Creators

A recent chance meeting with someone who it turned out worked for a major Japanese motorcycle manufacturer had me pondering something he said for quite a while after. Employed as part of a team organising events - bike launches etc - he mentioned that content creators were people who interested his company more and more  when it came to promoting their products. Magazines, he told me, no longer enjoyed the influence they once had.

It was a copy of Bike magazine from October 1979 that got me thinking about his comment, one featuring my old Kawasaki Z1000ST (registration FLA476T), an ex-demonstrator I’d bought direct from Kawasaki UK after it had done the press rounds (Motorcycle Sport tested the model in their June 1980 edition). In an article that wouldn’t look out of place in today’s MSL, the testers took the bike up to the Outer Hebrides with her sister, a Kawasaki Z1000 mkll. Producing a wonderful piece of travel writing spread over half a dozen pages that’s both entertaining and informative, the author creates a journey, a couple of road tests, and something that when finished you know you’ll return to time and again. Even though the accompanying photos are all black and white, it’s of no consequence; they’re secondary to the words.

The bike itself was superb, a superbike from a golden age of motorcycling: super reliable, super fast, and super smooth. And when compared with modern motorcyles, super simple. The big Zed never went back to a dealership or visited a professional workshop from the day I bought it at six months old; everything it needed, I did myself. There was excellence there, not through excessive complexity or superficial styling, but because of a depth somehow lost since. I felt at one with that bike, engaged, as if we were partners on the road, in a strange way speaking the same language.

And of content creators and magazines?    I watch streaming sites, I’m sure most people do - they are at times very useful. If I’m interested in a particular bike or bit of kit, I’ll spend time on YouTube looking at various ‘content’. But none of it is immersive in the way of good journalism; nothing that I’ve seen speaks to you personally, but rather at you as a member of the audience. A reader is an individual, where a follower is simply part of a group. And a well written, properly researched, and professionally presented magazine article, will always be better, in both quality and memorability.

  

There was no internet when I bought my Z000ST, but the mkII tested in Bike had ABS: acrylonitrile butadiene styrene used in the creation of its Windjammer fairing.

Route 66

“If I do get stopped by the police”, I said to the motorcycle rental company’s representative handing me the Harley's documents, “Do I say, ‘haven’t you got anything better to do,’ like I would in England”? He looked at me over the top of his glasses. A lady tapping away at a computer behind the counter we stood at, laughed. It was, I admit, a pretty naff thing to come out with. The truth is I don't think I would say such a thing to any police officer, not now or at any time. Maybe I just wanted to suggest something attractive to imagine.

Within days we were riding through ‘big country’, where, by the look of it, you could build anything you wanted, anywhere you liked. Isolated buildings appeared out of nowhere, then disappeared just as quickly, with no apparent connection to the land or locality. Some were new, bland, and with no obvious use, some were ugly, some run down, and some run down but simply beautiful. These were the abandoned motels that time and just about everything - apart from travellers on Route 66 – had forgotten. Rows of doors of different colours, some dislodged, some upright, but all with paint now flaking, stood amongst the crumbling, once whitewashed walls of these old buildings. Only a few decades before they would have stood proud and welcoming, with tall roadside signs shining brightly though the night.

Our motorcycle thumped along doing what I wanted it to do – be American. But America had changed since my last visit. Cars had shrunk, in the same way ours back home had grown, so that now there seemed little difference in their size. And just like ours, they'd homogenised, so that no matter who the manufacturer, the same curvy, edgeless shape dominated. Trucks still had bonnets, but even they had softened. Gone were the enormous square grills, flat panels and split windscreens. The wild west had obviously been tamed, and it seemed the ‘hard’ rigs were now only to be found in the Australian outback. Big, functional and individual had become efficient, globalised, and normalised.

Well, almost. Somewhere along the Mother Road, we passed alongside a railway for several miles. Every couple of hundred metres or so a road crossed at ninety degrees to both our path and that of the track. So, every couple of hundred metres or so there was a stop line for us and to our right, a crossing for the track. As we rode along, changing down and slowing for each stop line, the crossings began to sound their bells. A train was approaching from behind, and for each crossing it was sounding its whistle. The clanging of the bells, the long, melodious note of the train's whistle, and the Harley's revving v-twin engine, made wonderful music - American music that went way back. The train eventually overtook us - two miles of wagons loaded with 40’ ship containers stacked two-high.

