having become rather fixated on the odometer as it counted the miles down.

I arrived at Sara and Phil’s place just in time to be whisked off to see the “Harry Potter” train run past the back of their 2½ acres. It turned out to be a lot further than I’d understood when Sara informed me that it wasn’t far, which was a bit of a stretch with my limited mobility and frankly I could’ve done with a machete to help with the undergrowth and brambles; but when we arrived at their viewing point, I got to rest my wet and weary bones on a regular wooden park bench that they had dragged all the way up there (which brought to mind the movie “Fitzcarraldo”) because it provided them with somewhere to sit and take in their own little five arched viaduct and the sea lochs beyond. Shortly after we were rewarded with a ringside seat as The Jacobite steamed past.

Returning to their delightful converted one room schoolhouse, Sara insisted that I treat myself to a soak in a Radox bath. It had been years since I’d had a bath and I’d forgotten how reviving they can be; how – ironically – they seem to draw the creeping dampness out of your bones. I felt so much better sitting down in dry clothes to a wonderful home cooked steak and mushroom pie, accompanied by buttery new potatoes and chard that had still been growing 15 minutes earlier. We rounded the evening off with Chivas Regal, which put the seal on my general knackeredness and I slept the sleep of the just.

Sara had wrapped my jacket around the lagged hot water tank and – and this was an earth shattering revelation – dried my boots overnight in the tumble dryer! It had a special tray you slid in for them and a low heat setting without any tumbling action especially for boots. Putting them on still slightly warm as opposed to the slightly damp they had been since Lancashire, I couldn’t help reflecting that my courier career might have lasted a few more years if I’d had access to such a thing in the ‘80s.

As I pulled back out onto the A830 in warm dry clothes, with porridge warming me from within, I couldn’t have felt more different from the evening before. Joy Division’s “Shadowplay” was in my ears and the road was pure joy as it gently rolled from right to left and back again. I was aware of the Lochs this time around (but I failed to spot the viaduct again), in fact I felt like I could even smell the wildflowers on the verges. I found that instead of watching the miles climbing impatiently, I was avoiding looking at the odometer in the vain hope that I could somehow extend the road back to Fort William.

When I got there I turned left rather than right because I’ve always had a thing about not retracing my tracks wherever possible. I parted ways with the A82 at Spean Bridge, where I took the A86 to the A889, which delivered me to the A9 just south of Dalwhinnie. Pulling onto the main artery at that junction with a steady stream of traffic in both directions required a decisive move, followed by swift acceleration and I couldn’t help wondering how long the line of vehicles that I’d rolled to the front of would be waiting for their chance. The scenery changed as the Highlands rolled into the Lowlands, but for a Big City boy like me it was all a pretty backdrop.

More than one person had expressed surprise at my decision to overnight in Grangemouth, saying it was far from the prettiest spot in Scotland – just an oil refinery really. I admitted that I hadn’t really researched the town beyond working out that it was a good staging post between Lochailort and Newcastle; that I could get a single room with en suite in the Oxgang Kitchen Bar & Rooms for less than forty-five quid; and – and this was the deciding factor – I knew the Kelpies were located close by and photos I’d seen suggested that I really should check them out.

And they certainly didn’t disappoint. Neither did my room, nor the curry I ate in the restaurant, then again my expectations hadn’t been especially high for either; whereas the Kelpies, which had always looked pretty impressive in photos, were truly spectacular close up in all their 30 metres of galvanised steel glory!

As part of my quiet night in I’d Googled cafes so I could get the right sort of start on my ride to Newcastle. I found one that was 15 minutes walk away – or a 2 minute ride in my case. I was glad I’d opted for the bike because the disappointment I felt when I discovered that it was shut with no sign of life inside even though they should’ve opened 10 minutes earlier according to the world’s favourite fallible search engine, could well have put a serious damper on the day if I’d had to walk back on an empty stomach.

I returned to pick up my luggage before setting off towards my next stop in North Berwick, hoping I’d bump into a suitable cafe on the way. As it turned out I found myself heading east on the M9 but I really didn’t fancy motorway service fare so I skipped off when I saw the sign for Winchburgh. It sounded like the kind of place that’d have the sort of cafe I was looking for, so it was something of a surprise to discover (as I confirmed later on the West Lothian Council website) they were building “over 3800 new homes 3 new schools 40 acres of business and retail space and newly developed recreational green spaces”. It was slightly surreal seeing row after row of brand new, empty houses and an equally vacant school, but even the brand new big Sainsbury didn’t have a cafe. Fortunately I managed to find a local (at the third attempt) who pointed me at the Wee Winchburgh Cafe in the old part of the village.

When I dismounted I read a text telling me that my friend Uwe was in bed feeling rubbish, which meant my North Berwick visit wasn’t going to happen. As my lunch stop had been cancelled, I decided to go with the ‘Big Yin’, which consisted of 3 rashers of bacon, 2 fried eggs, a square sausage, a regular sausage, black pudding, haggis, a hash brown, mushrooms, baked beans and a couple of slices of toast. And although I was taught as a boy to always clear my plate, I’m not too embarrassed to admit that it defeated me (but only just).

