Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash

If you can’t work with plan A, go to plan B – always a good motto. We’d planned to try out our new tent on the North Coast 500 last year (a route that hugs the Scottish coastline), but illness prevented that. We then planned to use it in France and Italy this summer, but the very late delivery of my driving licence prevented that – and Covid-19 would have made it a bit dodgy, too.

Plan C involved a three-day window of warm and sunny autumn weather in the Lake District. Sunday dawned bright and sunny in Stockport, so for the first time in more than a year we loaded up the Valkyrie with tent, sleeping bags, high-tech air mattresses and as few clothes as we could get away with. We’d pre-booked a campsite in the Lakes. There wasn’t much of a selection to choose from, but it was out of season and maybe Covid had closed the better ones. Compared with the sites we use on the Continent, these looked a bit sparse in the facilities department, with one boasting of a new shower block! We tend to take an on-site bar, restaurant and extensive washrooms for granted, but maybe we’ve just been lucky over the years.

We set off up the M60 and the M62 in warm sunshine, enjoying the feeling of being off on a road trip again, albeit a short one. Traffic was light and stayed that way as we branched off on to A roads, but then it got busy – especially with bikes. We passed probably 100 scooters coming back from a rally somewhere. I’d forgotten how reckless some riders can be on open roads. A reminder came when we slowed to a crawl at the scene of an accident, where the tail of a sports bike was sticking out of a hedge, and not quite at ground level, either.

As the road climbed higher, the sky grew cloudier and the air cooler. The clouds looked ominous in the direction we were heading, enveloping the hilltops in the distance. It started to drizzle, and the drizzle changed to rain as the patches of blue receded behind us. The rain became heavier. Peter on the pillion was reporting that her new Shoei Neotec was hurting the top of her head, just as mine had, so I resolved to give her my sponge pad to try. The joy of our new Sena intercom was the ease of discussing whether to abort the trip or not.

We stopped for fuel and a sandwich and watched the weather get wetter and gloomier. The prospect of setting up a new tent in a wet field, sleeping through a wet night and waking up to a wet morning didn’t have huge appeal – not compared with the nice warm bed waiting at home. We’d crossed the M6 motorway only a few miles back, and it seemed to promise a fast route back to sunshine, warmth and maybe dry roads. That’s what we did – it turned out to be Plan D! Some people think nothing of riding and camping in the rain; I’ve done a lot of the former and a bit of the latter and see no pleasure in either, apart from that recent ride home after a year off the road. Happily, the rain stopped within minutes of joining the motorway south, then the clouds parted, and the ride home was sunny and warm; it was like visiting two climates in the space of 30 minutes.

A few days later we headed out for a day trip. I gave Peter my helmet sponge pad and tried my own replacement liner instead. She was much happier with the pad in place. The new liner solved the roof-of-the-head issue for me but instead transferred the pain to my forehead, which was why I’d chosen the larger liner in the first place! Motolegends kindly supplied another skull-cap sponge for me and now we’re both sorted, even if it’s a bit of a Mickey Mouse solution for a top-of-the-range lid. The tent, however, is back in the attic till next spring.

The rain started to fall less than half-way into the 200-mile trip: so much for believing the weather forecast – after more than 50 years of living in the British Isles you’d think I’d know better! My vision of returning to serious biking in endless sunshine after a year’s break ended in a service area on the M40.

The plan had been to ride from Woking, the bike’s normal garaging place, to Stockport, where we live. On Sunday, the following Wednesday looked dry and warm-ish, according to BBC Weather. By Tuesday night my wife and I were committed to travelling the next day, but whatever had been brewing in the Atlantic for Thursday brewed a little faster and brought heavy rain by midday Wednesday.

The day started well enough. It felt truly wonderful to be back on two wheels after my enforced layoff. The bike had a fresh tank of 97-octane unleaded and was running far more smoothly than the day I’d put it back on the road. My brand new Shoei Neotec 2 helmet was comfortable and quiet at first, but after about 90 minutes it started biting into the top of my head.

The rain started to spit down as I pulled into the service area to have some lunch and don waterproofs. I couldn’t find any obvious reason for the helmet issue so headed off again, planning to ride cross-country towards Derby to pick up the A50 and then the A515 through the Pennines – much more fun on a bike than the dreary M6. My wife, following an hour behind me in the car, discovered the route and always prefers it, too.

