MILKCOW MAGAZINE SHOOT

This photo was taken on a sunny, but cold January day at Pentney in Norfolk for an article in Milkcow magazine.  If you like 1950s and 1960s stuff, which is what its all about, then the magazine is a good read.  Look for it on the 'www'.

This combination has done one or two serious journeys since I put it together; the longest being from Norfolk to Lydney in South Wales and back.  With a top speed of almost sixty mph downhill and with the wind behind you, it can be a little daunting out on the open road.  Some motorists like to get up real close and personal for a closer look, while others treat you like a personal threat to their space on the road.  Having an air cooled engine in a traffic jam with a side car attached can make for problems that most motorists have never considered, and riding along with a truck six inches from his number plate makes Mr Angry start grinding his teeth.

All in all though, three wheels are great fun and if you can keep to the back roads which there are plenty of in Norfolk, a few minutes in the saddle can be really smile inducing. 

Spanish Rally 2010. Part 2.

Day Five. Friday 9^th July.

So far it had been one of those days that make you feel glad to be alive. After an organised rally ride and a lunch stop, a few of us had decided to take a trip into the mountains and the roads were beyond all expectation. The twists and turns around the sheer and sometimes overhanging rock faces were relentless and now and again a stone, some of which were the size of a fist had fallen into the road and now lay in our path, threatening to catch me out as I followed Bernd on his Dominator. I was totally locked in to enjoyment mode as I swung the bike through rights and lefts with hardly a straight piece of road traversed in the last ten minutes. It was just possible to use both sides of the road in some bends to straighten things out a little. One moment we were riding between rock faces and the next instant one side of the road would disappear and be replaced by a sheer drop with a river far down in the bottom of the valley.

We had ridden up in to the mountains about an hour earlier and enjoyed coffees sat outside a cafe in the sun shine. The atmosphere was tremendous. A bunch of Norton owners on a rally and having a good time. For me getting to the cafe had been an interesting experience as before embarking on the rally I had fitted a PW3 camshaft to my 750cc engine and it had suddenly come into its own. At low speeds and on steep inclines I had noticed that if I cracked open the throttle the engine reacted like a single on steroids. We had caught up with a truck half way up the mountain and with seemingly no straight road ahead I realised that I was going to have to use a fist full of throttle in a very short distance and from a grindingly low speed to get past.

The truck ground into yet another low gear as we rounded a sharp bend and I chose my moment. I had already checked the road ahead as it was possible to see up the winds and twists and gauge the probable meeting points of any traffic coming the other way. I hauled back on the throttle and with a crackling grunt the bike burst into life. I accelerated past the truck with what was probably a stupid grin on my face and for the first time I decided that the extra noise caused indirectly by the cam was probably offset by the increase in engine response. You have to understand that one of the things that I really enjoyed about my Commando was the noise it made. On a standard cam and with the stainless silencers I had inherited with the bike it had made a burbling noise that I had yet to hear repeated by another Commando.

Anyway, we were now on our way back down the mountain with me in the middle of the group, Handycam attached to the handle bars and filming the action ahead. I had started filming as we left the cafe and decided to keep the camera rolling all the way back down to the day's earlier lunch stop. Chris Grimmett had gone ahead to take photographs of us as we passed by, and here he was, in a good spot. There was no time to wave to the camera as we swept in to the next bend and onward down the rock infested road. Through a series of tunnels and alongside the river, through some woods with the sunlight slanting in beams through the trees and across the road until eventually we arrived again at the bottom of the mountain feeling like we had just had the ride of our lives.

After a short rest at the lunch stop a bunch of us decided to head back to the rally camp site together and here we were once again struggling in to our bike gear and manoeuvring our bikes in to position. I started my Commando and sat astride her waiting for someone else to take the lead. For no particular concrete reason that I can offer, I don't like riding up front, though I feel that when riding in a group it seems to me to be a waste of the whole exercise to be at the front. You might as well be on your own. I prefer to be at the back where I can look out for any problems and stop quickly if help is needed or race ahead if the group need to be warned of problems behind. By now all the bikes were busy ticking over and like in some comedy film everyone just sat and stared at everyone else staring at everyone else. I stared at everyone in turn and in turn everyone stared at me. In exasperation it occurred to me that we could carry this on until tea time, so reluctantly I engaged first gear and slowly pulled out on to the road on a path that would unbeknown to me, lead to disaster.

