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 to meet, 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.

Cave Man

Back in the 1970s, I worked as a fitter in a commercial vehicle workshop. It was a dirty job in a cold, oily space, where everything had to be finished yesterday, and where I often laboured through breaks. I rode to work each day on a XT500 and at night parked the bike in the street outside a grim little bedsit. I dreamt of a proper home, a garage, and multi-bike heaven.

And of a cave I could retreat into; my space, where everything would be done at my pace. It came, thankfully, eventually. Gradually. A flat sold for a small house, that in turn became a larger one with a garage. Then retirement and a move to a place with enough land to build a workshop and garage, somewhere I can’t ever imagine moving from. The building is fully insulated with cavity walls and a galleried ceiling. There’s also a mezzanine deck used for storing bits – frames, tanks, tin wear etc - and Velux windows above a workshop area.

 

I’ve owned and ridden motorcycles since my first moped at 16 years-of-age, back in a time that saw frustration with British manufacturing compete in equal measure with an admiration for Japanese engineering. It was about the same period that Scandinavian truck manufacturers were showing British lorry drivers just how good a wagon could be. Despite all that, I do have a soft spot for both British bikes and trucks, driven, it must be said, by rose tinted glasses and a hankering for lost youth. Now I spanner, service and tinker, sit at my desk and read manuals, look at maps plotting trips to bike meets and motor museums, and think about restoration projects either under way or planned. But whatever I do, I do it when I want to and because I want to.

In my garage there are bikes I’ve done, some I’m doing, and some awaiting attention. The Matchless G2 CSR was a project from a few years back, the G12 CSR, a recent recommission. There’s a Laverda 3C that’s on, and on, and on… going. I’ve also got quite a bit of AMC stuff waiting in the wings, and a TTR 600 and BMW 1150 that require a bit of light fiddling. And yes, I have ripped the ABS out of the BM. My other bikes are all current and in use, rotated on a yearly basis.

I think the key to a happy partnership is equality and balance and my wife has interests that occupy her time. She has her own office in the house, where she organises her passion in the same way I do mine in my garage. We spend most days together, but many apart, doing our own thing. And it seems to work. I feel very fortunate, not least because of my garage, but the size, construction, and even content of the space is ultimately not important. The most significant thing is that it’s mine, containing my stuff, and whether there’s one, ten, or twenty bikes in there, it’s of no real matter. What is, is that whatever the machine, it’s kept by me. At a push, a dirty, cold, oily shed would do, so long as it was my space, where I did my stuff, at my pace.