sad·dle·sore
/ˈsæd
lˌsɔr, -ˌsoʊr/ Pronunciation Key - Show Spelled Pronunciation[sad-l-sawr, -sohr] | 1. | feeling sore or stiff from horseback riding. |
| 2. | irritated or having sores produced by a saddle. |
We did it! Before the write up here's the schedule of events... (note that Steve left earlier than me and finished earlier as he started from near Oxford)...
- 05:45: left the house, drove the mile into town to get cash and a receipt to prove time and location.
- 06:05: arrived at Frankly services (M5). Steve already there having driven from Abingdon.
- 07:15, 84.5 miles: Knutsford services (M6)
- 09:15, 222.5 miles, Gretna services (M6)
- 11:30, 339.3 miles, Luss (by Loch Lomand)
- 13:00, 403.9 miles, Onich Services (near Fort William)
- 15:00, 481.6 miles, Inverness
- 18:30, 641.3 miles, Edinburgh services
- 00:45, 988.6 miles, Northampton Services (M1)
- 01:55, 1036.5 miles, Warwick Services
- 02:30, 1072.5 miles, Home (!!!)
The drive to Scotland was as expected - little traffic, steady speed, not too boring since we were excited in anticipation of the drive through Scotland. Since I'd got lost the last time I drove though Glasgow I was glad that Steve had a [couple!] of GPS units mounted to his Africa Twin. (BTW - the Honda XRV750, aka Africa Twin, is awesome!).
After leaving Glasgow via the
Erskine Bridge we joined the A82 for the trip to Inverness. I've ridden this road, as far as Fort Augustus, once before and it's amazing. Since our last stop had been at Gretna services we decided to have a quick break at Luss (by Loch Lomand). After a few minutes we set off, Steve offering to lead. I wasn't sure what to expect, me being on a big old Pan, and Steve on his Africa Twin, both of us spending the next few hours on single carriageway twisties. What I wasn't expecting at all though was for Steve to show me how well a bike can be driven through these sort of roads. The last time I followed anyone riding like this was a couple of years ago on a
BikeSafe weekend with West Mercia police. It's the kind of riding where you realise it's got little to do with the bike and nearly everything to do with the rider. Since I spend more than 90% of my riding time on the motorways I figured I better start focusing and thinking about my vanishing points and overtaking opportunities, etc. But I did struggle to keep the same pace for quite a while.
Shortly before Fort William we stopped at
Onich services - we knew the Gods were smiling when we spotted a bacon-butty van at the end of the forecourt and, to the left, a magnificent view of
Loch Linnhe. Then it was my turn to lead. Ever since I fell off the Pan in Germany on a hairpin bend I've probably been over-cautious when it comes to fast twisties. But having spent an hour or so watching Steve do it I knew I had to up my pace. One of the great things about biking - I took my test about 2.5 years ago - is that I'm always learning and trying to improve. Driving along the A82 in Scotland is nothing like the M40
twice a day, and so it was that I started trying to develop a better awareness of my vanishing points and potential overtaking places. The next hour or so to Inverness was undoubtedly the most exhilarating time I've ever had; I think it's a little easier leading through the twisties than following as I find myself occasionally following the line of the lead rider rather than picking my own.
Sleepy, sleepy... Between Inverness and Edinburgh, mainly down the A9, I got my first attack of tiredness. After an hour or so we started passing regular laybys - the A9 is mainly single carriageway and there are many road signs advising people to let other drivers overtake. As my focus started to diminish I tried singing Beatles songs, and then shouting to Steve as loud as I could to pull over. Steve, being 50m in front, didn't hear me. Since I knew I couldn't stay awake for much longer I decided to pull in front of Steve and get him to pull over with me. But then, as if reading my mind (or trying to keep his own awake), Steve indicated left. Never before has a left-hand indicator filled one man with so much joy! I could see the layby with plenty of grass to lie on, beckoning me like a King size bed filled with desperate housewives. After only 10 minutes or so chilling out we set off again, fully refreshed. I hadn't appreciated, until then, just how important these stops could be.
In Edinburgh we encountered our first (and only) heavy traffic, at the Queensferry bridge. This only took around 10 minutes of filtering to get through and then it was off to Scotch Corner for some fresh coffee and cheese sarnies. I'd phoned my parents earlier and arranged to meet them at Scotch Corner at around 21:35 (the ETA from the GPS). At 21:32 we arrive and there were my parents with strong, fresh coffee, sandwiches and biscuits. Coffee has rarely tasted so good and I can't even describe the gap that the sandwiches filled. But after 15 minutes we were off again - full tanks and stomaches and less than 300 miles to go (!!).
The stretch to Northampton services was the hardest of the trip. At one point I tried sitting on the pillion seat to try and re-circulate the blood in my backside but I found it better to be in pain than too comfortable. Punching my left leg didn't help either as I managed to deaden it for about 5 minutes - no gear changes luckily. But, once we reached the services we knew it was essentially cracked. Steve already had his 1000 miles under his belt and I wasn't far off. A quick blast cross-country to the M40 took us to Cherwell Valley services and the end of the joint riding. Job done. No accidents, near misses, empty petrol tanks or falling asleep. With only around 70 miles to home I was sorted. With a wave goodbye Steve headed for Abingdon and I for the Droitwich.
Who turned out the lights?After a couple of miles on the M40 I decided to speed up to see if it helped focus my mind. I knew I was around the 1000m mark and was perking up when, at 01:30 on Sunday morning, someone turned off the lights. At first I thought there'd been a power cut and that the motorway street lights had gone off. Then I realised that there weren't any street lights. Then I realised that the motorway was dark - very dark. Slowly and surely it dawned on my that I couldn't see anything because my headlight bulb had popped. Again. This is the fourth or fifth time it's happened on my bike in the last 2 years. (I've got a Portuguese import with only one of the two headlights used for normal use. The twin lights only kick in when I have full-beam on). Although I was tired I quickly realised that a lack of lights on the motorway in the dark was a bad thing and decided to pull over. As there were some cars around I mainly used the indicators to provide a slow-motion strobe lighting display of the hard shoulder. Luckily I had two spare bulbs in my panniers - but I had forgotten to bring a torch so there was no hope of fitting one. Deciding to try and think laterally I found some tape and an oily rag in one of the panniers and managed to fashion a very dodgy filter over the headlight unit, then flicked on the full-beam. This provided a 1 foot wide strip of fairly dim light onto the road, but only around 20 meters in front. I found that by riding close to the cats eyes I could make out enough of the motorway to drive safely. At Warwick services I pondered trying to change the bulb, but with only 30 minutes to go I couldn't muster the energy. So off it was on the final stretch, grinning from ear-to-ear every time I passed through a lit section of motorway.
Arriving home at around 02:30 I took the final odometer reading, had a glass of wine, and fell to sleep. Thoughts of a bun-burner (1,500m in 36 hours) drifted slowly by - thankfully I didn't wake in time to give it a try.