Although this part of the journey was not as tortuous as it was on the mountain stretch, it still needed full concentration. I had taken a good look at the map earlier and was confident that I knew the way back to the camp site. In fact there were many memorable sights along the way and the route was relatively easy to remember so there was unlikely to be any directional problems. We carefully threaded our way through some loose surfaced and stony road works that included a short bridge over a river and we were on our way again. At a junction in a small town we spotted more Nortons and pulled in when we realised that the riders were also on their way back to the camp site. The expanded group got underway once again and with only some eight or nine miles to do I was starting to look forward to chilling out for the evening with a well earned beer.

We rode out of the town and looking in my mirror at the line of bikes behind me, it occurred to me that I should be at the back filming the ride. Never mind, not far to go and I'll be able to get these boots off. The country road once again began to wind and sweep through a series of twists and bends, but by now it had become a good deal flatter. I sharpened my concentration and began to check the road ahead for any oncoming vehicles that had not reached the next set of 'S' bends in front of me. Satisfied that I could go into the next bend without meeting anything coming the other way, I switched my concentration to the task in hand. That was the moment when I realised that it was all about to go horribly wrong. For a mere second too long I had been checking out the wrong thing and now I was headed in to the next left hand bend going too fast.

It is amazing how time slows down when personal disaster looms up in front of you and threatens your life. I seemed to have time to weigh up various scenarios and come to all sorts of conclusions and I remember thinking. 'Don't bottle it, just push on the left side handlebar and the bike will see you through'. I pushed and I realised that I could probably push until the cows come home, but I was in fact not going to make it around the bend. And that was when my brain suddenly and unconsciously connected with my right hand. I'm sure that I already had the back brake on and so it was that the whole plot slid out from under me.

I can't remember going over, but I hit the road with my left shoulder and suddenly realised that the next thing to contact the road would probably be my brand new Arai helmet. How I managed to minimise the scuff to my helmet I don't know, but I felt it graze the road and managed to lift my head in time to prevent any major damage. The bike fell on my left thigh, though the handle bars and the foot rests prevented the full weight of the bike doing any serious damage. At that point as I prayed that there was nothing coming the other way, the bike and I parted company. I slid to a stop on the right side of the road and although I didn't see it happen, my pride and joy continued at undiminished speed in a straight line until she slammed into an Armco support upright. The point of contact with the Armco was the front wheel and unfortunately due to the laws of Physics after the wheel stopped the rest of the bike tried to keep going.

I lay in the road wondering if the bike following me would be able to stop in time and strangely I realised that I didn't feel as bad as I once did after coming off a bicycle. That had really smashed the wind out of me when I went over the back of the bike on a ridiculously steep climb, hit the ground and slid backwards into a pit head first with the bike on top of me.

Now, lying prone on the deck and doing a systems check before I made any further movements I was aware of other riders rushing to help. I heard Chris curse as he approached and I realised instantly that I had just ruined his day as I possibly wouldn't now be riding back to the UK with him. After another couple of seconds I decided that I should be OK to attempt verticality and as I scrambled to my feet I noticed my bike pouring fuel out of the tank and on to the road. I suddenly visualised oil and battery acid all over the place and my concern galvanised everyone into picking the bike up. I noticed that I was limping and the pain hit home. So did the realisation of what I had just managed to do and I was mortified. This was a scenario I had played out in my mind on various occasions; thinking of all the problems that having an accident abroad might conjure up. It was obvious that the Commando was a mess and I wouldn't be riding it any further for at least the rest of the day. I sat despondent on the Armco as my bike was dragged closer to the side of the road. The front wheel was so twisted that it couldn't turn between the forks. My despondency began to mix with shame and embarrassment as concerned people I knew rode past and asked if we needed help. I cursed as Wheelrim hoved in to view. That was all I didn't need. I now knew that I could expect a slagging off at some time in the future, (Roadholder letters 277), but I also knew that he would be as concerned as everyone else. We shouted some friendly abuse at each other and my world turned back to a pile of knackered Norton as he rode off down the road having been assured that I would live for at least another thirty minutes.

I suppose that my main question was. 'Why me'? Of all the people on the rally; 'Why me'?

