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Determined to make use of the tent, roll mat, and sleeping bag I’d hauled around Scotland, I decided that I absolutely had to spend a night under canvass before the trip ended.

The cold and wet isn’t an issue if you start out dry, because a good tent will shelter you from wind and rain, and a good sleeping bag will keep you warm. It wasn’t really comfort that had prevented me from camping thus far, more a lack of planning and patience. At the end of a long day on the saddle, in the rain, the last thing I felt compelled to do was spend time looking for a camp site. The map I had didn’t list them, so it really was luck if I passed one, and as it happened, I couldn’t seem to find one once I decided to stop for the day. I think if the weather had been better, the days longer, and the map more liberal with its icons, then I would have easily spent the entire trip hoping from one camp site to the next. Perhaps next time.

Still, I had brought it with me and that weight was not being wasted, I was adamant about that. After the motorway incident I meandered my way through Carlisle then down to Penrith, before following my track back to Rheged. Whenever I’ve visited the end of the lakes by car, I’ve always continued straight towards Keswick, but this time I decided to opt for a new route, a strange road which I’d never travelled before. I don’t recall ever seeing Ullswater either, so I followed the signs and found an awesome stretch of worn tarmac. It’s not superbike friendly, it’s rough and bumpy, but my gosh is it a nice to ride on and take in the scenery.

Once past Ullswater the road began to climb again, and before long I was about to make my first ever crossing of the infamous Kirkstone pass. Kirkstone pass is the highest pass, or fell crossing, in the Lake District, with its summit a little below 1,500ft. I think it’s easy to dismiss its summit as just another number, an insignificant apex in comparison to mountains, but when you consider that the roof on your average house is about 30ft up, then it puts Kirkstone pass in to perspective. If you stacked 50 houses on top of each other, that’s the height of it! The road is often impassable in winter, even to 4 wheel drive cars, but all I was in for at this time of year was wind and rain, so the passage wasn’t a concern.

To cross it however, would take me in to Windermere, and I knew that there were no camp sites around there. Well, not my sort of camp site anyway. I like my camping to be worth the effort. I will go to great effort to find some secluded wilderness in which to spend the night, and since wild camping wasn’t an option here, I made a turn in to the Sykeside campsite. It has all the facilities, including the all important pub, but is far enough out of the way of civilisation to feel like a worthwhile stop.

I checked in, handed over a tenner, then found my pitch for the night. I haven’t pitched my tent for quite a while (in fact this was the last time I did) so I was a little out of practise, but it went up surprisingly quickly. I poured the gear from the kit bag in to the tent, undressed from the biking gear, and ventured forth in to the dusk to seek shelter from the drizzle in the pub. “I may be some time”.

By the time I left the pub, having made a few temporary friendships and painstakingly knitted a warming ‘beer jacket’, the weather had begun to erupt. I made myself as small as possible in an effort to deflect the wind as it did its best to stop me return to my shelter, and when it realised I was a stubborn soul and would not succumb to its whims, it had a tantrum and threw a squally dose of rain at me. I eventually made it back to my tent, removed my very wet clothes, and climbed in to my sleeping bag.

The roar of the wind through the surrounding hills was magnificent. It was like a squadron of jet fighters taking off as the rocky outcrops of the mountains above clawed at the passing air. That noise, that impression of a Rolls Royce Olympus at full chat, was an early warning for the approaching gust. A few seconds later it would smash in to the thin nylon fabric of the tent and flex its delicate frame. I wasn’t worried, I’ve camped in much worse conditions (70mph winds in December on Ben Nevis was fun), and I knew my trusty if somewhat ageing Vaude Hogan tent would laugh at such feeble efforts to flatten it, but the noise, I’d forgotten how loud it gets. I couldn’t sleep.

Sleepless night are strange things. They’re voids in time. I arrived at the morning not sure if I had slept or not. I didn’t remember waking up, but nor did I remember most of the night. Maybe that’s the after effects of a poorly knitted beer jacket though?

The morning brought little change in the weather. The wind had calmed, but it was still fresh and wet, so after a coffee I struck camp, packed my vagabond belongings on to the back of the bike, and departed for my first passage across Kirkstone Pass.

I’d had a phone call the previous day. There was a days work waiting for me when I next obtained and internet connection, and I couldn’t afford to turn that down. I descended in to Windermere and thus ended my trip.

I spent a couple of days in Windermere working, and then headed back to Preston. By the time I got back on Thursday afternoon, me and my little two wheeled travel companion had covered 958 miles. Not bad for my first public outing on a motorbike I think.

