Furka Pass, Susten Pass, Grimsel Pass

A big GS blasted by, cranked so far over that I wondered how the hell it would recover. A second followed, the rider’s long blond plaited ponytail acting as swingometer, as both bikes heaved one way then the other through the tight hairpin bends. I glanced in my mirror and saw the batwing fairing of a Harley hard on my tail, before looking forward again to see the BMWs disappear around the next bend. The Glide went through too, leaving me with shame and admiration in equal measure. I tried to console myself with the fact the big cruiser wasn’t two-up, but it didn’t help.

All roads led to the mountains from Crans-Montana, my base for the few days I would spend in Switzerland, and it was from there with my lightened, luggage free, Suzuki DL 1050XT, that I sped east along autoroute 9 (or autobahn or autostrada, depending on which part of the country you are in) towards Brig, intent on a day riding three of the most iconic passes in the Swiss Alps: Furka Pass, Susten Pass and Grimsel Pass. I was soon off the motorway and on picturesque route 19 climbing the Rhône valley, following my Beeline as it sent me ever upwards towards Obergom. The road was quiet, open, and perfectly smooth; the land on each side dropping to scrub grass and meadows before rising rapidly to conifers and towering snow-capped rock. I passed through villages with churches that had onion shaped spires, and tall roadside chalets made of a dark heavy wood that looked as if in winter they would be capable of supporting a ton of snow, while rising above any drift blown their way.

The climbs became less gradual, but the bends still swept rather than doubling back on themselves, something I knew was soon to come. It was very hot and when a tunnel appeared I welcomed the cool darkness. The road weaved below sheer rock faces protected by sturdy canopies. I looked down into valleys covered in trees. The real climbs of Furka Pass started in Obergom, with steep switchbacks that between each sharp turn had me craning my neck up and to the side, where the road I was following could be seen running parallel above. After a couple of hairpins, I’d settled and sorted my approach, line through and exit. The tall Suzuki, with enough speed, didn’t falter in second gear and ran smoothly, confidently holding its path through every 180 degree turn.  The now abandoned Belvedere Hotel stood on the inside of one tight bend, as the road climbed sharply past the Rhone Glacier. Famous for its appearance in the 1964 Bond film, Goldfinger, the hotel was an obvious draw, but it was the car park and café opposite that provided a place to stop, look at the spectacular mountain vistas and generally take it all in.  The Beeline’s next waypoint was Wassen, which took me through Hospental and Andermatt, from where I joined route 2 and headed north.

Being a simple ‘turn by turn’ device the Beeline has no map detail on its dash mounted display, so I don’t always get it right. There was a confusion of roads and roadworks in Andermatt, which had me flummoxed for a while, but sometimes with the Beeline you just have to stop and check with Google maps. The road was now running close to autoroute 2, which cut its own straight path through the rocky slopes, as we continued turning this way and that, sweeping now through the lower tree lined slopes of mountains ahead. The Vstrom glided along, the motor sweet. I have everything concerning the bike’s electronics set to maximum intrusion – engine management at its softest, ABS at its most aggressive, ditto traction control – and I suppose I could have given the throttle a bit more umph, but I’m used to it now, so I left as is and continued winding my right wrist through angles in harmony with the twists of the road.

From Wassen, the next destination for the Beeline was Innerkirchen, which would come after a near 30 mile run on route 11 across Susten Pass and some of the most spectacular, iconically alpine views of the day. There would be 26 bridges and tunnels through the rock massive and countless viewpoints. The Eiger wasn’t too far off, although admittedly not in view, but if it were, I wouldn’t have been surprised such was the grandeur of those snow-covered mountains. We were heading for over 2000 metres above sea level on a road that can only be described as glorious, panoramic and breathtaking. Between the switch backs there were miles of sweeping bends, sheer drops, tunnels and more of the awesome scenery I’d come all that way to enjoy.     