As I sat dejectedly on the Armco and seemingly everyone else's world but mine continued to be of no great concern, I watched while the rescue trailer arrived so quickly that I wondered if it had been following us at a discreet distance. My bike was dragged onboard and strapped down after which I clambered painfully into the 4x4 and was treated to a somewhat more comfortable drive back to the camp site where the bike was offloaded. It now stood looking dejected in solitary confinement and I could hardly bare to look at it knowing deep down that I would most probably be sending it home courtesy of my insurance.

I had completed 1150 miles since setting off from home and I now had to explain to my wife why I might be limping when she sees me next.

Epilogue.

    Writing this article has brought home to me just exactly what a great bunch of people were out there riding with me. I realise that we will all dive in and help when someone drops a clanger on a rally, but until it happens to you, you tend to give it little thought. Thanks to everyone who helped me in any way; and I promise that I will try not to do it again.

                                        Kev Feltoe.

http://kevs-norton-motorcycle-blog.blogspot.com



Spanish Rally 2010

Preparation

Preparation for the Spanish rally seemed to go on and on. It was almost as if the Commando was taunting me as time went by and an engine rebuild that I had put off for too long stumbled from one annoyance to another. A PW3 cam was giving me the result I expected, but with side affects that I hadn't been prepared for. A complete change of decibels and tone were not to my immediate liking and an increase in tappet noise was exactly what I didn't want to hear. On first assembly the head gasket seemed to be leaking, so off the head came again. Nothing found and back on again only to discover that somehow clean oil was leaking invisibly from a front rocker cover and dripping in between the barrel fins. Thankfully a leak in the bikes fibreglass fuel tank around the reserve tap seemed to be cured after the fourth attempt at Dremeling around the tap and re-seating it all.

    Its ten days before I set off to the rally and my second Boyer in a week conks out on the way to work. It's one I've carried around for years as a spare after sending it back to Boyer for testing when it went wrong the first time. They assured me there was nothing wrong with it and who was I to doubt them especially as they changed a couple of connections and explained that that would probably do the trick? I fit a third unit and off we go again. I buy yet another unit as a spare and send number two failure off to be tested again.

    It's now six days before I set off to the rally and I'm fitting a new back tyre to a four year old wheel rim that is already suffering from internal terminal corrosion. On the outside it is almost perfect and a sticker still advertises how' jolly well British' the chrome is. I struggle manfully with a tyre that completely refuses to pop on to the rim properly. I visit the local garage three times to use their inflator and eventually at around 65 PSI I have a result.

    While all this is going on, my 'other' brain cell; the one that hides in dark corners and only comes out at the most un-opportune moments, informs me that the Commando might be trying to tell me something and that she doesn't want to go to Spain. I tell my brain cell to bugger off and try to ignore an unsettling feeling that now just won't go away. The problem is compounded when my wife informs me that she can't understand why I do this. I'm beginning to sneakily agree with her. But hey! I'm a Norton owner and all Norton owners are greater than the sum of their parts. My parts are feeling distinctly knackered. I've had an aching wisdom tooth for two weeks and a virus has had hold of me recently that really does my head in. A twelve millimetre gall stone also adds to the fun and I yearn for those far of years when age was something that only old people have to deal with.

    It's now the day before I'm due to set off. I fuel up, load up the bike and panniers and phone Chris Grimmett. We will meet at Poole to board the ferry for St Malo. We realise that he has to get to Poole or I'm in deep do, as he has the directions and keys to Peter Holland's flat in Plouer Sur Rance where we intend staying for the first night of the trip. I offer up a little prayer to which ever good fairy deals with Chris' Commando. I have already met his bike's bad fairy on more than one occasion and I can tell you it's not nice.

    So, credit on phone, fill pockets with final bits and bobs like a passport, emergency insurance number into phone, maps somewhere easy to get at, grease chain again for luck, make sure Edward E Bayer, honorary member of the Thames Valley Branch and just plain Ted to all who know him is suitably garrotted by the cargo net that holds him in place and that's that.

Day One.    Monday 5^th July 2010

I'm up at 6am and at 07.30 after breakfast and goodbye it is time to get going. My wife waves me off with that resigned worried look that I'm all too familiar with and once again I feel a little guilty as I carefully wobble off down the road on a well loaded bike with thousands of miles ahead of me. All right, I admit that guilt is probably the lesser of the two feelings. I've already succumbed to nervous bowl syndrome, though I know that once on the road my stomach will settle down as I concentrate on more important things.