Snakes & Ladders

 

Snakes and Ladders is more than just a simple game to some. In fact, over the centuries it’s been used to teach moral values, to illustrate the various ups and downs of life, and even to help instil leadership skills. The road to success it seems to say is one that climbs worthy ladders while avoiding those slippery snakes of shame.

Well, you can forget all that rubbish, because on a bike the snakes are the good bits, and the ladders merely a means of getting to them. And they’re everywhere those superb snakes. When I asked ChatGPT to suggest a ride through Dorset, Somerset and Devon, taking in as many hairpin bends as possible, it found quite a few decent ‘twisties’ spread between Lyme Regis in the south and Lynton in the north. In doing so, it kicked off a game worth playing if ever there was one - along with a wonderful anticipation AI will ever be capable of comprehending.

I knew it was to be a long day: after I’d put in all the waypoints, my Beeline predicted close to eight hours of riding. First there would be Zig-Zag Hill, near Shaftsbury, then Cheddar Gorge, followed by Porlock Hill and Lynmouth. The intention was to head home to Lyme Regis by crossing Exmoor, all on good old country roads with a variety of bends.

An early start got me through Broadwindsor and on the A30 to Yeovil in quick time, from where I simply continued to just beyond Shaftsbury and the first snake, on the B3081. Coming in from this direction made Zig-Zag Hill a double-whammy, as once through I’d have to U-turn and head back to Shaftsbury. As it happened, I got held up on my first run by a large van and had a second go, resulting in a double-double-whammy. Zig-Zag is tight, not very quick, but nonetheless a great test of finesse.

It wasn’t long before I was in Wyke and parked outside the Old Brewery Cafe and Kitchen (formerly Moto Corsa) and enjoying a club sandwich while looking at a beautiful red Moto Guzzi V1000S. Not another customer’s bike, and not outside either, but one of a number of motorcycles belonging to the owner of the cafe that are dotted about the place.

The road leading to Cheddar was wonderfully fast and sweeping, so much that the gorge presented a sudden shock with bends that were both challenging and tightening. I entered one far too quickly, thankful for my Bonneville T120’s dexterity, while cursing myself for such ragged riding. She always feels sure-footed, my Bonnie, balanced, and although ultimately nothing can defy the laws of physics, we came through unruffled. Left, right, left, the twists came in quick succession. As I straightened after one and lined up the next, I saw a small sports bike on its side on some grass to the right, with a young lad, crash helmet in hand, limping up and down beside it. A car had stopped and its driver was walking towards the stricken bike. I got a thumbs-up and pushed on.

In summer, Cheddar Gorge is an impossible, frustrating crawl, a stream of campers and caravans, but in spring and autumn it’s simply glorious. The inevitable urban speed limit came, but to be honest, the cruise to the little village at the bottom was by then welcome and I came out the other side steadied and ready for the run to Bridgewater.

I had the Beeline set to ‘avoid highways’ but made the decision to hop onto the M5 to Bridgewater and save a bit of time – the alternative being not much more interesting - leaving the motorway immediately before the town, then continuing south on the old Bristol road and taking the A39 into the Quantocks. It all got a little dull for a while, with too much traffic and too little to see. A fatigue set in. By the time Minehead was bypassed, everything had turned full circle and soon enough my mood brightened. The sea appeared, and with it came moorland, as the expanse of the Exmoor National Park opened to the left.

The road became a gentle roller coaster. We climbed and weaved; big vistas came. A blue blur flashed to the right, shades of green merged to the left, as my speed once again began to creep upwards. I just couldn’t help it. The road, the weather, the bike, the temporary absence of other traffic, it was all so perfect. I felt the Bonnie lift and glide, as I went on and off the throttle through the bends; she throbbed and roared, literally purring on overrun. I knew animals roamed free on the moor, and I did my best to spot any in the distance close to the road, but sometimes, when everything feels right, you must simply run with it. Safely!

By the time Porlock came, so had trees and bushes enclosing the road and traffic streaming in each direction, slowing me to a relaxed, distanced pace. Porlock Hill presented stone walls and steep grassy banks, as the road climbed and twisted. Gear choice became simple: get into first early and accept a bit of initial revving, as opposed to snatching it as the bends tightened and suddenly steepened with unseen ramps halfway through. The T120 has always felt a little high-geared, so bottom suited her well on the tricky climbs of Porlock.  

