MCC Land’s End, 18-19 April 2003
b
y Julia Browne
I
chose to skin out a part-worn rear tyre on the LE, as the forecast was
dry, but after seeing
how much tread peeled away on the sixty mile ride to the start on a
blistering hot Friday evening I wondered if it was a poor choice. The
back wheel is fairly well twatted anyway; the hub is worn to the point
where the bearings drop in by hand (and knock themselves out in about
two hundred miles) and parts of the rim have started to break away, but
the new wh eel
ordered at great expense from Talon hadn’t arrived in time.
And really, does anyone think that tyre choice was going to be a
bigger issue than riding ability? No,
no.
Once
again I was riding my XR600, with my brother Neil on his TR1-BSA. I had
all my paperwork with me this year, I had a full tool-bag, and the bike
had been ‘ready’ for a week, so all that was left was to start. The
start at Plusha services, Launceston, was uncomfortably hot, and after
scrutineering, we had ample time to chew the fat.
It was good to see Trevor Griffiths, ex of the Crocker/Griffiths
Yamaha outfit, and even better to hear that Trevor will be turning out
this autumn with his new VMC KTM outfit, with his wife as chairman.
I hope none of this is meant to be a secret.
I
went on my minute and waited for Neil just along the road. The deal was
that he would lead the route up to North Petherton from memory, and then
I would take over and read the route from my lighted road-book. We
overtook Roy Warren and his Bantam several times on the ride up; he kept
getting past us again, which probably proves that engine size isn’t
everything. There was a
brief stop at the Devon route-check near Holsworthy and a quick word
with Roger Pole, who always seems happy to see us. Approaching Bickleigh
we caught up with two riders whose only lighting appeared to be one
headlight between them. I can sort of remember their numbers but
solidarity calls for me not to reveal them. I’ve no idea what was
going on and will have to wait for the results to see how they fared at
scrutineering. I was certainly holding my breath for them at darkened
road junctions and roundabouts.
And
so we reached North Petherton shortly after dark and got scrutineered.
Now I understand why we are told to have the bore and stroke marked on
the crankcases – all to do with noise levels. Apart from that, we got
through okay, parked up and made haste to the café where we took our
coffees outside and sat on a low wall in the warm night.
There
we exchanged notes and opinions with other competitors for an hour or so
until our due time approached and at 10:50 we left North Petherton with
me leading. I know where Felon’s Oak is, I’ve been there lots (not
practising, guv, honest) so found it OK, but I was surprised at how hard
I had to read the route card to make sure I got there the right way.
All the way along the A39 (which I never ride, and therefore was
caught out by every bend on it) I would see RUPPs, and small roads which
I know lead to RUPPs, and the best RUPP of all, the one all along the
Quantocks ridge and it did flash through my mind – how much more fun
would it be if the MCC was able to route us along the Quantocks ridge?
I’ve ridden the ridge track in the dark. You bother no one and it’s
a brilliant ride. Where was I? Ah. Yes, on the way to Felon’s Oak.
At
the foot of Felon’s Oak several bikes were gathered, some tyre
pressure adjustment going on I daresay. I went straight to the start
line running the same atmospheric tyre pressure that I’d ridden on all
the way. “What do they know that I don’t?” I asked the marshal.
Nothing, as it turned out and Felon’s Oak was nice and dry but
extraordinarily rough, and might have gone smoother if I’d pulled
second gear and carried more speed through it.
Both
of us were clean and went on our way to Stoney Street, following a
couple of guys as far as the other side of Minehead where they turned
off at a point vaguely resembling the route card description. I just
want you to know, you two, that it’s very inconsiderate to do that. I knew
that wasn’t the correct turning, and kept going but… hesitantly…
It doesn’t matter how right you think you know you are; when
the bloke in front of you turns off, you have doubts.
We
got to Stoney Street via the nice little rough track from the right. We
both cleaned this section, but it made my flabby little arms work quite
hard. Last year I remember being shocked by how long and how rough
Stoney Street was, but this year I was emotionally prepared and it
wasn’t a problem. I was also geared up to spotting the boards which
say “section continues” and so knew that if I hadn’t seen the
“section ends” boards, it was still in my future and I wasn’t to
relax!