By the time I lifted my dodgy right leg back over the Meteor, I was all set for the three and a bit hours Waze was telling me it would take me to reach Tony’s place in Newcastle. I pulled up for a snap by the flagpoles at the border and was making good progress when I reached a roundabout a few miles beyond Berwick-upon-Tweed and found a police car blocking the southbound A1 exit. I asked the officer who was waving the traffic back the way they’d come, how I would get to Newcastle? He sent me the same way as everyone else, telling me to pick up a connection to the A697, which would link up with the A1 further south.

I headed the way he directed me, ignoring the Waze woman’s constant attempts to correct my deviation (and wondered yet again at the way the app made that squiggly noise before she offered yet another updated alternative without the slightest trace of exasperation in her voice). I found my way onto the 697, which wended its way south minus the Roman directness of the A1, but I wasn’t in any hurry so I settled back in the saddle and enjoyed the ride.

It was a good thing I didn’t stop in North Berwick because as I discovered when I made a fuel stop, the latest Tony could book a table at the seafood restaurant he’d suggested was 17:15, which I might have struggled to make if I’d been socialising en route. As it turned out I arrived at Tony place in good time to shower and change before heading out for an early dinner at Colmans Seafood Temple on Sandhaven Beach. Suffice to say that it was aptly named and I’d be more than happy to worship there on a regular basis if it wasn’t almost 300 miles and 5½ hours away.

Tony took me from the beach to the Crown Posada in the centre of Newcastle; it’s the second oldest pub in the city and boasts striking stained glass windows, as well as a wide selection of beers available from hand pumps. We rounded the evening off nicely – once again – with Chivas Regals at chez Tony and after a solid night’s sleep and bacon & egg rolls at a classy local cafe, I thanked Tony for his impeccable hospitality before setting off for a nice n easy last day’s ride.

Less than 20 minutes later as I was rolling contentedly along the A19 bang on the legal limit, I saw stationary vehicles ahead. I’d spotted a fire engine, followed shortly after by a police car, tearing down the opposite carriageway on blues & twos and as I threaded my way through the square wheeled traffic, I noticed smoke ahead and it became obvious they were heading my way. The fire engine, the second on the scene, arrived via the hard shoulder just as I emerged at the front of the queue. The first crew already had their hoses working on the burning vehicle, which was hidden just beyond their engine but there was no mistaking where it was because smoke was billowing up from the spot.

The second crew rolled their hoses out and 25 minutes after I’d come to a halt, I was waved through and saw a thoroughly burned out coach and a bunch of mostly very elderly folks huddled on the hard shoulder about 50 yds beyond it. I couldn’t help feeling concerned that they had been standing for so long.

My next scheduled stop was a quick ‘Hiya’ with Moo in Selby, which would’ve been less than an hour and a half via the A19 and A1; but the seaside was calling to me so once I was past Middlesborough I swung east. As I approached Whitby I saw smoke filling the sky in the distance indicating a substantial fire somewhere (it turned out to be the big one on the North York Moors that had started the previous day and is still smouldering in the peat as I write this weeks later). It was school holidays and the whole town was rammed, so I rode up to the abbey for a few snaps before pressing on to Scarborough and then swinging inland.

After a swift pit-stop and hug with Moo in Selby, I set off on the final leg of my trip. I was expected in Rugby for dinner so I settled for the quickest route via the M18 and the M1, which is has to be my least favourite road, but the Enfield dispatched it admirably with zero drama. I was spending the night with Hannah & John, not least because Hannah’s pop Nat was over from the USA and the last time I’d seen him had been at his home in Montpelier, Vermont, in 2008 when I was doing a ‘Fall Colours’ tour around New England on a Rocket III.

It was a short hop from Rugby back to Silverstone in the morning and suddenly it was time to say goodbye to the bike that had been my constant companion and served me so well for the last eight days. We’d covered a little over 1500 miles together and, my wettest moments aside, I could genuinely say that I’d enjoyed just about every one of them. The Meteor had delivered everything I asked of it and always felt like it had more in reserve (and did I mention how comfortable the seat was?). I couldn’t help smiling at my initial idea of doing the trip on a scooter, because after finding myself re-immersed in the waving/nodding/foot-waggling world for nine days, it was a sharp reminder of the many fellow bikers who normally treat me and my fellow step-through riders as somehow unworthy of their acknowledgement.

I’m so glad that I made this trip on so many levels. First up there was the sheer joy of spending over a week on a comfortable, willing motorbike, taking a leisurely stroll around the mainland of this great island of ours. But secondly, and in many ways more importantly, my tour allowed me to spend time with a wide variety of people. Two I’d known well across their entire lives; another was an ex long term romantic partner; there were folks I barely knew, or knew well, but many years ago; then there were a few I’d only ever known online – a couple very well and for many years; and finally there were all of the random individuals you invariably meet and interact with when you’re touring on a bike.

When I first decided to embark on a ‘Last Hurrah’, I didn’t do so with an Elton John “my next comeback concert will be an even bigger money spinner” kind of attitude. It had been so long since I’d been on one that I’d forgotten just how much I loved the freedom of spending a period of days touring on a bike, focusing instead on the reality that I was nowhere near as hardy as I had been in my mid fifties. But of course I’d I’d also forgotten just how rejuvenating a good bike ride can be, so any thoughts of bowing out gracefully have been replaced with a firm commitment not to wait until I’m 86 before I do it again.

Dave Gurman, August 2025