It cooled as we climbed and unsurprisingly on such a sunny Saturday there were hundreds of motorcycles out. The supermotos were obviously built with switchbacks in mind, the big adventure bikes were giving it their all, sports bikes screamed through, and even the cruisers held up their end; but they all had two things in common: Swiss number plates and the ability to pass me. Surrounded by the snow-covered peaks and climbing higher and higher it became obvious why the Bond filmmakers had come, why companies like Porsche used the backdrop for promotion videos, and why this was surely motorcycling paradise.

I had another café stop before turning south on route 6 and heading back to Obergoms and the road to Crans-Montana. Grimsel Pass continued through the pristine mountain landscape, but the road felt a little straighter, with fewer hairpins and longer sweeps between rock faces on one side and Armco barrier above steep tree covered slopes on the other. Quaint Swiss villages came, and close to Gletsch, a lake with a large dam and hydroelectric plant. Then it was a long series of hairpins again before I was finally back on route 19 and riding to Brig and Crans-Montana. I filled up – fuel stations in the Rhone valley came every few kilometers – and soon joined the autoroute, not forgetting to display the motorway vignette I’d bought at the border with France on arrival a few days earlier. There were just a couple of other motorcycles on the road - both seemingly happy to sit a few cars back. 

 

Built in India - letter to Motorcycle Sport & Leisure

 

What a great article that was about the Norton Commando 961 in July's MSL. And what a great bike the Norton is. And how great is the whole retro bike scene, allowing as it does the style and feel of those old bikes without the reality of true authenticity. ABS, electric start, oil tight and reliable, what’s not to like?

There are plenty of people like me out there ready to buy them, these new old bikes – except that I won’t be. Well, not one made by an Indian company. And sadly, that means no new Norton me. Why, because it’s not British? Certainly not, Norton's Indian owners are preserving an iconic name in motorcycling, for which we should be very grateful. Because there are yellow upside down forks with orange reflectors stuck on them? Nope, that’s just a sign of the times, and they are there for the simple reason the bike must exist in the now.

It's because I absolutely refuse to do anything that supports the Russian economy. The longer the war in Ukraine goes on, the more we will suffer. The quicker sanctions work, the quicker we can get back to some sort of normality. By importing Russian crude, India is funding Putin’s war, prolonging the agony of Ukraine and threatening life in the West. I know it’s complicated, and I am fully prepared to except that I have little if no understanding of energy markets. But the principle stands – give nothing to Russia other than that which is absolutely necessary. India can source oil elsewhere, as it has in the past, it should continue to do so now. I also appreciate that this might not be the sort of material for a magazine dedicated to the true enjoyment of motorcycling. But these are difficult times, and not just for Europe - we all should be aware of the importance and consequences of the choices we make, and what is ultimately at stake.

So, there won’t be a new Norton in my garage, or a Royal Enfield Continental GT 650, the other modern classic on my ‘must have’ list. Maybe they’ll be sold to someone in Moscow instead. It’ll have to be the Gold Star, on the basis that it’s another iconic classic British motorcycle available for us to buy - Oh, hang on... .

 

The Dreaded EVs

I have to admit a certain amount of dread before turning to some of the articles published these days about electric vehicles.  They are often rather pessimistic and although there's obviously some truth in what the writers are getting at, I cannot help but feel the overall picture is actually pretty good, and not quite the doom-laden image they seem to portray.

Issues sited by these critics of EVs include the mining of materials for batteries, more specifically the environmental damage it causes, and the treatment of people employed in those industries. But surely all energy comes at a cost. The extraction of coal, gas and oil all involve a great deal of disruption and intrusion into the Earth’s fragile ecosystems and that’s before you start considering fracking. (Even the covering fields normally used for agriculture with solar panels has an impact on the land’s ability to photosynthesise.) The damage done harvesting the materials needed for modern batteries must be weighed against that done by fossil fuel companies. And it’s up to individual governments to sort any human rights issues, and not the energy companies, green or otherwise.