    The ferry is at 13.40 and unbeknown to me I have 223 miles in front of me. I say unbeknown because I've checked on a web site that told me 176 miles. Web sites! Don't you just love em? They must get their distances from a crow.

    A11, A505, A1M1, M25, M3, M27, and A31. What could go wrong? Well, the A1M1 for a start. Some five miles before South Mimms there is a traffic jam that is going nowhere. I deduce that it probably goes all the way to the M25 and so the fun begins. With my panniers threatening the doors and wing mirrors of every car I squeeze past, I eventually decide to use the hard shoulder as much as I can without making it too obvious. I'm beeped by one car driver, but I put it down to jealousy and carry on. I call in at South Mimms and spend ten minutes that I can't really afford phoning my wife to update her on my progress. She sounds impressed, so I roar off around the roundabout and up the ramp on to the M25. For a few miles all is well, but things start to slow down and once again I'm threading my way between the trucks, vans and cars like a drunken gyroscope. I use the hard shoulder again which seems to work especially well at junctions. The day drags on and at 12.25 I reach Poole where I fuel up with 15.5 litres. I get to the ferry port at 12.40. Exactly one hour before the ferry sails. I've covered 223 miles in 4hours and 47 minutes. Average speed 47mph. Chris is waiting for me and I swear he has been cleaning his bike already. I check in and we ride to the front of the queue of cars waiting to board. As we wait, two Nortons disembark. We wave to each other as they pass and I get the feeling I've just been recognised. Who was that masked man? If you are he, please put me out of my misery and tell me why you were going the wrong way.

    We board the ferry, secure our bikes and go in search of our seats. Turns out that our seats don't have a table, we are close to the children's play room and the boat is a floating booze shop. I rapidly lose all hope and contemplate keelhauling someone's child. A cup of tea and a burger later and I haven't changed my mind. Boredom sets in and I go on deck. We haven't left harbour yet. This is going to be a slow death. The TV above our heads advertises a thousand different types of drink in a continuous loop that goes on forever. I think I would rather watch Crossroads.

    The boat visits Guernsey and more people disembark than embark. I can't help wondering what will happen if that goes on every day. Lemmings spring to mind. Fortunately the weather is fantastic and we spend time watching the town through my binoculars.

    Later I buy coffees and break in to a bag of fruit and nuts that were supposed to be emergency supplies. We decide to eat somewhere near Peter Holland's place when we get there provided we find it in time.

    The ferry docks at St Malo and we get off expecting to have to show our documents, but passport control is deserted, so we ride straight through. I demand of my number one brain cell to remember to keep right from now on, but I know that it will probably let me down at least once during the next few days.

    We consult my map and Peter's directions a few times and arrive at our destination at 9PM local. It's a lovely place with a dedicated car park space and a view across the estuary of the river Rance. A small harbour sits peacefully around the rear of the old mill that has been converted into flats. The mill stands on the bank of the estuary and promises views of wild life and sun sets. We dump our gear and go off in search of food. A cafe just a few hundred yards away with the same lovely views serves us excellent grub and as the evening lengthens the place becomes more and more delightful. Across the cafe some other Brits finish their meal and head off down the road. Later on we meet them again as we go out to secure the bikes for the night and we answer the usual questions about British motorcycles and how old ours are and where are we going etc.

    I'm bushed, and sleep on a chair that converts into a bed. I'm out like a light and when morning wakes me up the thought of the day's coming mileage makes me want to go back to sleep.

Tuesday 6^th July

 It's a lovely sunny morning. Its 06.40 and the kettle is on. The view from the windows along and across the river is excellent. We pack up, tidy up, finish our coffees, close the shutters, take some more photos, have another look at the map and at 07.30 we are once more on our way. Again the Norton has started first kick and more than anything else that gives me a degree of satisfaction. We are heading for Dinan then Rennes and onwards to Nantes. I left Peter's place without my jumper on and I'm surprised at how cold I'm getting. At 09.00 we stop in a cafe for breakfast. More coffee and a French pastry. We sit where we can see the bikes and watch a couple of Brits pull up in what looks to be a 1930s sports Mercedes. It has running boards, big chrome headlights and swooping bodywork. The Mercedes badge on the front of the long bonnet looking more than ever like the sights on a fighter plane. I notice the registration is fairly modern and I'm suspicious of the cars pedigree. I put my jumper on and we head back out to our bikes. Chris complains about a tiny oil leak on his base gasket and I watch resignedly as he wipes a few traces of oil off his engine with a paper serviette. I wish I could be bothered, but I can't, so at 09.25 we set off once more for Nantes.

