9th December
Late on Tuesday afternoon, I picked the bike up from Pidcocks at Long Eaton, near Nottingham. They’ve had the Adv for a few days to investigate the reason the front discs keep warping. They’d found nothing wrong with the front wheel, or the disc carriers, so had replaced the lower fork stanchions – which was a bonus as the old ones were looking very much the worse for wear after 86,000 miles. While they were at it, they replaced the fork brace, under warranty, as it was badly corroded. Riding the bike back to Lincoln was like a religious experience – I’d not been on 2 wheels for over 4 weeks…
So, at 0900 today, I’m packed (sort of) and setting off from Lincoln to my new ‘temporary’ home at Longside in Aberdeenshire, some 400 miles away. The plan is to deliver the bike, then catch the train back tomorrow and pick the car up. I’ll drive over to Bristol on Saturday, to pick up some clothes and other stuff that Simon & Claire have been looking after for me, then drive the 600ish miles up to Longside on Sunday.
I ride out of Bracebridge Heath, a suburb of the ancient city of Lincoln and join the interminable traffic queues which seem to be a permanent feature of the inner ring road. The massive cathedral dominates the skyline, as it has done for over 800 years…
After negotiating my way through the traffic and the damp, oily slick road surface (we are in desperate need of a good heavy rain shower to wash the crap off the roads), I make my way up towards Caistor and the Lincolnshire Wolds. Lincolnshire is generally as flat as a desktop – but the wolds add a little altitude and are a beautiful ride. It’s very cold and I have my heated jacket plugged in and switched to medium-rare, though my heated gloves are still in the pannier – hand warming is by courtesy of the heated grips…
…Hmm – must fit that new sidestand when it arrives – or avoid parking on steep camber. As I ride through the morning sunshine, mostly heading North and West, the low wintry sun is behind me, its light diffused by the light mist which clings to the landscape. All too soon, I’m passing Humberside Airport and joining the M180 – a motorway which, via the M18 and M62, leads me to the A1 – the Great North Road. The A1 is the main arterial route to the North and I’m forced to use it until just North of Scotch Corner, where I join the A68…
…where the increase in altitude results in better visibility. This is hill farming country and they breed ‘em tough – it’s difficult enough to survive as a farmer in the UK anywhere, but the extremes of weather up here make it even more of a challenge.
Real motorcyclists do 200 miles before breakfast. I succumb to wimpdom at about 140 and stop at the famous Alma’s Café at Tow Law.
Alma makes a splendid breakfast – all those things you need on a cold ride, like fried bread, black pudding and Cumberland sausages – washed down by a vast mug of tea you could scour a boiler with – fantastic…
Tow Law has a population of about 2,500 and owes its existence to the local coal mines and iron ore deposits. It used to have 6 blast furnaces operating around the clock, but is clearly in decline now. At over 1000 above sea level, it’s an exposed and bleak town.
Suitably warmed, refreshed (and having filled the Adv up), I put on my heated gloves and continue to press North towards the Scottish Border. I cross the A69, which follows the path of the wall erected by the Roman Emperor Hadrian, effectively cutting the civilised world off from the Picts in the North. The A68 becomes an interesting road from here on. There are sharp crests and hidden dips, which, despite plenty of warning signs…
…lead to regular, high speed, head on accidents. This is a dangerous piece of road.
Passing some unidentified ruins at Ridsdale…
I stop for a breather by the coolly beautiful Cacleugh Reservoir…
The sun’s still low in the sky and I realise that I’m not going to have too much light to take pictures when I get further North. After a few miles, I cross the border – taking the essential tourist snap as I do…
Whoa! Wait a minute…
My rear lights, number plate and indicators are covered in a thick (and very hard) coating of rock salt. Salt’s used in the UK as an anti-icing agent and, as I mentioned earlier, we’re overdue for some rain to wash the roads off. For a minute, I toy with the idea of leaving it as it is – I know the next 30 miles or so are stiff with speed cameras, and it’s very tempting to just go racing through with an illegible number plate…
…but common sense, in the shape of wanting to be clearly seen from the rear, persuades me to grab some wet grass and wipe the plate and my lights clean. Just after I cross the border, I see a Police patrol car stopped, the driver talking to the riders of 2 bikes, both of whom have illegible number plates…
I carry on up the A68, eventually reaching the Edinburgh ring road. After a sneak through the edge of the city, I arrive at the Forth Road toll bridge – happily, there is no toll for motorcyclists…
The road bridge is built just to the West of the famous Rail Bridge, which, folklore has it, they never stop painting*.