Even EV battery afterlife, another area of concern highlighted by doubters, seems to have been addressed with a plan for many homes in the future to use them as storage. With a world increasingly geared towards renewables, some parts admittedly slower on the take up than others, a seismic shift will surely come that sees a lack of demand for fossil fuels and an industry no longer viable.

Change will come and if the history of transport is anything to go by, It’ll come quickly. It’s interesting to see how things really are gathering pace. There are more charging points around now, even if we don’t always like to admit the fact. And I see more cars ‘plugged in’ on people’s driveways. The Highway Code announced changes recently that give pedestrians priority at some junctions – a recognition of some safety issues associated with electric vehicles regarding sound, maybe, but almost certainly in preparation for a future that’s nearly upon us.

Looking for Lawrence - a day out in Dorset

 

The towering memorial to a long dead admiral might seem a strange place to start a day out in Dorset tracking down T.E. Lawrence, the archaeologist, diplomat and soldier remembered as Lawrence of Arabia. The Hardy Monument stands high on a hill just north of Portesham, not far off the B3157 between West Bay and Weymouth, and was erected in memory of Thomas Mastermann Hardy, who had famously served with Nelson at the Battle of Trafalgar. Its panoramic views and remembrance of a great British hero seemed somehow fitting and I like to think it was a place Lawrence would have visited on one of his many motorcycling jaunts around Dorset.

From the Hardy Monument I set out north along Portesham Hill and then Coombe Road before joining the A35 on its journey around the outskirts of Dorchester. I was on my way to visit the home of another Thomas Hardy, this time the writer and friend of Lawrence, who lived at Max Gate, just off the A352 to the south of the town.

Lawrence visited Max Gate many times while he served with the Royal Tank Regiment at Bovingdon, riding his Brough Superior from his home at Clouds Hill or from the camp itself. Out of respect, I’m on my 2011 Triumph Rocket 3 Touring, but who am I trying to kid: if Triumph had been Lawrence's choice, he would be on the latest 2.5 litre roadster. I didn’t stop for long, although tours were available, but instead headed down the A352 to Wareham. In many ways today was all about arriving and it wasn’t long before I came to the Rainbow Garage Café at East Knighton. A great breakfast was served in what can only be described as a bikers' café. It was also in just the right place, because up a side road leading from the café was the Countryman Inn, one of Lawrence’s favourite haunts. I put my nose in the door simply to say that I’d been in the very pub Lawrence himself used.

Wareham is a lovely little town on the River Frome, close to Poole Harbour, where there’s a museum with Lawrence exhibits, plenty of shops to wander around, lots of eateries and the Saxon church, St Martins-on-the-Walls, where a tomb effigy of Lawrence lies in one of the isles. You could easily spend a day in Wareham, but for me it was back along the A352 to the B3070 at Holmebridge, a road that would carry me to Lulworth. The Rocket was enjoying the sweeping roads but now it would be tested on what is at times a spectacular high bit of tarmac but also a narrow and uneven one. It’s also a road you are not permitted to ride on many days during the year, as the Lulworth tank firing range is very close and often active. Weekends and school holidays are best (google, Lulworth Firing Times).

We climbed and weaved our way across the top, the big girl being surprisingly nimble for a motorcycle that refuses to entertain mini roundabouts. There were other routes on the ranges - dropping down into Tyneham, a once bustling village that has been deserted since WW2, for example – but they were not for the Rocket. A right turn at East Lulworth took me back up to Wool on the B3071 and the area where Lawrence would spend the last years of his life, and the place where he was fatally injured. In May 1935, Lawrence was riding his Brough Superior SS100 from Wool to Clouds Hill along what was then known as Tank Park Road. He lost control of the bike, allegedly swerving to avoid a collision with a couple of young cyclists, and died of his injuries in the days that followed.