We have a brief stop on the Nantes ring road to check the map. I have now completed 353 miles since leaving home. We find our way on to the N137 and head for Niort. The road takes us through some lovely rolling country side. We pass a biscuit factory where the smell of biscuits makes me feel hungry and a few fields of sun flowers watch us as we roar by disturbing the peace. The road sides are completely free of litter and I can't help wondering why the A47 in Norfolk has to be such an unending rubbish tip.

We arrive at the Niort bypass and Chris suggests that we head in to town to find a supermarket for some lunch. I've been running with my head light on main beam ever since I realised that dip has failed and we slow right down to bimble through the traffic lights. There is a lot of stop start work and eventually the lights catch me out. We are in the town traffic and I stall. Chris rides off into the distance and I lose sight of him as he searches for lunch. It seems that my battery is low on power and I have to keep the revs up to keep the bike running. I turn the head light off and the bike runs OK, but Chris has vanished. I ride around the town a couple of times while being harassed by a French moped rider who seems to want to engage me in conversation, and eventually decide to return to where we hit the bypass. As I climb off the Commando feeling hot and exasperated my phone rings. It's Chris. He decides to head back and we carry on towards Bordeaux feeling hungry. It's now 12.27.

Near St Jean D Angely we stop for fuel. We have been forced to ride around a diversion that seemed to go on forever. The only relief was riding behind an old Classic Simca car whose driver was also having trouble with the diversion signs. He pulls in for petrol too and for the first time I use a new Post Office card that I loaded money on to specifically to pay for fuel. Much to my relief it works. I put ten Euros worth in the tank, buy some water to drink and we set off again, but not before a very ordinary looking hatch back pulls onto the forecourt and stops. I do a double take as the doors open like a De Lorean. Very cool, but so out of place it almost gives me a fit of the giggles..

By the time we reach Saintes we decide that we are spending too much time on a slow road. The decision is taken to get on the A10 where we will have to pay tolls. This turns out to be much better. We hike the speed up and soon pull in to services near Mirambeau. I have some pizza, a chocolate pastry and a cup of coffee. I still have my jumper on and I'm now too hot so that gets taken off and attached to my rucksack. Soon after we set off again we arrive at our first toll station. We pay five Euros and carry on to the Bordeaux ring road where life starts to get a little more hectic.

Although the traffic is quite heavy, it seems to move at a fair pace. Chris has the directions to Michel Vincent's house somewhere in the city. Michel is a cracking bloke who speaks more languages than I own Nortons. At around five foot seven and with a typical Gallic shrug of his shoulders, he is my idea of the French man you would most like to know. He rides an 850cc Atlas on which he doesn't hang around. On the ring road we are not sure that we have gone the right way. We are supposed to cross the Dordogne and then the Garonne and then turn off at a junction to an area called Begles. A brief stop to get our bearings and Chris manages to impress me by arriving exactly where we need to be. We pull up at a junction at the end of a small street of old whitewashed mostly single story houses and Michel runs out to greet us. He tells us to wait a moment and disappears back down a little cul-de-sac. I notice that it is 17.45 and I have now covered 595 miles. A few seconds later I hear a motorcycle start up and he reappears on a Triumph, a la Steve McQueen. We follow him around the small local streets and wind up back at his house and down the cul-de-sac, not fifty meters from where we stopped at the junction. We climb somewhat stiffly off our bikes and greet each other as only friends do when they have not seen each other for a year. Michel tells us that he is expecting Hans to arrive back shortly. Hans is to be the fourth member of our group and has ridden down from Bremen in the north west of Germany. We push our bikes into Michel's garage and as we are sorting our lives out Hans arrives. Quiet, tall and bearded, he also speaks French and English. I wish my brain cell had paid more attention at school when languages were being pushed down my throat. We talk about modern fuels and the problems they are causing. Michel shows us where the paint has been eaten off one of his bikes due to a leak in a fuel tank. We all seem to suffer the same problems.

