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.  

 

Letter to Bike magazine - Oct 2020

 

This is the Z1000ST (FLA 476T) I bought direct from Kawasaki, Slough, a few months after it was tested by Bike back in 1979. It was simply wonderful, and from the sweet spot in bike history between awful and silly; tiny and Tupperware. Comfortable but not unwieldy, uncluttered and with a bulletproof motor – and believe me, like most 23 year-olds, I knew how to fire bullets at an engine – it did everything you could possibly want a bike to do. I can’t deny that motorcycle ABS has probably been the most significant safety feature since the introduction of the front brake but there was nothing like riding one of these uncomplicated superbikes, just you, the road, and the perfect machine.

 

Bike is still as good, though.  Fewer dolly birds advertising nylon over suits or draped over a Ducati 900 and the writing’s still very entertaining and informative.  However, the silencers on the ST were shot within a year and, of course, as an ex-demo there was no warranty. Did you wash it properly when you had it?

 

Rogue Male in Lockdown

        

The Royal Enfield Classic 500 I bought last October is sitting in the garage and I’m indoors fantasising about a bygone age.  I’ve just finished reading Rogue Male, a Boys Own adventure with an illustrated cover designed to spark the imagination, like the ones they had on motorcycle magazines back in the 1950s. The book’s protagonist is pursued by a deadly foreign agent across pre-war Europe before going to ground in Dorset, not too far from where I live. In the mother of all lockdowns, he digs in and hides in a burrow somewhere between Beaminster and Lyme Regis. And I intend, once this present situation is over, to take the Enfield and go look for him.

I’ll start by going East down the A3052 into Lyme Regis, where our hero risked leaving his hideaway to collect mail forwarded from London. It’s a beautiful town with views along the coast all the way in. It’s also a place to stop for coffee. Just pop into the carpark at the bottom of the main street by the little clock tower and slip through the barrier on the left - you’ll often see plenty of other bikes there. But I won’t stop, not today, I’ll continue east out of town, climbing through the long sweeping bends until I come to the A35. The Enfield likes something a bit more sedate, so I’ll go through Charmouth coming out on the A road further along. A quick right and first left will see me on the lanes towards Whitechurch Canonicorum. I use this route quite a bit and I know the bike will come into its own thumping along in 2nd or 3rd gear, the wonderful sound of its Hitchcocks exhaust ricocheting off stone buildings along the narrow lane.  There’s always grass and loose stuff up the middle, so I’ll stick to one side and take it easy through the blind turns.

From Whitechurch I’m following Sustrans cycle route 2, a road section that’s narrow and slow, ideal for the Enfield, which will need few gear changes and just chug down to bang bang and back up again. At Shave Cross I’ll go on to Broadoak. That’s where I’ll leave the cycle route and drop down to Symonsbury on Broadoak Road. It’s hereabouts that many people think the author described the hideaway's location but it’s down a hollow way track, so I’ll give it a miss and pop into West Bay for a cuppa. There’s plenty of places to choose from and ample bike parking, and a kiosk where tea is 50p a cup for bikers. From West Bay I often head out towards Weymouth on the B3157, and if you haven’t ridden it, it’s a must. The speed limit’s an ideal Royal Enfield Bullet 50 mph; the views before Abbotsbury down to The Fleet and Portland are breath-taking. 

Today though, I’d be heading north, bypassing Bridport towards Beaminster on the A3066. The Enfield will ride well on it, taking the bends at 50-55 mph in top, hitting its sweet spot and actually feeling quite smooth for a big single. Turning right onto North Street it all starts to get a bit tricky and the lanes become anonymous with few signs. The idea is to head for the Fox Inn near Corscombe to the east of the A356. In 1976, Peter O’Toole starred in a television film adaptation of Rogue Male (I got the DVD off Amazon as soon as I’d finished reading the book) and several scenes were filmed in the area, including one outside The Fox Inn. We’ve been there before, the Enfield and me, so hopefully I’ll find it again. Then it’s south and a short hop via the A356 to Rampisham, another location used in the film and one we’ve also been to on our runs through the lanes. Like at the Fox Inn, I’ll stop a while and try to work out if the place has changed much since the film was made.

There are other villages mentioned in the book within easy reach but by then, if I haven’t already stopped for a stretch, I’ll probably be getting to the stage where I’ve had enough of the Enfield’s single saddle for a bit and head back to Beaminster on the B3163. Rogue Male can wait for another day. Beaminster’s not the easiest place to find somewhere to park up in, so I’m going on to Axminster just over the border in Devon via Broadwindsor, the B3164 and then the B3165, eventually cutting across to the town on one or two of the maze of little lanes that run off the B road. Motorcycles are not charged in the South Street car park, so it’s here that I’ll stop for another cuppa at one of the many cafes - there’s even the River Cottage Kitchen, for the more discerning palette.

I’m nearly home now but I’ll make a short excursion to join up with one of Peter O’Toole’s other characters, T.E Lawrence, who he played in the 1962 film, Lawrence of Arabia.  Coming out of Axminster I’ll head west and after a short, unavoidable stint on the A35,  I’ll go south from Kilmington through Whitford to Colyton. Shortly, I’ll be back on the A3052 in Colyford not far from where I started. There’s an old garage near the tramway crossing that’s now a cycle shop and café with the most beautiful set of 1950s Avery Hardoll fuel pumps you’ll see anywhere. It’s said that Lawrence often filled up his Brough here and although these pumps are from a later decade. If you can get to them when there’s not too many cars about, they make for a great photo. 

At the end of Rogue Male our hero skinned a dead cat and made a catapult out of its pelt. When the nasty foreign agent tried to get to him, he let him have it, straight between the eyes. I’ll ride back up the hill towards home, lockdown a thing of the past.