I made my way up to the site of the crash by passing through Wool, crossing the A352 onto Tout Hill and then following signs to the Tank Museum. A ticket for the museum allows multi-visits for a year from purchase, and I had one, but time was getting on, so I forgot about the café, the excellent exhibits and restoration centre and continued to King George V Road, where I turned right towards Clouds Hill. There’s a gravel car park on the right that provides a viewing point beside a tank manoeuvring area and some information boards about the different types of vehicles you might see and about Lawrence. Behind them, and close to the road, you’ll find a small stone monument near to the spot where Lawrence had crashed.

Clouds Hill is not much farther, from where I rode, turning left and then left again a couple of miles later, down into Moreton on the B3090. This is where Lawrence is buried. The church is worth a visit - if only for the engraved windows commissioned after a stray bomb damaged the building during WW2 - but Lawrence’s grave is in a churchyard on Hurst Road a few hundred yards away. My search for Lawrence ended here and I headed back to Dorchester and home. There were other places I could have visited in my quest, Corfe Castle, for instance, a place often frequented by Lawrence and the location of one of his many motorcycle accidents. I could have ranged farther, to Southampton, where Lawrence served with the RAF. I could have sought out the Moreton Tea Rooms, where the bier that carried his coffin now doubles as the dessert trolley.

But I didn’t. I’ll go back again I’m sure and delve further; there’s still so much to discover. As I ride away it pleases me to think that I’ve paid homage to the great man by following him around Dorset. There’s been much debate about Lawrence, and speculation about his personal life and the exact circumstances of his death, but to me these are a distraction. Lawrence was a brave adventurer, a man of honour, justifiably a national hero, and an individualist. He was also a motorcyclist.  

   

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

Loud Motorcycles (Letter to Bike Magazine)

Funny thing, noise from bikes. While too loud is rapidly becoming unacceptable, so is too quiet. In fact, the latter is now subject to law, with the EU requiring new electric vehicles to be fitted with noise emitters. It’ll be the same here, no doubt.  I’ve long been against loud bikes, but simply on the grounds that it’s far better for a copper standing at the roadside to think, “What was that"? as you sail on by, rather than, “What’s this"? as you approach. That was true even back in the days when an R80 hadn’t a hope in hell of catching an RD350.

 

The Old World

In 2014, while walking around the docks at Mangalore, where every truck seemed to be an Ashok Leyland and every motorcycle a Royal Enfield, I stumbled across a man sitting in the dust of the road in front of the open mouth of a tipper lorry. Surrounded by the carcass of a gearbox and with taper roller bearings laid neatly on rags by his side, he was rebuilding the machine’s drive train - as vehicles trundled past kicking up a fog of yellow ochre. “He is very strong man”, announced a portly suited gent standing over him.

I love my Royal Enfield and for the price it’s a great bike. But I’m not deceived into thinking that the marque is comparable to other modern incarnations of the classic genre. To the visitor, India is a wonderful, unique, sometimes baffling, explosion of new and old. It has aircraft carriers and a space agency, but also a population with expectations decades behind our own. And people prepared to fix things at the side of the road.

Sent from my Galaxy

Time and Place - the South-West in winter

I’ve long held the view that the motorcycle can never be wrong and if there isn't harmony, then it must be the type of road that’s at fault. It's a bit like touring in winter: the season is not going to change, so if any pleasure is to be had it'll be a matter of place as well as time. It was mid-December when I pulled on a rucksack and set off with the Enfield on a three-day circuit of the South-West of England, a peninsular overlaid with the sort of roads the bike was made to explore. With often the best UK Winter temperatures, and as a popular destination all year round, I was hoping for some good riding along with a reasonable supply of cafes warm up in.