Yesterday, after leaving the remarkably over priced and under serviced Premier Inn at Dumfries, I took off down the A75 headed for the Lake District, via Carlisle and Penrith.

I was in a world of my own as I motored down the relatively quiet A road, until I was taken by a bit of a shock. I hadn’t turned off, I was still on the A75, but in front of me the road ended. It was no longer the A75, it was something much larger. I’d somehow missed the signs that said I was about to join the M6!

I had no choice, I couldn’t go anywhere but forward now, and so I indicated off the slip road, and in to the inside lane of the M6. This, to the unaware, might not seem like a big deal, and to be quite honest, it wasn’t. I’ve been a car driver for many years now, and motorways aren’t something that concern me in the slightest, but I wasn’t in my car, I was on my bike, and the L plates said “You ain’t allowed to be here”. If the police saw me, I could be in for a fine, and perhaps points on my pristine clean license. There was only one option available to me, and that was to continue until the first available exit. I tucked myself at a safe distance behind a truck cruising at a GS125 manageable 56mph, and waited.

A turn off arrived, T0dhils services, at last! I came off the motorway, passed a petrol station that appeared to be under construction, and parked in the coffee shop car park. I went in to the coffee shop and asked if there was any roads I could exit the services from apart from the M6. There wasn’t. I ordered a mocha and contemplated what to do.

If I go back on the motorway I am breaking the law, and whilst I may on occasion dip my toes on the wrong side of it, I wasn’t prepared to take a penalty for something so stupid as missing a turn on the A75. There was only one thing I could think to do, and that was involve the police. I found the number for the local Carlisle station, and explained to the girl at the other end what I’d done. For my own security, I recorded the entire call on my camera. She wasn’t really sure what to do with me, but in the end said she’d logged the fact that I’d let them know about my situation, and hoped I didn’t get pulled over. Great!

Just as I was getting ready to set off again, a truck driver stopped for a quick chat. It turned out he had a Suzuki himself, although a slightly bigger version. He offered to “tailgate” me so any passing coppers wouldn’t see my L plates. This seemed like a great idea, especially since I only had another mile to travel before the next junction, but once back on the M6 with the plan in action, I revised my opinion slightly. An HGV 4 ft off your back wheel is unnerving to say the least. There wasn’t a lot I could do about it by then though.

Ok, so there it is, I’m headed South again. Did I give up? Not at all. I did exactly what I wanted to do, and that was experience a bit of freedom on a bike. The trip isn’t over, I’ve got at least one more destination planned, and perhaps more, but after a bit of thought this morning I decided to set off South again.

To be honest, the deciding factor was the weather. It has been atrocious since I set off, and it’s really not nice riding in a downpour. Nicer than being at home, or work, but a bit unpleasant nonetheless, and the forecast for the coming few days is for even more nasty weather. I didn’t fancy going even further North in the rain, because my success at finding campsites at the last minute when I arrive somewhere has been 0%, and staying in hotels every night is just not something I bargained for.

What a day I’ve had though!

The roads were still damp, but without the standing water I felt a lot more confident on the bike. The sky was almost blue, and the bits that weren’t were just picturesque wisps clinging to mountain tops.

Having spent a restless night overheating due to having the heating in the cabin on full in an effort to dry my kit,   I set off from Kinlochleven this morning straight after a mighty “highland feast” breakfast at the McDonald Hotel. Kinlochleven is, unsurprisingly, at the end of Loch Leven, and there’s only one road running through it, which loops around the loch so you can exit the village via either side of the loch. I chose the south side for my departure, and the scenery instantly exploded into a moving watercolour masterpiece.

The riding was awesome. The fairly dry road, and the 600 miles I’ve clocked up so far, gave me the confidence to keep the revs high through all the gears, and a new fluidity was found in my riding as I rolled the bike from corner to corner. I was enjoying the adventure of the previous days, but today, I was simply enjoying the riding. I’m beginning to see why so many blokes get drawn to these 180mph crotch rockets! (note to mother; I’m not one of those blokes, honest).