Just to the West of the Forth Road Bridge is the Royal Naval Dockyard at Rosyth where, 17 years ago, I sailed for another Gulf War (the Iran Iraq conflict – before fighting in that area got fashionable for westerners) on board HMS York. The navigators on board warships based at Rosyth know the train timetables off by heart – a Navy tradition dictates that, if the ship passes under the railway bridge at the same time as a train crosses it, the Navigator has to buy the Wardroom a case of Champagne…
Onward, then, into a darkening landscape. It’s too dark to take pictures now and, by the time I get into Aberdeen, at 1610, it’s pitch black. I arrive at Longside, the home of my friends Chris and Pam, at about 1645. Chris isn’t home yet, but Pam is dancing around the kitchen waving a letter in the air – they’ve just received their immigration visas, allowing them to move to Australia sometime before September 2005. Chris comes home and, to celebrate, I take them out to the local pub for dinner. Pam points out that she is the principle immigrant (she’s a sonographer – although I’ve probably spelt it wrong), and that the Visa states that Chris may not arrive in Australia before her. She seems immensely satisfied that she has it in writing that she must come first…
After rather too much wine, we return to the 19th century farmhouse that will shortly be put up for sale, and I get an early night – I’ll be back here on Sunday evening, but have a little travelling to do between then and now…
It feels good to be back on the bike.
*Utter bollocks – the train I caught home the next day crossed the bridge and the paintwork is in shit order…
Late on Tuesday afternoon, I picked the bike up from Pidcocks at Long Eaton, near Nottingham. They’ve had the Adv for a few days to investigate the reason the front discs keep warping. They’d found nothing wrong with the front wheel, or the disc carriers, so had replaced the lower fork stanchions – which was a bonus as the old ones were looking very much the worse for wear after 86,000 miles. While they were at it, they replaced the fork brace, under warranty, as it was badly corroded. Riding the bike back to Lincoln was like a religious experience – I’d not been on 2 wheels for over 4 weeks…
So, at 0900 today, I’m packed (sort of) and setting off from Lincoln to my new ‘temporary’ home at Longside in Aberdeenshire, some 400 miles away. The plan is to deliver the bike, then catch the train back tomorrow and pick the car up. I’ll drive over to Bristol on Saturday, to pick up some clothes and other stuff that Simon & Claire have been looking after for me, then drive the 600ish miles up to Longside on Sunday.
I ride out of Bracebridge Heath, a suburb of the ancient city of Lincoln and join the interminable traffic queues which seem to be a permanent feature of the inner ring road. The massive cathedral dominates the skyline, as it has done for over 800 years…
After negotiating my way through the traffic and the damp, oily slick road surface (we are in desperate need of a good heavy rain shower to wash the crap off the roads), I make my way up towards Caistor and the Lincolnshire Wolds. Lincolnshire is generally as flat as a desktop – but the wolds add a little altitude and are a beautiful ride. It’s very cold and I have my heated jacket plugged in and switched to medium-rare, though my heated gloves are still in the pannier – hand warming is by courtesy of the heated grips…
…Hmm – must fit that new sidestand when it arrives – or avoid parking on steep camber. As I ride through the morning sunshine, mostly heading North and West, the low wintry sun is behind me, its light diffused by the light mist which clings to the landscape. All too soon, I’m passing Humberside Airport and joining the M180 – a motorway which, via the M18 and M62, leads me to the A1 – the Great North Road. The A1 is the main arterial route to the North and I’m forced to use it until just North of Scotch Corner, where I join the A68…
…where the increase in altitude results in better visibility. This is hill farming country and they breed ‘em tough – it’s difficult enough to survive as a farmer in the UK anywhere, but the extremes of weather up here make it even more of a challenge.