My Classic 500 has no luggage, hence the rucksack, and I left Lyme Regis on the Dorset coast relieved to feel perfectly comfortable with it sitting on my back. The minimum of personal stuff was needed but with the inclusion of some extra warm layers the pack was full. I intended to travel anticlockwise completing at least 150 miles per day and had two night's accommodation booked, the first near Bideford in North Devon and the second close to Falmouth on Cornwall’s south coast. The A358 was an obvious choice on which to ride north to Watchet in Somerset, where I stopped at the public loos before dropping onto the edge of the pedestrianised harbour area.  Parking on block paving just beyond some black posts seemed to be the thing to do, as there were a few other bikes already standing there. 

Using a rucksack means that kit has to be carried both on and off the bike but the waterproof Kriega R30 sat quite low with a cross belt harness configuration that meant it didn’t pull on my shoulders, so I happily walked off to the nearest café while still wearing it. Watchet has a sculpture of the Ancient Mariner by its harbour and the town is said to have been the inspiration for the late 18^th Century Samuel Coleridge poem that tells this tale of woe. In fact, the area was one regularly visited by the poet and probably his most famous work, Kubla Khan, was written after apparently being awoken from an opium influenced dream by ‘a person from Porlock’. And that was where I headed next, riding Cleeve Hill to Blue Anchor before joining the A39 on its journey westward.

Little progress would be made if I dropped into every little town along the coast and with short days (It was dark by 5 pm) a certain amount of restraint was needed. I ended up scooting along the A39, a nice winding road that climbs and falls along the North Devon coast, while choosing which places to visit. It was wonderfully quiet and all I had to do was keep an eye on the white direction signs displaying the names of nearby towns and villages. I bypassed Minehead but took the lane to Porlock Wier, dipping down to the sea with the intention of continuing close to the cliffs and on to Lynton and Lynmouth. But it wasn’t to be.

A stone built arch and closed picket gate stood across the way just west of the little village, with a sign that told me a toll was needed. There was no one about, so I cut back up to the A39 and climbed Porlock Hill. The Enfield took the steep gradients and switch backs in its stride, but I was happy to be on our own.  The tight turns and ramps had us down to second gear at one point, with the engine thumping away and me sitting upright and relaxed in the knowledge that nothing was coming up behind. Big climbs lead to big views and the top gave a magnificent look back to the bay below Porlock, the hills beyond and an ice blue sea that stretched to the horizon under a cold, clear sky. The A39 drops into Lynmouth on Countisbury Hill, with views down into the village all the way in, and it was here that I left the A-road and made my way through Lynton to the Valley of the Rocks.

Lynton and Lynmouth are typical West Country tourist spots, but they weren’t for me, not today. I had miles to do and there were other places to see. Riding was the thing, especially with such limited time. The Valley of the Rocks runs parallel with the coast and was once described by fellow poet and friend of Coleridge, Robert Southey, as ‘the very bones and skeletons of the earth’. It’s not only a place of giant rock formations, as impressive as they are distracting, but also one of feral goats, which taken together made for a slow run through. Eventually, another small toll gate greeted me, so once again I turned back and returned to the A39.

Next on my mental list of places to visit was Ilfracombe. I turned off onto the A399 and rode down towards Combe Martin, famous for having one of the longest village streets in Britain and the Pack o’ Cards Inn (four floors, one for each suit; 13 doors on each floor, representing each card in a suit; and sitting on a plot measuring 52 by 53 feet, one for every card in a pack plus the joker). Ilfracombe came soon after, with a short leg stretch next to Verity, Damien Hirst's 20 metre tall statue of a pregnant lady holding a sword aloft. Hirst describes his work as, ‘a modern allegory of truth and justice'. Others use different words. It has got to be seen to be fully appreciated and I have to admit that I left trying not to think whether it had any meaning; riding in winter was hard enough.

The  A360 carried me west from Ilfracombe before the B3341 took me down to Woolacombe, from where I simply followed signs for Croyde and then Braunton.  Looking down onto Saunton Sands, I passed close to the coast before heading inland in order to get around the vast Tor and Torridge estuaries. It started to get dark and busy with traffic being funnelled over one river and then the other. I pushed on, the Enfield hammering along the A39 at 60 mph. I think we were both pleased to reach The Hoops Inn at Bucks Mills, just short of Hartland and the Cornish border. It was a comfortable place, where I had armchairs in my room and a big TV on the wall. An excellent dinner was later served in the bar.