Lets not kid anybody here, it’s a 125cc four stroke bike, and it’s not by any stretch of the imagination I fast bike. With my tiny frame, it can sit at 65mph on the flat though, and a touch more downhill, and a 65mph crash is not something to take lightly. It may not have 130bhp, but it could still kill you if you get a bit too cocky. I was reminded of this as I passed through Glen Coe. It’s a bit of an accident hotspot along that road. Something about the openness of the landscape and the seemingly straight roads lure unsuspecting drivers in to driving fast, and some delusional drivers behind them are lured further in to overtaking. The thing is, these are not race tracks, they are more like road rally stages with the bumps and cambers, and if you’re stupid enough to drive at 90mph on them, then you better bloody well be a good driver. The driver of the car I passed by the roadside wasn’t, and the obtuse attitude of his car, and the accompanying flashing blue lights were testament to his (or her) over confidence.

I didn’t think that as I passed though. I was enjoying myself far too much, and the above paragraph was reduced to simple thinking “silly bugger” as the Suzuki motored past like a poorly doodle bug at 40mph.

It was time to stop for a cup of tea, and as I descended from the mountain pass in to Tyndrum I saw a sign that said “Amazing food, 1 mile”. Well, that is a bold statement indeed, and I wondered if their brewing prowess was on the same sort of level so I pulled in at “The real food cafe”. It always puzzles me, that sort of marketing. What other sort of food would it be? I’m have a pet hate about pubs, restaurant, and cafes advertising “home cooked…”. No, it’s not, it’s cooked on a commercial premises for commercial consumption. Don’t try to con me that your mum made it, because she didn’t; Jimmy the chef did.

Anyway, I digress. The brew was good, but not amazing. The service was quite remarkable though. The chefs were singing and the waiting staff were chirpy and full of life. I mentioned that I was heading to Dunoon, and they said I’d be better turning around and taking another route. Do I trust what I absolutely know my route to be correct because I planned it this morning, or do I go out on a limb and trust these guys? Hey, it’s an adventure right, so I turned the bike around and departed in the direction I came.

Some more miles of blissful riding later, I was dropping down from another mountain pass and in to Inverary. There’s an interesting sign as you enter the town “Inverary jail. Open all year” as if to serve as a gentle reminder to behave yourself. Once clear of the village I open up the throttle again, and regain my steady cruising speed of 50mph. As I’ve mentioned, the bike will go faster, but these roads were rather twisty, and 50mph meant a smooth uninterrupted passage without having to use the brakes. Any faster, and I’d have had to mess about with brakes and gears, and quite honestly, I was enjoying myself far too much for that nonsense.

I passed the locally famous Loch Fyne Oyster Bar and thought about stopping for some Oysters, but then realised I can’t stand them so didn’t bother.

I’d been on the road for a good few hours now, and I was getting a bit tired. The miles to Dunoon on the road signs weren’t dropping very quickly at all. I stopped for a breather and kicked myself for wishing away the miles. I’m in the Argyll Forest, on beautiful open roads, with not a care in the world, and I’m wishing it away. Poor form Nathan, poor form.

I got back on the bike with a renewed energy, but as I descended towards Dunoon the glorious October weather offered a surprise bout of fog. Whack! I hit a wall of moisture that just totally my vision in an instant. At first I thought it was incredibly dense fog, but I later realised, upon running a glove over my visor, that it was fog stuck to the outside of the helmet. The gloving continued every minute or so until I arrived at Dunoon.

Bad news

The fog was causing the ferry a bit of trouble, and the timetable had been thrown in to disorder. In the end, I’d been delayed by nearly two hours, and with the clocks jumping back an hour the night before in order to once again match GMT, I was three hours short of riding time before it got dark. Riding in the dark wasn’t a concern, but finding a camp site in the pitch black was. As I got off the ferry a Gourock, I resolved to there only being one option; keep going.

Now back on less that interesting A roads, the miles slowly ebbed away. First I passed Largs, then I picked up signs for Kilmarnock. Once at Kilmarnock, I altered course for Dumfries, “only” 60 miles away. 60 miles in a car, on a motorway, is nothing at all, but on a 125cc bike in the cooling evening, it’s quite laborious. An hour later it was pitch black on the unlit roads that spanned South West Scotland, and the dark wilderness was only occasionally broken by a small town passing by. I began to want the towns to arrive. Their street lights had the effect of making me feel a bit warmer. Nonsense, of course, but apparent nonetheless.

It took an age to reach Dumfries, especially as my speed was now down to a steady 40mph owing to the tiny headlight on the Suzuki. Not being able to see far enough ahead to react at speed, I’d slowed right down. Even hitting something as common as road kill, could throw me off on a corner. I didn’t fancy coming off, not least at night with very few cars around.