We’d treated ourselves to the luxury of built-in Sena headsets after years of grappling with the wires of an Autocom system. However, you need to study the leaflet well to sort out the combination of three buttons and how long you press each one to get radio, phone, intercom or satnav – and my leaflet was in the car with most of our stuff.

My Garmin would ensure I found my way home – I’d only travelled this route as a car passenger and wasn’t entirely familiar with it – but one of the reasons I’d spent a small fortune on two Sena units was to have the audio feed from the sat-nav. I pulled over into a lay-by and fiddled with the buttons: was it centre button for on, then five seconds holding down centre and the + button together for sat-nav? I was rewarded with some encouraging beeps and set off again, with Alexa’s cousin giving me route information.

The rain got heavier, but the pleasant Pennine roads provided plenty of diversion. It just felt so good to be riding again. By the time I reached home, I’d made a few discoveries: my Alpinestars riding boots, which are about 12 years old, were no longer waterproof, despite their Gore-Tex lining; neither was my Rukka jacket, which had kept me warm and dry these past 17 years but was now letting water in around the stomach area; and my new helmet was definitely digging into the crown of my head.

The boots and jacket are probably overdue for replacement, and I’ll do that in due course, but the helmet was a worry. I’d just spent something in excess of £700 on the lid and headset, and what had seemed fine in the showroom was now a disappointment. I get my riding gear mostly from Motolegends in Guildford, and have always found them excellent, so I dashed off an email next morning. Help!

They’d recommended the Shoei over Schuberth, which I’d had for my last two helmets, saying it would better suit my skull shape. I’d opted for a slightly larger lining for greater comfort, but that allows the helmet to sit every so slightly lower on the head. The larger insert also has less padding on top, and that was causing the harder internal centre rib to dig in. They dispatched a replacement liner and a sponge-like skull pad by first-class post. The pad slips between the helmet shell and the inner lining, and it works a treat.

Despite heavy rain, painful helmets and leaking waterproofs, it still felt wonderful to be back in the saddle. All we needed now was a few days of sunshine and maybe we could go camping…

Beauty, we’re told, lies in the eye of the beholder. Fair enough, up to a point. This particular beholder knows exactly what makes for a beautiful motorcycle: curves, deep paint, a fair bit of shiny metal, and an unquantifiable magic ingredient that just makes me go “Ahhh!”.

It’s easier to explain by example: the bikes that set my pulse racing include most Norton Commandos (not the Fastback), Bonnevilles, the Triumph T160, 1970s Ducatis, the 2006 SportClassic range, the Honda CBX, Guzzi V7, MV750/1000 four, Kawasaki Z1, Laverda 1000/1200 – there are many others, but you get the picture.

In the opposite corner, marked “what were they thinking?”, sit most adventure bikes, most KTMs, those Transformer-meets-Alien Kawasaki 1000s, the Honda ST1100 and 1300, and now the 2020 Honda Gold Wing. When I saw my first pictures of the latest Wing, I was gobsmacked!

Let me explain some more. I love Gold Wings. I’ve loved them since I first tested one in the late 1970s. I wrote a book about them called, appropriately enough, Gold Wing. I rode a rented 1800 through Colorado with my wife and loved it. I’ve owned three Valkyries, which are essentially naked Wings with some added style, and the marvellous 2004 Valkyrie Rune in the main photo.

There are faster bikes, lighter bikes (and then some!), but the original flat four and latterly flat six engines are peerless. Smooth, turbine-like and utterly delightful. Add in the various creature comforts that have appeared on the Wing over the years and you have a fabulous touring bike, made even better by the frame and suspension that came with the 1800s. This is a bike that handles far better than it should. No doubt tests will reveal that the 2020 Wing is the best ever.

Some say that form should follow function. I accept that too, again up to a point. That’s why I admire the off-road capabilities of KTMs and Super Teneres and their ilk, even though I think they’re ugly. That’s why I can accept the acres of plastic that have adorned Gold Wings for decades, because they provide the weather protection and luggage capacity that you need on a serious tourer.

But for crying out loud – look at the engine on the 2020 Wing! The once-beautiful chrome rocker covers have been replaced by what looks from the photos like dull plastic. So too the chrome timing belt cover on the front of the engine – more dull plastic. Compare the 2020 model engine to the Valkyrie’s motor in these photos, or the Rune above, and tell me which looks better.

