A Triumph

I smile every time I look at my new T120 Bonneville, I nod when I read about it being such a great bike, and I do an impersonation of Sid James laughing when I think of how it has out retro’d the latest incarnation of the very bike that kicked its predecessors into touch all those years ago. The Kawasaki Z900rs is a great bike, but it's not the greatest at being what it's supposed to be, not now. After 50 years, that title must surely go back to Triumph. 

Letter to Bike magazine

 

I popped out earlier to pick up this month’s Bike, a nice little ride to my nearest WH Smith and just far enough to justify a coffee while having an initial flick through. I know for the sake of the planet I should have it posted or better still, read an electronic version, but I’ve always got the magazine while out on the bike, it just seems right somehow. Anyway, this morning, sitting at a table outside Costa, I couldn’t help but notice a nearby pelican crossing, not least because of the beeping when the lights went to red. I reckon every other person using it didn’t look at the road before pressing the button, and with no thought whatsoever,  every last one of them pressed the button regardless of any approaching traffic. None waited for heavy lorries to pass; many crossed an empty road the lights having turned red for no reason. Some, seeing that no vehicles were approaching, crossed before the lights changed, which, of course, they eventually did, forcing vehicles coming along moments later to brake to a standstill for a crossing devoid of any pedestrian. The lights changing, the beeper beeping, and all those vehicles having to overcome God knows how much friction in order to get going again and accelerate to their original speed. What a waist of precious energy.

I got back on my Strom and rode home, something I’ll do till it dies and I can justify the energy deficit needed to produce a new electric bike.

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.