I kept by eye out for camp sites, or more accurately, somewhere reasonable to wild camp,but nothing appeared. By the time I’d left Dumfries I was cold and rather tired. I’d left Kinlochleven at early morning and apart from a couple of short stops I’d been plugging at the miles ever since. I just wanted to pitch my tent, warm up, and rest for the evening. No camp sites though.

I followed the signs towards Carlisle, but soon noticed it was 33 miles away. 33 miles, and I still don’t know where a camp site will be. “Aaargh, damn it” I continued. Then it appeared. The thing I wanted to avoid the most, but couldn’t help but turn off for. Like a recovering drug addict I needed just one more hit, just one more bed for the night.

So here I am, in a Premier Bin for the night. Annoyingly, not only is it the worst hotel I’ve stayed in so far, it’s the most expensive at £57 (excluding breakfast!).

Anyway, onwards tomorrow, back to the lakes. The trip has not ended yet.

I couldn’t get an internet connection last night, so parked myself on a barstool and chatted to the Aussie barman until a couple of locals popped in and I had new victims to converse with. It turns out they were bikers, and chefs, and that’s a dangerous combination it turns out. I am, in no small way, suffering from a late night today.

I checked out of the hotel in Troon yesterday morning, and began heading north again through a persistent wall of drizzle. I was heading to Gourock, where I intended to fuel up and catch the ferry across the Clyde to Dunoon. I decided it would be wise to fuel up before the crossing since the map showed a pretty desolate landscape on the other side and I was bound to be running low by now. I reached Gourock, but there was no petrol station to be seen, and after continuing on for a few more miles, I gave up, turned around, and headed for the small ferry terminal. I asked the ticket attendant if there was a petrol station in Dunoon. There is. Problem solved then.

The ferry arrived and offloaded it’s four wheeled passengers before welcoming aboard our damp queue. I had a bit of a panic as I approached the wet metal ferry ramp since I was worried about the total lack of grip, but the bike went up it without so much as a twitch.

Unfortunately, getting off the ferry was a bit more of an event. The Suzuki was on its centre stand, and the wet green painted ‘nonslip’ surface of the car deck was not gripping the stand, so each time I tried to rock the bike forward of its stand, it simply slid forward a bit. After looking like a pillock for a good minute, I eventually managed to get the job done and rode off the ferry and in to Dunoon.

I’m quite astounded by how little fuel these bikes use! Despite all the miles I’d done since my last top up, it only took £6 to fill the tank again. It’s a good job really given the unexpected expense of the hotel in Troon!

I was feeling a bit down the previous night. As I lay in the hotel room with nobody to speak to (there was just nobody to have a conversation with in the hotel), with all my gear wet from the days riding on what essentially amounted to tedious A roads, lacking in any sort of pleasure, I wondered what I was doing this for. I should be job hunting at home, not spending what little I have left on exploring whatever it was that I was exploring.

As the last buildings of Dunoon shrank in my mirrors, and vast, beautiful, epic scenery opened up in front of me, I was immediately glad I carried on. Who needs a job when you’ve got a motorbike! It was raining heavily by now, and I pools of water were gathering on the folded valleys in my waterproofs. I stopped for a break next to a loch, and upon getting off the bike and walking I realised that my feet weren’t just a bit cold, they were wet. My 6 year old water proof boots that have seen me though all sorts of horrid weather from at sea on my boat, to snow holes on Ben Nevis, had finally decided to give up their hydrophobic duties.

I plugged away at the miles of soaked tarmac, flat out, and feeling a lot more confident on the bike in the corners. It’s a bit of a strange feeling really. After a while , and with no other traffic to worry about, I was getting a bit separated from the world by my helmet. As perhaps strange as you may think I am, it was almost like I was watching  film. My body could feel the cold, and the vibrations, and the controls of the bike, but my head was in a little warm, windless environment of it’s own in my Box helmet. I was pondering the road ahead, and singing to myself, and thinking about life in general. Despite the fact that I was doing 60mph, in the middle of nowhere, over a standing water covered road, on a 20 year old single cylinder bike that rattled and buzzed as I clanged through the gears, it was peaceful.

I was in my element, but every time I stopped to navigate I noticed that myself and the map had a lot in common. We were both suffering from the effects of water being where it ought not to be. The map was falling apart due to the rain on it every time I had to read it, and my boots were now full of water, like an intrepid welly that trod a puddle too far. Despite the Oxford “Bone Dry” bar mitts, and my gloves, my hands were wet and cold too.