Away
from the top of Webber’s Post and over the moor for the ride to
Culbone County gate where I had another little moment of doubt about the
route. We were early again, probably just within the ¾ rule, which idea
we kicked around before we handed in our control cards.
In fact, Reuben Alcock and Keith Johnston, both on Triumphs, and
waiting to leave again, were decidedly scathing of our concern regarding
the timing. They left before us, Reuben declaiming that we was going
West in search of Gold… Another black coffee later, hands starting the
caffeine buzz, now, we too were on our way to Beggars.
The
lights of Wales (Port Talbot, somebody told me) winked at us through the
night as we descended Countisbury Hill, then up to Barbrook and into
Beggars Roost. It was very
rough, and very loose, and I bloody nearly failed it shortly after the
start line. It was only
luck that the rear tyre hooked up in time and pushed the bike forwards;
up until then it was just pushing the hill backwards...
Neil
made me lead from the top of Beggars across to Riverton. He waited
patiently for me to return to each junction that I missed, and once on
the Simonsbath road I got my bearings a bit and we were on our way. No
sheep sleeping on the road over the moor this year, and we made good
progress.
I
made a mess of Riverton, very silly. I don’t know what I was thinking
about but the marshals’ helpfully shone their torches on the blur that
was my frantically paddling foot just in case I hadn’t spotted that it
was no longer on the footpeg…Thanks, guys… Neil and his TR1 were
fine here, and we found our way to Torrington (I’m still
route-finding, mind) and the holding check.
John and June Blakeley were welcoming as ever, but even they
couldn’t magic up, say a burger van, let alone lighting in the loos…
It was a long wait.
Eventually
we were unleashed to Sutcombe – Neil knew the way (I think he knew his
way to all of them, but I need practice at route-finding) and lead this
one. The sky was lightening a little as we descended to the stream, but
the ground was still full dark. Sutcombe
was good, cleaned, and we claimed our cake at the top. From there, via
refuelling and a long queue, we rode on to Darracott, and watery
daylight. We followed an early Marlin along the track before Darracott
itself, and it was quite difficult to ride at the steady pace he chose.
I understand his reluctance to rip out his sump or gearbox
unnecessarily, but it made me work quite hard. This, of course, psyched
me up for Darracott itself. Another couple of cleans here – how
important it is to carry enough speed around the Darracott bends so that
you can berm up the banks with impunity – and we were rushing through
Bude (no special test in the car-park this year) to the Widemouth Bay
holding check.
The
sun was cracking the horizon as we waited on the blasted dunes, a cold
wind howling in off the Atlantic. Simon Eddy was kind enough to lay his
TL1000 outfit on its side in the dunes for our amusement while we
waited, and he got a round of applause for his trouble. Plenty of people
were complaining of cold during the rather long wait, but I, alone, it
seems, was warm enough. I probably get more fear and excitement out of
my XR than most people. Neil got past me and led the run over to
Crackington. He left the start line in full attack mode and as he went
of sight over the brow, the back end of the TR1 started to wag, and sure
enough, he ventured up the banks at some speed and whilst wrestling it
back onto the track, had a small dab… I settled for plodding up in
first gear, second would have been better, even through the wet mud and
stuff at the top. My grass-track-riding Uncle John had said he would try
to get to Crackington to spectate (Crackington being close to where, in
circa 1650, the original family was washed up on the shore from foreign
climes) and half way up I heard his voice but was concentrating too
fiercely to acknowledge him…
Treworld
I have failed gloriously in a past End to End on my XL500.
Well, those were the old days, and the XR is a better bike all
round. I had some trouble
starting it at the bottom: the bike was pointing sharp downhill, and to
get a good swing on the kickstart I have to hop momentarily off my other
foot (being a shortarse) and I couldn’t balance enough to do this and
stay upright. Neil kindly left his TR1, also pointing downhill, on the
sidestand (imagine if we’d had to stop and pick that one up!) and put
his foot in front of the XR so that I could jump on the kickstart like I
meant it. This achieved it started immediately. I like Treworld much
better on an XR than on an XL500. The XR just crashed through the very
rough stones near the top and kept going, in a way that the XL never
could have. From the top I could hear the TR1 roaring all the way up to
another clean.