I stopped in Lynmouth for a cuppa at a café at the bottom of Countisbury Hill, before heading out, still on the A39, and up to Hillsford Bridge, where I turned off, crossing the moor towards Somonsbath on the B3223. This is a fine heathland road that gradually opens, as its verges decrease in height to give wide views across gorse and grass.  It’s high, the land around dropping to a distant horizon, so the dome of the sky dominates and the gently twisting road becomes everything.

From Exebridge, I followed the Exe on the A396, falling with the river towards the south, its water running fast and rock strewn somewhere in the woods to my right. With steep verges, blind bends and overhanging trees, this often damp route is for camper vans and sightseers. I slowed and relaxed.  Then it was Tiverton, a bit of shuffling through the town to find Canal Hill, and on to Collumpton. From there, Honiton came after a spell on the A373, and then it was onto the final ladder - the A35 homeward.

And with that the game was over and I’d reached the finish on my imaginary Snakes and Ladders board, not by avoiding the snakes but by riding as many of them that I could. In the end, and despite ignoring convention, I’d won - funny old game, motorcycling.

Letter to MSL generated by Copilot

Dear Editor,

The Evolving Journey: AI and Traditional Human Riding Skills

As we roll into 2025, the conflict between artificial intelligence and traditional human skills in motorcycling has become a compelling discussion that transcends the two-wheeled world. The tension between these forces is akin to the age-old debate between modern motorcycles and their classic counterparts.

Artificial intelligence, in recent years, has made significant strides in motorcycling. With the advent of advanced rider-assistance systems, automated driving features, and AI-driven diagnostics, motorcycles today are more intelligent and interconnected than ever. These innovations promise a future where safety, efficiency, and convenience are maximized, allowing riders to focus on the sheer joy of the journey.

On the other hand, traditional human riding skills represent the heart and soul of motorcycling. The innate connection between rider and machine, honed through years of experience and practice, is something that AI, despite its many capabilities, cannot replicate. The precision of a well timed lean, the instinctive application of throttle and brakes, and the intuitive understanding of road conditions are all aspects of motorcycling that rely on human skill and judgement.

The conflict between AI and human riding skills is not merely technological but also philosophical. Purists argue that the increasing reliance on AI erodes the essence of motorcycling, where the rider's abilities and reflexes play a central role. They fear that over dependence on technology could lead to a generation of riders who lack the fundamental skills necessary to handle unforeseen situations.

Conversely, supporters of AI in motorcycling highlight the undeniable benefits it brings. AI-driven systems can enhance safety by mitigating human error, providing real-time data analysis, and offering predictive maintenance. These advancements can make motorcycling more accessible to new riders and allow seasoned riders to push the boundaries of performance with confidence.

Rather than seeing this conflict as a binary choice between AI and human skills, we should embrace the synergy between the two. AI can augment the riding experience, providing tools and insights that complement and enhance human abilities. It is possible to enjoy the best of both worlds: the thrill of mastering a machine through skill and the peace of mind that comes from knowing AI has your back.

As motorcyclists, we are united by our passion for the ride, whether we lean towards the precision of AI or the artistry of human skills.                                  Let's celebrate the diversity of our community and continue to explore how technology and tradition can coexist harmoniously on the open road.

Yours Sincerely,

TW

 

 

 

Jailhouse Rock - published Motorcycle Sport & Leisure

 

There has been a quarry of some sort on the Isle of Portland in Dorset since Roman times, a castle since the 16^th Century, at least one prison since the 1800s, and one of the world’s largest manmade harbours since 1905. And since 2019, my Royal Enfield Classic 500 has been puffing up its slopes and visiting its cafes. Sticking out into the English Channel on the edge of Weymouth, Portland is a sloping strip of land about 4 miles long and 1.7 miles wide that’s linked to the mainland by a causeway forming part of Chesil Beach. The island is a place of heights and history filled with fantastic views and interest. It’s also wonderful for pottering about on a motorcycle, especially when the machine feels somehow in harmony with its surroundings.