I decide to have a look around and notice that raspberries are growing on a bush at the entrance to Michel's property. The sun is at squinting strength and the day is now very hot. Fruit trees and colourful flowers are growing in a neighbour's garden and a cat sits on the stony path and stares at us as if we are from another planet. It's all very quaint and quite charming. Michel tells us that this was a railway workers cottage in an old area of the city. We go inside and are met by big open fire places and a chair at a kitchen table that I am only too pleased to collapse onto while I devour a beer that materialises in front of me. My everlasting socks don't seem to be living up to their reputation, but I know from experience that they have probably done better than Chris' non everlasting socks. If I see he is about to take them off I'm ready to sprint for the exit. After a shower and some clean clothes, the decision is taken to go into Bordeaux on the tram. The four of us head off after locking everything away and catch a tram to the centre of the city close to the river. The tram system is brand new and very clean. We have a little trouble operating the ticket machine as it doesn't work like a Norton and Michelle hasn't used it before. Chris eventually cracks the problem and we are on our way.

It's early evening and the wide promenade alongside the river is alive with people roller blading, walking and cycling. Eventually we decide to sit in a riverside bar and have a drink. Food is our next priority. We trudge a short way into the city streets and admire some multi coloured statues of cows rather like the ones at Milton Keynes. These ones are far more picturesque. Typical I suppose! We are attracted up a street by the sight of a fire engine with its lights flashing and its ladder reaching up to the top floor of a building. Two firemen are climbing up it. After a short while we lose interest and head in to a restaurant where we have a good meal. After that we find an English/Irish pub that sells Guinness and then it's back to Michel's place on the tram. I'm whacked and though once again I find myself sleeping in close proximity to Chris, I'm out like a light. (Take note Essex).

Wednesday 7^th July

I wake up early to the sound of a ravenous mosquito doing circuits around my face. I lash out at it and then notice that the Flying Scotsman is snoozing gently in the sidings somewhere close to my right ear hole. I've little chance of getting back to sleep so I get up and go outside where the sun is just rising and everything is still cool. I go back inside and find that the Flying Scotsman has rolled onto its side and has now lapsed into silence. Bloody typical! I feel sorry for Mrs Flying Scotsman and I go out again to do some filming of the local streets. Meanwhile and unbeknown to me, the mosquito has decided to feast on the now somnolent Grimmett. Later we are all awed by Chris's collection of mosquito bites. Actually, if I'm honest, I'm awed and also amused. Perhaps his snoring annoyed the mosquito as well.

I phone home, grease my chain, eat some muesli for breakfast with one or two home grown raspberries in it, wash, drink coffee and we load up the bikes. Michel locks up and we head to a local garage for fuel. Fuel card still working and off we go again. We are just about to get on the motorway when I realise why I'm feeling so light and comfortable. I don't have my rucksack. We head back to Michel's place, which fortunately is only a minute away. Rucksack in place and we quickly get on to the A63 heading south.

The ride is quite desperate. The A63 degenerates into the N10. On this main drag to Spain trucks are nose to tail in convoys of up to 20 units. When you are faced with overtaking these lines of heavy trucks all nose to tail and cracking 60mph downhill you begin to wonder if you have lost the plot. This is not for the faint hearted. Pipe and slippers I don't think so. Passing these trucks is a question of putting your faith in your bike, gritting your teeth and going for it. There is no time to look at the scenery. I begin to wonder how long I want this sort of riding to continue. Michel who is leading suddenly pulls off the carriageway and on to an uneven stony area behind what could be a cafe. We hide from the sun under a tree and I hang my jacket over a fence post to cool down. I notice that the lining in the old 70s Bellstaff I am wearing seems to be decomposing. There are holes appearing where no holes should be. It's the heat and the sweat. I've done 637 mile so far. We decide to head for the coast road and at the first opportunity Michel leads us into the countryside. This is better although I wonder if it might be slower.

As I ride along behind Michel I notice that every time he closes his throttle his chain thrashes against his chain guard and produces quite a row. I mention it to him and get a smile and that Gallic shrug in answer. He's not too bothered.

We ride on and eventually at 12.30 and after another fifty five miles we stop for lunch at what looks like a main road junction in a small town called Leon, close to the coast. The heat is awesome and I park my bike in the shade of a building. I really don't want to be sat on a molten plastic motorcycle seat when we next get under way. At 2pm we are still sitting under the cafe umbrellas finishing off our ice creams. Ten minutes later as we set off, my number one brain cell lets me down as expected and I find myself momentarily riding on the wrong side of the road. Cunningly I pretend I have just pulled in to stop and with a deft flick of the indicator switch I pull out across the road and accelerate away hoping that no one noticed. We are once again motoring along small roads from one village to another and I begin to feel that we should be covering greater distances and a sight quicker than this. We stop for fuel and a rest and decide that we need to get back on the N10. It's time to start paying tolls again.