It stopped being the pleasurable journey I was treated to as I left Dunoon, and started becoming a chore again. I was still glad to be there, but was getting a bit too eager to get to my destination, Kinlochleven. Each road to each way point seemed to last forever.  I looked at the map. I was miles away. The only thing I could do was keep going, so I did. The clutch was a three finger affair now because if I tried to involve my pinky, I got told off with a sharp attack of pins and needles. My feet were becoming painfully cold, but I could still move my toes, so I wasn’t worried, just uncomfortable.

The last 6 miles in to Kinlochleven seemed to take forever, but eventually I pulled up at the McDonald hotel and checked in to a room. I had intended to stay in one of their wood cabins (£10 per night!) but I had to dry my gear, and myself, so I splashed out (again) on an en-suite room.

Of course, since I spent nearly all of the night in the bar swapping stories with the biker chefs, it was a bit of a waste of money, and my boots and socks didn’t dry anyway, so I’m here for another night, albeit in budget fitting wood cabins this time.

I’m not sure what the plan is going to be now. I’ve got some business I really need to attend to at home, and then there’s that small matter of needing to secure an income before I blow all my savings on this trip. I’m sort of settled on the idea that I’m not going to get to Shetland, which is fine by me since I’ve got to the point I really wanted to get to, and that’s this place. The thing is, I’m not prepared to just turn around and go back the way I came. I’ve considered riding to Stranraer, getting the ferry to Belfast (I’ve never been to that ireland before), then back from Belfast to Birkenhead, but I’m not sure. The other option is to head East, and then down the east coast, which will probably be the best option in weather terms. I’ll stare at disintegrating  the map for while this evening and mull it over, then probably change my mind at the first junction tomorrow morning.

I set off this morning as soon as it was light, quickly made my way past Bowness, then stopped at the petrol station on the way to Ambleside. £4.17 later, I was on my way again.

The day started off promising, although I took a wrong turn and added a few miles to my journey by going via Thirlmere instead of Ullswater. Not to worry, that mistake was to pale in comparison to my later detours. They were not navigational errors, I just wanted to sight see, honest!

Once I reached Keswick, the nice roads were over, and I began the seemingly endless slog along the A66, cars overtaking me at any and every opportunity  they got. I did, however, manage to get 70mph out of the old girl on a hill just before Rheged, where I stopped for a break.

I walked out of the petrol station with an A to Z of Scotland, and a cup of coffee from the self service machine. Wanting to drink my brew and study my map in comfort, I put said brew in my pocket while I rode around the corner to find a seat at the Rheged visitors centre. This is a trick I’ve pulled off before at Preston marina, where I’ve driven around to the boat yard, brew intact. I didn’t quite pull it off this time though, and the freshly made cup emptied itself on the tarmac as I turned the bike around. D’oh!

I bought another coffee at the visitors centre, which was consumed without fault, and then got my clobber back on ready for the next leg. Oh, I should mention the fact that I was at Rheged, just outside Penrith, was my second sight seeing expedition. I was aiming for Carlisle, but got a bit confused at Keswick so jump on the first road I recognised. Not to worry, it’s essentially the same way.

At Penrith I picked up the A6 again, after asking the locals for directions at the end of another sight seeing venture, and shot off North at cruising speed; about 50mph.

Carlisle was fairly straight forward, although I picked up the A7, which wasn’t the most direct route, and meant I had to stop and re calculate my course on the map.  Eventually I got to Gretna, and began the horrid leg along the A75. It wasn’t the traffic, or the overtaking, and it wasn’t the rain. What was really getting to me was the wind. It would throw a surprise side swipe at us and me and the little overloaded bike went for a bit of a wonder around the road. This was especially concerning if it happened as a truck overtook.

Eventually I picked up the A712, and riding became enjoyable again as the picturesque roads I left behind in the Lake District returned under my tyres.

At a tiny village not featured on my map, but situated just passed Balmaclellan, I turned right and on to the A713. Since the bike doesn’t have a fuel gauge, I decided I should pull over at the next petrol station, whenever that would be. It turns out it was not too far at all, in St John’s Town of Dalry (Strange name,  like “Keith’s town of Skegness”), and I’m so very glad I didn’t have the camera running.

I pulled up to the pump at the small unfranchised petrol station, and set about trying to kick the side stand down. The spring is a bit hit and miss, and I seemed to be missing more than hitting. Three times I tried, and three times it just sprang back up before I could get the bikes weight on it. I was cold and getting tired, and in no mood for this nonsense, so I dismounted with the intention of doing it more easily without the bike under me. I lost my balance, and despite a protest, the bike dropped sideways and fell against the petrol pump. I attempted to pull it back up, but it was no use. The bike and all my kit were just too heavy, so I went to the other side, and pushed it up instead. It worked, but I got tangled up in the petrol hose as I lifted it. Oh, to make matters worse, the station was on a hill, so I had to hold the front brake. I managed to somehow remove myself from the tangle, but pulled the pump off its holder in the process. It fell to the floor.