 

There’s been so much progress in motorcycle design and technology over the 52 years of my riding career, and modern bikes can run rings around machines from even 20 years ago. But that doesn’t have to be at the expense of art. The new Wing would look so much better if it borrowed a few styling cues from the Rune or the Valkyrie below – and surely it would perform every bit as well?

Happy New Year!

Buying a used motorcycle online involves an act of faith. I’ve only done it once, when I bought my Honda Valkyrie Rune sight-unseen over the Internet from a dealer in Cape Town. The bike was exactly as advertised and I’ve been delighted with it ever since.

I had a similar vibe when I decided to buy a 1999 Honda Valkyrie Interstate in Pretoria last week. Valkyries are a rare sight in South Africa, and I wanted this one, so my wife and I flew the 1,100-odd kilometres to Johannesburg and then were driven the remaining 35 minutes to Pretoria by our daughter Nicky.

The trip was beautifully planned. We’d pick up the bike, spend a couple of days getting important stuff done in Jo’burg, then fold up our large tote bag into one of the panniers, drop our clothes and other belongings into the other pannier and the commodious topbox, and head south on Good Friday. We’d even booked a nice-looking B&B in Smithfield to break up the 1,200km return trip.

The bike looked good when we arrived at the dealer, all bright and shiny in its green-and-silvery-white livery. I dropped to the floor and checked out all the stuff that would worry me – this would be my fifth Valk and I knew what to look for. The engine protection bars were scratched and flattened underneath on both sides, suggesting the bike had been dropped at least twice, but no other damage was visible. All else seemed well, and the nicely polished wheels and forks told me that this bike had never seen salt.

Closer inspection of the paintwork, however, showed some scuffs and scratches on the panniers, handlebar fairing and left silencer, where a careless boot had missed its target many times en route to the side-stand. Two of the four chrome rings around the rear lights in the topbox were badly dented. All of this was mildly irritating, because I like my bikes to look like new even if they are 20 years old, but it wasn’t a lot of wear and tear for a 1999 bike and maybe I could live with it for now.

The engine fired up readily and sounded fine, so I headed out for a short road test. The brakes felt a bit spongy on the forecourt, but I rode out on to the street and down to the first traffic light. The light was red, so I braked – or tried to. Nothing much happened of a retarding nature, so I braked harder. The front brake finally brought the bike to a stop, but the rear unit seemed to play no part in the process. Bugger!

The same things happened at the next four traffic lights, so I took it round the block a second time to get a better feel of things. No, this didn’t feel right. Back at the dealership, the proprietor told me the brakes had been checked by his mechanic and that these were heavy bikes and didn’t stop as readily as a sports bike. I ignored the lesson in the finer points of riding large motorcycles and instead asked if I could take the Interstate to the Honda main dealer I’d spotted just up the road.

The salesman said sure, but said they wouldn’t look at it – “trust me”. It was clearly a personal import from the US rather than an “official” Honda South Africa bike and they wouldn’t want to know. I insisted, however, and he made a call and set it up.

The Honda guys were very helpful. Their mechanic took the bike around the block and came back agreeing that the brakes weren’t good. He suggested the problem might be old brake fluid, air in the system, and what looked to him like non-standard (ie non-Honda) brake pads. All of which could be fixed quite easily, for a price.

More worryingly, he said he could hear an unusual noise from the rear wheel area. He couldn’t pin it down but wondered whether it might be coming from the gearbox or the final drive. I thanked him and rode round the block one final time; I couldn’t hear the noise he’d mentioned, but for me the damage was done. Here was a 20-year-old bike with no service history, terrible brakes, too many scratches, two owners since its arrival in South Africa and no sense of how many before that. To cap it all, it had a mystery noise coming from the final drive or the gearbox.

Sometimes you just have to walk away, and that’s what I did. It was very much a bike I wanted, and the chances of finding another were slim, but it was offered as needing “to be seen to be appreciated” and it clearly wasn’t in the sort of condition that phrase implied. I spent several hours online trying to find an alternative large touring bike for sale in the greater Johannesburg area, but there was nothing that remotely appealed. The Internet trawl did bring up something at the other end of the spectrum, however: a 1988 Yamaha XT500 for almost no money just 45 minutes from home, so that’s a project bike to be investigated soon.

For now, we simply cancelled the much-looked-forward-to road trip, and the pre-booked overnight accommodation, and found two affordable plane tickets back home. The Interstate was not to be. Oh, that’s our two-year-old granddaughter Phoebe in the picture – hence the headline. Unlike the bike, I couldn’t resist it…