Real motorcyclists do 200 miles before breakfast. I succumb to wimpdom at about 140 and stop at the famous Alma’s Café at Tow Law.
Alma makes a splendid breakfast – all those things you need on a cold ride, like fried bread, black pudding and Cumberland sausages – washed down by a vast mug of tea you could scour a boiler with – fantastic…
Tow Law has a population of about 2,500 and owes its existence to the local coal mines and iron ore deposits. It used to have 6 blast furnaces operating around the clock, but is clearly in decline now. At over 1000 above sea level, it’s an exposed and bleak town.
Suitably warmed, refreshed (and having filled the Adv up), I put on my heated gloves and continue to press North towards the Scottish Border. I cross the A69, which follows the path of the wall erected by the Roman Emperor Hadrian, effectively cutting the civilised world off from the Picts in the North. The A68 becomes an interesting road from here on. There are sharp crests and hidden dips, which, despite plenty of warning signs…
…lead to regular, high speed, head on accidents. This is a dangerous piece of road.
Passing some unidentified ruins at Ridsdale…
I stop for a breather by the coolly beautiful Cacleugh Reservoir…
The sun’s still low in the sky and I realise that I’m not going to have too much light to take pictures when I get further North. After a few miles, I cross the border – taking the essential tourist snap as I do…
Whoa! Wait a minute…
My rear lights, number plate and indicators are covered in a thick (and very hard) coating of rock salt. Salt’s used in the UK as an anti-icing agent and, as I mentioned earlier, we’re overdue for some rain to wash the roads off. For a minute, I toy with the idea of leaving it as it is – I know the next 30 miles or so are stiff with speed cameras, and it’s very tempting to just go racing through with an illegible number plate…
…but common sense, in the shape of wanting to be clearly seen from the rear, persuades me to grab some wet grass and wipe the plate and my lights clean. Just after I cross the border, I see a Police patrol car stopped, the driver talking to the riders of 2 bikes, both of whom have illegible number plates…
I carry on up the A68, eventually reaching the Edinburgh ring road. After a sneak through the edge of the city, I arrive at the Forth Road toll bridge – happily, there is no toll for motorcyclists…
The road bridge is built just to the West of the famous Rail Bridge, which, folklore has it, they never stop painting*.
Just to the West of the Forth Road Bridge is the Royal Naval Dockyard at Rosyth where, 17 years ago, I sailed for another Gulf War (the Iran Iraq conflict – before fighting in that area got fashionable for westerners) on board HMS York. The navigators on board warships based at Rosyth know the train timetables off by heart – a Navy tradition dictates that, if the ship passes under the railway bridge at the same time as a train crosses it, the Navigator has to buy the Wardroom a case of Champagne…
Onward, then, into a darkening landscape. It’s too dark to take pictures now and, by the time I get into Aberdeen, at 1610, it’s pitch black. I arrive at Longside, the home of my friends Chris and Pam, at about 1645. Chris isn’t home yet, but Pam is dancing around the kitchen waving a letter in the air – they’ve just received their immigration visas, allowing them to move to Australia sometime before September 2005. Chris comes home and, to celebrate, I take them out to the local pub for dinner. Pam points out that she is the principle immigrant (she’s a sonographer – although I’ve probably spelt it wrong), and that the Visa states that Chris may not arrive in Australia before her. She seems immensely satisfied that she has it in writing that she must come first…
After rather too much wine, we return to the 19th century farmhouse that will shortly be put up for sale, and I get an early night – I’ll be back here on Sunday evening, but have a little travelling to do between then and now…
It feels good to be back on the bike.
*Utter bollocks – the train I caught home the next day crossed the bridge and the paintwork is in shit order…