I enjoyed an equally excellent full English in the morning, before heading out to the carpark at the rear of the pub only to find the bike white with frost. The temperature had gone below zero overnight. I made the decision to stay on the A39 for most of the morning, to allow the backroads to de-ice and for me to make some progress. I wanted to ride the coast between Hayle and Lands End, so sacrifices had to be made. Many places were bypassed – Bude, Boscastle, Port Isaac, Newquay. Even Morwenstow, where the reverend Hawker (1803 – 1875) would bury the bodies of shipwrecked sailors washed up on the shore, and smoke opium while writing poetry in Hawker’s Hut, his lookout on the clifftops and now the smallest property owned by the National Trust.

The A39 was perfect. Perfectly quiet; perfectly winding. If a car came up behind, I simply moved over, but one rarely did. The Enfield loves 50 mph; it smooths out and finds a sweet spot between thump and hammer. So, that’s what we stuck to, all the while gliding along alone, looking at the sea, rolling hills and wind turbines. But nothing lasts and by late morning we found ourselves on the A30 running through Redruth and onto Hayle. I stopped at Asda in Hayle for a warm up and coffee in their café. With the bike doing about 80 mpg and with a 3 gallon tank (13.5 litres), fuel stops weren’t an issue and I filled up in the knowledge that a full tank would carry me well into the following day. Hayle has a great industrial heritage and in the 19^th Century the largest steam pumping engine ever built was made at a local foundry before being shipped to Holland. There was plenty to stop and see – on any normal day.

With too few hours of daylight left, I continued onto St Ives, doing a round of its narrow streets before heading off on the B3306 towards Zennor. The road climbed and dropped; there were tight bits, straight bits and sharp bends. The land around became moor-like but the sea was always with me. Passing between farm buildings, I noticed slurry on the road and from there on took it easy through corners, where hedgerows shielded any view of the road ahead and where it was obvious farm traffic had passed. Old ventilation shafts from the tin mines this area was once famous for came along - and at Pendeen, a museum of mining. And then a very nice café that provided another warm-up along with coffee, a toastie and cake.

I reached Lands End and simply rode around the near empty car park before making my way in the direction of Falmouth for the night. The B3315 took me to Newlyn and Penzance, the A394 to Helston and then some minor roads to Gweek and a nearby B&B. It was dark by the time I arrived and the lanes that finally delivered me to my bed  were wet and slippery. I was ready to chill with the room picnic I had bought in Asda earlier.

The following day passed in a similar manner – the morning spent making some miles while the temperatures increased and the afternoon enjoying the coast. It suited me fine because I really wanted to ride the A379 through South Devon and knew there wouldn’t be enough time to hug the whole coast back to Dorset. The A390 and A38 took me to Plymouth and the Tamar toll bridge (free for motorcycles, just stop at the barrier and wait to be waved through). From there I made my way down the eastern edge of the city on the A374 before picking up signs to Brixton and the road that would take me all the way to Exeter.

The A379 is simply a road to be enjoyed in itself, but it’s also one that you can dive off from and into any one of the many small villages that line the coast. I made my way to Slapton Sands and then Dartmouth, where I stopped for a late coffee, before taking the lower ferry (contactless accepted) to Kingswear. Paignton and Torquay came and went, as did Teignmouth, but not without a stop at the station café (bike friendly and with toilets on the platform). Soon, I was heading East on the A3052 back to Lyme Regis, where a trip distance of 491 miles was completed and another chain adjustment became  due. It seemed that the side stand cut-out switch was the only thing not in tune with the alternative to Summer Sunday afternoon riding. It now resides in the bin; the lanes won’t miss it.