After paying and re-grouping at the side of the road after one toll station, Michel rides off and I accelerate away hard to beat a big red truck leaving a pay booth. He seems to take offence and when I ease back to allow Hans and Chris to catch up the truck driver seems to be doing his best to catch me up as well. Chris and Hans overtake him and we accelerate away. I watch the truck in my mirrors and realise that it is getting up to somewhere over 60mph on downhill sections.

At the next toll we are once again re-grouping, when with Michel day dreaming in front, he fails to notice Chris join us at the back and we waste valuable seconds before getting out on to the road. The red truck roars past with a beep of his horn. We pull out behind him and quickly overtake. Again I'm astonished at the speed he manages to attain, but once more I watch in my mirrors as he slowly disappears from view.

Sometime later we stop at a junction after Michel realises that we have missed the one we needed. I'm wondering if we will see the truck again, but we don't, and we head for the coast towards a place called Castro-Urdiales. We have to stop at road works and some traffic lights and have been there a short while when Hans indicates to me to look behind. I do and realise that another Norton Commando has joined us. Its rider is smiling widely and at the next lay-by we stop. The rider is Austrian and he is continuing on to the rally. We spot a sign to a camp site and decide to call it a day. We are not far over the Spanish border and have arrived in a lovely place called Mutriku. The camp site is up a short winding unsurfaced road and when we get to the top the view across the bay is terrific. We park the bikes and traipse wearily into the reception/bar. Without touching the sides a cold beer seems to reach parts that I didn't know existed and we all sign in. After pitching our tents and having a well earned shower we head off into town where we wander around unwinding in the sunshine. There is a huge construction that looks like a modern castle battlements going up off shore just outside the bay. I can't believe that anyone got permission to build it as it stands smack bang in the middle of the view out to see from the town. We watch fish swimming in the harbour and after a good walk around we decide to get something to eat and are charged a lot of money for not a lot of food at a restaurant. As we eat outside we can hear a world cup match going on on the TV, but we ignore it. After the meal we wander back to the camp site in the dark and crash out in our tents.

Thursday 8^th July.

We are all up by 07.30. I shower and then boil my kettle and we drink coffee and all eat a slab of cake that Hans conjures up. We pay for our stay, load up the bikes again and hit the road at 09.20. We ride minor coastal roads that have many sweeping turns through hills and woods and thankfully the terrain means that we are mostly in the shade. With 861 miles under my belt we stop for fuel at Castro Urdiales after getting back on the main drag. I notice that the garage is selling 20/50 oil so I buy Chris and myself a litre each. I put eleven litres of fuel in my tank. We ride on along the coastal motorway. I'm already yawning in my crash helmet and the traffic is quite heavy. The road sweeps through wooded valleys and hills.

Another sixty seven miles and at Queveda we stop at a roadside cafe for lunch. Its only 13.30 and I feel bushed. The sign promises a meal for nine Euros, but our Continental brothers seem to relish the thought of devouring half of the local area's animal stock. As we eat and I marvel that such a short French person can eat so much, Nortons keep riding past. We must be getting close to the rally site. I wash a curtain of dead flying things off my visor and after ice cream we mount up and ride on.

As usual, it seems that the closer we get to the rally site the more we have to stop to figure out exactly where it is. The four of us are busy cursing the directions at a roundabout when another larger group of Nortons ride past us. There is general confusion as everyone shouts at everyone and we all form a loose straggle along the road. By the time we get to the turn off to the site we have quite an impressive convoy that causes even more confusion at the junction. We ride on to the site, stop beside the hotel and switch off our engines. There are a lot of smiling faces and I'm thinking that a little of the smiles are due to the relief of getting here. I've done 954 miles and I know that I'm glad to be here.