With the bike now upright, and on its stand, the pump, with it’s nozzle still laying on the floor, burst in to life as if to say “hurry up”. I calmly opened the fuel cap and topped up the tank as if I’d planned every move of it.

“I don’t suppose there’s any chance you didn’t see that is there” I chirped at the girl behind the counter.

“See what?” she replied.

Bonus!

The A713 seemed to go on, and on, and on, but it was a nice road. If only it was summer, it’d be even better. By the time I emerged at Ayr, I was getting quite cold as my 6 year old water proof hiking boots had decided they didn’t want to be waterproof any more. I was back on the big roads now, and the afternoon traffic was building. I needed to stop for the day. My concentration was not at its best, and I could tell my riding was getting a bit lazy. They warn you about riding cold and wet, on your CBT. It’s true, it does cause quite an affect.

I began to look for a campsite, but as Pretwick passed by, I’d seen nothing of the sort. When I saw a sign for Troon, I decided to turn for it. The only reason I know of Troon is because it has a marina, but that seemed to be enough to change my direction towards it. I thought, if it has a marina, it must have a campsite. Totally illogical thinking, I know.

Anyway, to cut a long story a bit shorter, it doesn’t have a campsite, and I’m not camping. The urgency of not being able to ride safely took over, and I fell through the door at the South Beach hotel, saturated their carpet with rivers of rainwater pouring off my jacket, and booked a room for the night.

This camping idea is going well so far, ain’t it!

I woke up at 0400 today. I just couldn’t get back to sleep so I decided to get up and have a bath. Bath’s are a veritable luxury when you live on a boat, so one of the 5 (I think) bathrooms had to be taken advantage of, didn’t it

After I discovered that my brand new flask is missing a lid, I sat down to watch the news. I’m a bit late in finding out, but Indonesia has had another Tsunami. Poor sods. We’re rather fortunate in Britain in that the only thing we suffer is being at the confluence of four major weather systems. It doesn’t really compare to living near a fault line, or in the path of tropical storms. When our closest volcano has a tantrum, all we suffer is a lengthy queue at Heathrow.

I also watched the weather report on the BBC. The Isle of Man ferry has been cancelled today due to very high winds in the making. I imagine, if they’re going to hit today, that the front is somewhere near Fastnet at the moment. I’ve got a lengthy journey today over high fell top roads, so I’m hoping to get that section out of the way before the wind picks up. Strong winds on an overloaded 125cc bike isn’t an appealing thought if I’m honest.

I’m struggling on routing at the moment too. I’ve left my road map at home, so I think I’m going to get to Carlisle and buy another one, before heading off past Dumfries and on up the West coast, where, as luck would have it, the worst of the weather will be. I’ve no idea where I’m going to be sleeping tonight, but at least it’s going to be relatively warm.

For anybody that’s interested, I think I’m going to start making some Twitter updates today. It’s about time I put my account to good use.

http://twitter.com/nathanwhitworth

I wanted to write a post this morning, but I just didn’t have time to in the end.

When I woke up this morning, I wasn’t ever so sure if I’d be departing or not. I was waiting on the post man to deliver some essential packages. I popped in to the marina building at 0930, and was greeted with good news; one of the parcels had arrived. It was my action cam, a wide screen compact camera that I intended to mount to the bike to get some, well, action shots.

I opened the package like a child at Christmas, but I was still unsure if I was going to be setting off. The most important delivery was nowhere to be seen. I was waiting for a laptop charger to run my netbook. My big laptop is not only big, but power hungry and expensive. It’s also essential to my livelihood, so I didn’t fancy taking it with me on the back of a motorbike, on a camping trip.

Thankfully, another delivery soon arrived, and I had everything I needed. Well, almost. I was still missing chain lube, and bar mitts, so I took the car to a local bike shop in Preston. It turns out my last minute trip to Hein Gericke was very worthwhile indeed. Not only did I get that bits I wanted, but I also met a chap called Jason. Jason rode around the coast of Britain with another guy by the name of Nick Sanders. Nick is rather famous in motorbike circles so it seems, and holds the world record for the fast lap of the globe on a bike, amongst other things. Jason spent a good 15 minutes offering me advice, and suggestions on where to go, and by the time I left the shop I was full of ideas and a changed idea on how the trip will unfold.