Dorset is a beautiful county of rolling hills, wide vistas and sandstone cliffs, all guaranteeing that any ride along its coast to Portland, either from the east or west, will be a memorable one. Today, I’m coming in from the west, from Lyme Regis, which entails riding the B3157, one of the most spectacular roads in the whole of the country. There’s plenty to do in Lyme Regis, lots of coffee shops and eateries, and there’s parking for bikes, too: just drop into the Cobb Gate car park, the one with the small clock tower at the bottom of the town’s main street and go through the barrier on the left. But I’m just starting, so I ride straight on through, the Enfield popping its way down Broad Street before passing the clock tower and thumping its way up Church Street.

Once out of the town and through the sweeping bends of the A3052, I join the A35 and make my way towards Bridport and West Bay, from there heading along the glorious B3157. I ignore the Lemon Tree at Swyre and the Duck’s farm shop and café at Portesham, both great places to stop, and continue into the outskirts of Weymouth before following signs for Portland. We’re soon on the causeway, the Enfield and me, looking over to the left and to the Citadel and port below, places I’d soon be riding through, and forward to terraces rising on the island.

I’m using a Beeline Moto 1 mounted on the offside mirror arm, running it from a phone sitting in a tank mounted pouch. With power coming from an Optimizer adapter, it works well, ensuring there’s plenty of juice available for photos and messaging when I stop, while keeping the navigation going while I ride. I’ve set waypoints at the castle, a fortification built in 1540 by Henry VIII to defend against the Spanish and French, and the D-Day Museum, each one a chance for a bit of leg stretching.  I don’t visit either attraction, they’re both for another time, but there’s still plenty to see. An American Shernan tank and a Jeep stand outside the museum and two Mulberry Harbour caissons sit out on the water close by. In 1944, half a million troops and 144,000 vehicles departed Portland in just a few hours to take part in the D-Day landings.

The Enfield is quite at home amongst buildings of a bygone age and their flaking facades, despite its shining paintwork and bits of chrome, but we’re soon on the steep switchbacks through more recent housing and climbing to the Citadel and The Verne, a category C ‘Training Prison’ contained in what was once Portland’s main fortification. Built between 1857-1881, the Verne Citadel has served as barracks, battery, hospital, immigration removal centre and is now a prison. It also has the Jailhouse Café and spectacular views across the harbour. It’s a 30mph limit up through the housing, which is of little concern to the Enfield as it’s hardly able to reach such a speed before the road once again doubles back on itself and we’re cranked over, looking ahead for vehicles coming in the opposite direction, squeezing themselves between all the parked cars.

I sit down to a ‘Guvnor’ and latte, the former being a more than decent cooked breakfast, before walking out onto the café’s outdoor seating area and looking at the vista spread below. I can see the massive breakwater and Weymouth beyond, and the port where two RFA ships are moored abreast alongside the same jetty where cruise ships tie up when visiting.  These are support vessels that supply the Royal Navy’s new aircraft carriers, HMS Queen Elizabeth and HMS Prince of Wales. Not far off is Sir Tristram, an old RFA vessel that was badly damaged in the Falklands War and now serves as a training ship for special forces.

Our next stop is The Grove, another prison and another cafe, this one themed as an American diner. Unfortunately, Incline Road, a route that follows the coast around the eastern edge of the island, is not open to the public, so I point the Enfield up and out of Castletown on Easton Lane and continue south. I take a quick detour by turning left and into Verne Hill Road, New Ground and then Yates Road, simply because I can and they’re the little lanes the bike was made for, before rejoining the main route. Grove Road arrives soon after, and I make my way past the prison museum to the Jailhouse Diner, parking the Enfield on a triangle of tarmac opposite its entrance and below the tall prison wall.

A quick coffee and we’re off to the Bill, passing the disused lighthouse that’s now a bird observatory and homing in on the red and white striped tower that changes from distant landmark to imposing monument as we approach. Once there, I stop a while and gaze at the sea, wondering just how many wrecks there must be out there beneath the waves, before heading back down the western side of the island by following signs for Weymouth. (Portland Bill marks the eastern end of Lyme Bay, and its waters with their shallow reefs, sandbanks and tidal races have been the cause of many a shipwreck over the centuries.)

There’s evidence of quarrying all over the island and Portland stone has been used in some grand buildings, including St Paul’s cathedral, Buckingham Palace and the UN building in New York. My last stop on Portland is at the Tout quarry sculpture park on the way down Wide Street. There was obviously quite a bit to see, but I took a short walk into the area simply to look at the view down to Chesil Beach and the road off the island we’d soon be riding. And so it was that not long after leaving Tout quarry, I started on the first road with a speed limit over 40 mph since arriving on Portland - the causeway back to Weymouth. The road carried me away from a stone-built world of fortifications and lighthouses, of churches and prisons, and back to brick and modernity.