To be continued                                    Kev Feltoe

SORTING OUT A BENT COMMANDO

Well!  That's it.  Yesterday I proved to myself that it could be done.  Since my accident and during the past few weeks I have slowly taken the Commando to pieces.  In a bid to keep things simple I decided that if possible I would take the engine and gear box out of the frame in one piece.  It was obvious that the swing arm would have to be removed from the gear box cradle, as would the centre stand so that nothing would catch as we manhandled everything out from between the frame tubes.  The former came away with ease having been oiled on a regular basis, but the centre stand was another matter.  I had had the mounting holes in the cradle enlarged and made spacers to fit the holes.  The centre stand bolts then went through a hole in the spacers.  Everything should have worked fine, but one of the spacers had crammed up and locked on the bolt.  Getting that apart became a two man job.

I decided to leave the kick-start lever on the gear box as it would doubtless give us something to hold on to when the struggle to manhandle the weight of such a large lump of metal began.  I had decided earlier that I would take it all out of the timing side and in the event I think I was justified.

We removed the front isolastic mounting bolt and allowed the engine to drop out on to the bottom frame tubes.  We then removed the rear isolastic mounting bolt and I jiggled the whole unit from side to side using the kick start lever as a handle, while my accomplice hauled up on the front of the engine.  The back end eventually dropped out and within seconds we had twisted the unit around and eased it out of the frame and on to the floor.  Success!

I can see a few reasons why dismantling another Commando in this fashion might not be so easy.  The main one being removal of the swing arm pin.  I threaded a good size bolt in to the end of the pin and tightened up a nut against the pin to stop the bolt turning in the pin.  I then clamped a big Mole Wrench on to the head of the bolt and twisted and pulled on the pin.  After the initial twist the pin began to extract and came out smoothly with a satisfying sucking noise.

I could probably work out how many miles the pin has done, but the wear on it is negligible so I'm not really bothered.  I will still fit a new one though.

Looking at the engine and gear box held together in the cradle in one piece on the floor I can't help feeling that it is an impressive lump.  Cleaned up and shiny it would make a remarkable paper weight.

Questions Questions Questions!

Here is a question for you!  'What is the question most asked in the classic vehicle world with an answer that is ignored the most'?  By reading this next bit you might figure it out.
The particular question I have in mind has already been asked in the new NOC web site and had me grinding my teeth in frustration.
My answer for anyone who is prepared to listen is 20/50.  There are others on the planet who will recommend other grades, but 20/50 gets my vote because I have done hundreds of thousands of miles on it and I love it.  In the 1970s I owned a Mk2 Cortina that regularly did huge distances from the North of Scotland to South Wales and back.  I oiled that with 20/50 and it never faltered.  I put 20/50 in my little 250cc BSA in the 70s and that never faltered.  If I thought that I would benefit from using the stuff myself, I would probably drink it.
I'm sure that the question will never be answered to everyone's satisfaction, because someone out there will say that the straight 40 that they use is far better.  Well bully for you whoever you are.  20/50 does it for me and that does it for me.
Oh yes!  Having taken my Commando engine apart after many thousands of miles in the last few years because of a broken up crank shaft spacer, I have found no discernable new wear anywhere since I last put it together.
20/50.  20/50.  20/50.  Come on.  Say it after me!  20/50.

The Truth Of The Matter.

I wonder how many people have bought a Norton Commando because it looked good, started in the seller's driveway on the second or third kick and sounded like rolling thunder on a summer evening.  I wonder how many of those people got their purchase home only to find out that they made a huge mistake and after a short time, decided to get rid.  I wonder also how many of those people joined the Norton Owners Club, because they thought that the club would be able to answer any problems that might crop up in the future only to discover that the biggest problem became the lack of readies to fund what became 'the project'.

I intend to use this blog to lift the murky veil from the eyes of those who might think that buying a classic bike that looks and sounds a million euros is going to be a pathway to everlasting satisfaction.  

There is every chance that it will empty your wallet and cause you to tear your hair out.  You may curse the person you bought it off and dream of throwing bricks in his general direction.

It is however a fact that if you buy it for the right reasons and have the right intentions and allow your brain to rule your heart at the purchase point, your face will be wreathed in smiles for years to come.

I know these things cause I've been there.  My Commando does serious miles and its not the only one.  People who do serious miles on classic bikes tend to know each other and when we meet bikers who stare at us as if we are from another planet, because they don't believe we have come so far on something they wouldn't take to the bottom of the garden path; that's when our smiles are at their widest.

So please watch this space and who knows, you might just find a smidge of comfort here after you've  kicked the shed door closed and cursed the day your heart ever heard that rolling thunder on a summer evening.