The thing that worried me most was Glasgow. I’m not yet comfortable in heavy traffic, and Glasgow is a pain in the backside to drive through at the best of times, so I was a bit nervous that it was an essential gateway for me to pass. The Erskin bridge was the only way to get North if I were to stay on the West coast, or so I thought. It turns out that there’s another route, a route more fitting to my little underpowered 125cc motorcycle. I can get a ferry across the Clyde from Gourock to Hunters Quay. This will put me north of Glasgow, and straight in to forest roads… apparently.

Once back at the boatyard, I fitted the bar mitts and took the bike for a spin around the yard. I didn’t like them. They seems far too big (wide) for such small handle bars, and got in the way of the controls. I removed them, but packed them in my kit since I’m probably just going to have to learn to deal with them as it gets colder.

Eventually, the bike was loaded, and I thought it wise to have another test run around the yard to see how it handled. Yikes! It’s ok once you’re moving, but at low speed it’s quite hard work. If all the kit was in panniers the weight would be much lower, and I think it’d make a great improvement to the handling, but i didn’t have that luxury, so I just made do.

There were no fanfare, or goodbyes, save for a word of advice from a fellow biker in the boatyard, and at about 2pm I set off, heading the wrong way in order to pick up some keys.

The bike felt a little weird on the road, but nothing I wasn’t about to quickly get used to. With a borrowed set of keys in my pocket, and a warm cup of tea in my belly, I once again departed, this time heading in the right direction out of Preston. It was about 1445 by this point, and the traffic was starting to build in Britain’s newest city. The heavy load on the back made stopping and starting a bit of a chore, and couldn’t wait to see an open road. That would be a while off.

The traffic finally eased as I passed Garstang on the A6, and I settled in for a couple of hours on the saddle. Despite the fact that I’ve visited the Lake District many many times in the ten years I’ve had a driving license, I had never done so via the A6. It was always a motorway journey, but this time I didn’t have that option. Not only am I legally forbidden to travel on a motorway with my L plates, but the poor ageing Suzuki will do about 60mph, flat out, and it’s not a particularly pleasant feeling. I’m just waiting for something to break and cause an accident. No, speed is not the purpose of this trip, and this bike needs to be pampered a bit. She’s had a long life, and I’m quite happy nursing her along at a more comfortable 45mph. Besides, I’m still learning how to ride a bike. Corners are drastically different problems on two wheels.

Before I knew it, I was entering Lancaster, a city who’s foundations where laid by the Romans in 80AD. As the traffic once again started to build, I once again began to feel cautious. I wouldn’t have thought twice about these traffic systems in my car. A three lane roundabout, flyovers, and fast fire junctions, it just wouldn’t have raised an eyebrow in the Subaru, but it did on the bike. My second nature on the road had been stripped away from me, and now these formerly simple actions of navigating traffic became incredibly complicated once again. To add to the awakening feeling of vulnerability, I had the worrying issue of power. The Subaru has the best part of 300 horse power, where as the Suzuki has 11! If I needed to get out of somebody’s way, I simply couldn’t, and so I became a twitchy gopher on two wheels, constantly looking around for things trying to eat me.

I emerged from the great Lancastrian city in one piece, and continued north along the A6. I decided that as soon as town houses turn to trees, I’ll stop and check the bike.

As soon as the first 1/4 mile P sign appeared, I began to make my move to pull over. I dismounted my metal steed and checked the oil level. It was no different to when I started, so that’s good news. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for the rear starboard indicator. It had somehow broken off and was dangling by its live giving electrical wire. There wasn’t much I could do about it there, so I made a note to pay extra attention to what was behind me if I turned right, and if needed use a hand signal. I too refuelled with a Snickers bar, which I realised was the first thing I’d eaten all day, and then set off again towards Cumbria.

I suppose I could offer a commentary on the rest of the trip, but I’m sure it’d be a bit boring since it was, after all, a simple journey by road that many people take everyday. I eventually arrived in Bowness, then headed towards my accommodation for the night.

I know I’m supposed to be roughing it in a tent, but it’s hard to turn down the offer of staying in the place I’ve so graciously been allowed, and besides, I’m going to be suffering enough tomorrow night I expect. Instead, this evening, I’m in a stunningly beautiful house overlooking lake Windermere, and I couldn’t be happier… expect maybe if a couple of sex stared women knocked on the door in search of shelter for the night. Well, it is raining out there, it would be rude to turn them away!