Returning to Lyme Regis, I’m travelling through Weymouth on the A354 and out to Broadwey, from where I turn left onto Church Street and follow Gould’s Hill, the B3159 to Weymouth Road. At Martinstown, I head for Hardy’s monument, an upturned spyglass shaped tower erected in 1840 in memory of Thomas Mastermann Hardy, Flag Captain of HMS Victory at the battle of Trafalgar, and then continue, doglegging across Portesham Road towards Little Bredy. This is Enfield Classic country, with lanes that cut along timeless hills and run through quant villages, past old churches and beside established country houses. Long Bredy and Litton Cheney come and go, and I’m back on the B3157 at Burton Bradstock.

I don’t stop in West Bay, although it’s a popular meeting place for motorcyclists, but instead pull up in Lyme Regis at the Cobb Gate car park. I can see Portland in the distance to the east, its tops rising to the Citadel before sloping down the Bill.     

Supliments - letter to Motorcycle Sport and Leisure

Interesting, your opening lines in January's ussue, especially when you said that no one really wants to be average. I don't think a statement has ever been more true when it comes to motorcyclists - just look at their machines. Almost every bike I see has some sort of addition or alteration from the stock item; even my V-Strom, changed in appearence with a few Suzuki extas of personal choice, has the number 7 stuck on the windscreen in homage to Barry Sheene.

Back when all the major manufacturers produced a limited range of models, customization was rife, often cheaply done at home, and mostly pretty obvious to all. Now, every bike maker produces everything, for everyone. Within a specific type, whether it be sports, naked, classic or adventure, there's a plethora of extras, all meaning that no two bikes within 100 miles (I'm guessing) of each other need look the same. Now, there's no need to imagine or invent in order to be different, but simply to choose.

I'm all for electronic aids. I think any feature that enhances safety can only be good and that the significance of an algorithm designed to assist a rider, even improving the riding experience, should never be underestimated or seen as anything other than enhancement. To me, they do not detract from motorcycling; they are not replacing skill but simply supplimenting it. The thing that has changed motorcycling is bike makers swamping each of their models with those possible extras. Good or bad  I'm not sure, but it does take away something of the creativity we onced enjoyed. 

I  admit that my old Norton Dominator had a Dresda tank and seat which I chose from a magazine advert, but my mate's Dommie had a different type. And we both chopped the mudguards differently; our clip-ons and rear-sets came from seperate suppliers. We scoured breakers for bits to make our bikes not only less average, but often truly unique.  

You mentioned Deep Blue, which I remember as a chess playing computer that apparently won a match against a reigning champion of the time. I would argue that played on a conventional board the average person could beat it: a computer is a pastic box and although it might have a lot of flashing lights, one thing it can't do is move the peices.

    

  

Imagine - Letter sent to Motorcycle Sport and Leisure

Dave, I wanted to send this to you in an envelope addressed using green ink, but I couldn't find a green pen, or an envelope, and stamps cost money - imagine having to pay to send someone a message. In fact, imagine having to write with a pen, without spell checker, and not being able to copy and paste, or drag. Imagine having to visit the library every time a particular subject caught your interest, or some question popped into your head. I can't. I can read and write, but all I can see without modern information technology is restriction.

Imagine a motorcycle without ABS, the most significant safety feature since the introduction of the crash helmet. Imagine being able to pump individual brakes 20 times a second, while deciding which brake, front or rear, should receive the greater force. Imagine being able to optimise this cycle rate when cornering. I can't. I've been riding motorcycles year in year out for nearly fifty years, and I've had advanced training along the way, but all I see without this incredible technology is limitation.

Imagine a mum's face when her offspring says they're getting a motorcycle. I can, I see it as if it were only yesterday. But imagine how she might have felt with the knowledge that the machine had a capability beyond that of any rider, and that it would do its utmost to remain upright and out of trouble.

I own a number of bikes, of all ages, and with technology that ranges between acetylene lighting and multi mode intelligent ride assistance. I ride them to the best of my ability, wearing proper boots, armoured leggings and jacket, a smart vest, and a crash helmet, all of which I hope I have the skills never to test.