From
here we were of one accord – Breakfast. About a half hour down at the
Wilsey Down Hotel, we sat on the ground outside in the sunshine and ate
our healthy chip breakfast. We got some more grief from Reuben, whose
search for gold in the West was looking a bit wobbly, and had a good
session of chain oiling (quite a lot of it missed the chain, but some
must have gone on because mine stopped squealing so loudly). I also
bumped into Mike Holden, who was doing class 0 with this 350 BSA, and he
proudly announced that he had a new accessory; a quickly detachable gear
lever. He had it sorted,
though; it was tied to the frame-rails with a piece of bailer-twine, and
when he heard it going “chink-chink” along the road, he knew it had
fallen off again. I wish I had thought of this solution when I had my QD
gear lever last year, instead of wasting all that time trying to pack
the splines with beer-can.
A
little before our time out, I went and gave Tony Webb the best smile I
could muster at that hour of the morning, and he let us have our control
cards and go. There was a short delay at Warleggan – some poor
soul’s chain had snapped and wrapped itself around the sprocket, so we
had to wait until he was manhandled clear before we could move up for
our go. After Warleggan we paid our congestion charge to the Highwaymen
in Mount village before riding on to Cardinham Woods and the Hurstock
special test. I wobbled around the cone feet up and that was that, and
followed the track on to Hoskin. I liked Hoskin last year, and I still
liked it this year. Second gear and keep it nailed…
It
was a long ride to Bishops Wood, which gave me plenty of time to wonder
how I was ever going to clean it. Last year I only got up the bank
because I hadn’t known it was there and I footed right afterwards. My
special test was pathetic, and I went and joined the queue for the
section. In the event it was lovely again; the bike flew up the ramp and
sailed through the air, landed straight and with my little feet dug
firmly into the pegs we got well past the “section ends” board
without any trouble. The
TR1 flew again, too.
It
was an even longer ride to the Perranporth holding check, lots of dual
carriageway and an awful lot of traffic snarl-ups. We were the only two
at the holding check, confirmation that we weren’t early, and were
allowed on almost immediately. I’ve never cleaned the last turn on
Blue Hills 1, and I didn’t this year either. Waiting at the bottom of
Blue Hills 2, the start marshal warned me that it was very loose on the
top corner, and being crap in loose stuff (okay, and
on dry stuff, and on mud, I
know) I had a nasty feeling that Blue Hills wouldn’t be Mine… Sure
enough, I started to lose grip in the sandy stuff part way up, and on
the top turn it washed out altogether and the bike pitched me into the
bank before lying down in the sand-pit.
Three marshals had obviously anticipated that I was going to be
trouble because they landed almost before I did and started picking the
bike up for me. They asked me a couple of times if I was okay, but the
impact with the bank had winded me and all I could do was nod and wheeze
a bit. My stainless steel thermos fared even worse, and I am very glad
that I decided NOT to tuck the digital camera into my bum-bag; otherwise
I would be on Ebay now, looking for another one. I was very cross to
have thrown everything away on Blue Hills, a feeling which I know many
MCC people are familiar with, but “D’oh!” Better news for the TR1,
though; Neil and It cleaned both Blue Hills and are on for another
silver, thanks only to over-enthusiasm on Crackington.
St
Agnes was gridlocked thanks to some indecisive driving by a perfectly
normal person. Four bikes and John Young’s outfit got through a gap
which didn’t really look big enough even for a solo and we all got a
move on to the finish. It was quite an education to follow the Youngs
along the twisty coast road to Newquay, and it becomes clear why they
are such a force. Our mate
Fishy was at the finish with the trailer to take us home. He’d been in
Newquay all morning, he said, cruising for tottie.
I’ve no idea what he meant by that.
We loaded up, I have some vague recollection of taking my boots
off before I got into the car and then suddenly we were in Exeter.
Sunday
morning; Mike was taking a TRF run out trail-riding, and I wanted to go
but knew that I’d be far too weary to be anything other than a
liability. Instead I rode out on my BMW R80 GS with my camera and
arranged to meet them in a couple of RUPPs for photographs.
And I was right; I was so drained by the effort of riding the 800
BMW along the flat, dry, easy RUPPs that I knew I’d made the correct decision for once.
And I’m not tempted to ride the GS in class 0 one year, not at
all. Hardly…
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