Tomorrow then. Tomorrow. That’s going to be a big day I should think. The weather has turned this evening, but I’ve been fortunate to have a fairly pleasant ride this afternoon. It’s not looking like I’ll be getting the same tomorrow, and I’ve got quite a bit further to go. I think tomorrow the trip will start properly because I’ll be in a place I’ve never visited before. Hopefully there’s a pub at this currently unknown destination!

Welcome to the very first post on BoyOnABike.com

I’ve written a bit of a background as to why this site came to life, here, but this first post marks the beginning of a journey.

Almost as soon as I decided to buy my bike just over a week ago (see the link above), I came up with a suitable touring trip, but I’m slightly hesitant to say that’s where I’m going, because I know that at this time of year on such a small bike, it’s really going to be quite some challenge to get there, and the last thing I want is a failure to deliver the goods again.

Essentially, I intend to make my way towards the Shetland islands in the far North of Scotland. Because of my lack of experience and complete ignorance to what I’m about to go through, I’m not promising I shall make it, but that all part of an adventure in my opinion. Deal with things one event at a time, and stay flexible about what you’re doing. To stick rigidly to a plan not only causes a lot of stress when inevitable hiccups force you to deviate fromthem, but such plans are the very thing I’m endeavouring to avoid.

So, since this is the very post post on this site I suppose I should fill you in on the situation thus far. After buying the bike last week and completing my CBT a few days later, I’ve set about preparing the aged machine to the best of my ability. I was astounded how pleasurable it is to work on a bike engine! There are none of the skinless knuckles and scuffed arms one expects when working on a car. In fact, it took me all of 15 minutes to service the engine.

When I bought the bike it was running a little rough, but as the previous MOT expired in 2008, I suspect it hadn’t been ran since and was in desperate need of a little loving care. A new spark plug, oil filter and oil have done a world of good, and I expect a wee fiddle with the carb and some new fuel have helped a bit too. I’ve also replaced the battery. There was no fault with it, but the plates looked a bit out of shape, and there was sediment in a couple of the cells, which I put down to being stood for too long without a charge. Since this trip is going to take me in to the relative wilds of Scotland (yes, I have to go through Glasgow), I’ve opted for caution and bought a new battery. Actually, that was a learning curve. I’ve never bought a DIY battery before. Apparently for these little 8ah motorbike batteries you need to fill them with acid yourself. I follow the instructions and topped up each cell with the corrosive fluid that came in the kit, and since I was lacking a pair of glasses simply opted to close my eyes as I did it. I’m not sure if that was wise since I ended up splashing my face. I don’t know if it was the placebo affect, but it tingled a bit.

Anyway, there we have it, the bike is up and running and ready to go. I’ve spent today preparing my kit since it’s been a long while indeed since I last spent a night under canvass. I’m no stranger to camping, click here for an example, and my shed in a rucksack adventures have taken me all over, from the French Alps to the summit of Ben Nevis. I’ve never particularly liked camp sites either. Nothing beats a good wild camp, but only if you approach it properly. If you’re on of these people that needs an entire car boot full of kit to sustain yourself for a weekend in Coniston, then it’s going to be a regretful experience for you, but if you can let go of perceived essentials, and condense your life support to a single rucksack, then some of the most memorable evenings of your life await.

I laid everything out on a table this afternoon and checked I had all I needed. I also added a basic tool kit to my list of items, which I must admit is a camping first for me.

So here I am on the evening of the 26th of October 2010. I’m hoping to set off tomorrow, but I’m still waiting on some essential kit to be delivered. As I did with my sailing trip, I intend to film this adventure too, and I’ve ordered some specialist equipment in an effort to get some decent shots along the way. I wanted to mic up my helmet so I could speak a little bit on the way, but my budget wouldn’t run to a voice recorder (or the VERY expensive cameras that have mic inputs) I’m afraid.

I’m also waiting on a replacement charger for my netbook. This is essential, not only to update this blog, but to deal with any emergencies on the websites I’m involved with. If should have been here today. I hope it gets here tomorrow because I can’t leave without it.

The first day is going to be fairly short, just a stint from Preston, Lancashire to Windermere in the Lake District where a friend of mine has kindly offered me the use of his house for the night. There I’ll do some further route planning and head on up to Scotland the day after.

I’m excited. I don’t know what the next week is going to have in store for me. I’ve missed this feeling. I’m happy.