The Gaffer's Gallop
Nigel Winter follows the route taken by former Triumph Supremo Edward Turner
I could still hear the severe weather warning as I staked out my flapping tent on the cliff top in deepest Cornwall. Beneath me the sea heaved around the Logan Rocks but all I looked forward to was a pint of St. Austell. I took up the farmer's offer of sticking the Triumph in the barn and managed to get the last guy rope in before the first of many downpours.
Notionally at least, this ride was a repeat of one carried out in 1953 by the head honcho of old Triumph, Edward Turner and known as the "Gaffers Gallop". As I was passing this way I figured I could raise a little dosh for Cancer Research. All this was blown into doubt by the inevitable "...only travel if you have to..." headlines. Still, if you want Cornish Ale and local fish pie then there's your element of compulsion.
I'd forgotten how loud rain on canvas can be. Still, the Triumph was dry. My host was a friendly farmer who wasn't complaining of the impact on the site's popularity since it was featured in the 'cool camping' series. Cornwall is so intoxicating after the sterility of London (sterility! Ed) that one holiday leads to a plethora of relocation dreamers who haven't quite worked out how to pay the bills until it's too late.
The lanes of Cornwall are disconcertingly steep when running with rivers of rain water. And then the weather got worse. The joke in the office is that I only go on holiday when the weather's atrocious but this was truly sublime. At the height of the storm I was the only motorcyclist on Bodmin Moor and the big cat had moved out. The traffic had ground to all but a standstill. I was riding at around forty five degrees but bad weather or not, when the urge for a bacon butty grabs you, well a man's gotta do....... At the tea wagon the lady filled my flask from inside as the whole trailer shook, threatening to blow her Cornish flags into the next county.
I still had some crazy notion about following the route taken by Turner and stopped off at the Victoria Inn at Roche as had the great man. Then it was owned by the former head of the RAC motorcycle section.
Over the same style of Barbour jacket Turner wore I wore bog standard waterproofs and rubber gloves from Wilkinsons that cost a quid; they worked a treat. With my sartorial elegance running at an all time high I rolled into Exeter. I knew I'd be well received when I saw a board outside a pub that read "Saturday disco night, Sunday 80's night, Monday with Trevor on the piano". Exeter in a downpour just seemed that kind of place. Turner may have stayed there, but I was now more concerned with getting to John O'Groats rather than historic integrity. And I didn't fancy a night with Trevor.
In Honiton I spotted a headline in a paper - 'Today is the wettest day for 50 years.' It was kind of a relief as I was beginning to wonder if it was me.
Devon gave way to Wiltshire and there was just a flicker of pleasure as I passed through the villages of Somerset and clocked up the miles; once it nearly even stopped raining.
That night I pulled into a near deserted campsite overlooking the Quantocks. A log cabin come bar overlooked the valley as the sun went down and the floodwaters came up. We were in for the night with nothing but Somerset cider, our hosts and a couple of Glasto Festo fruitcakes for company. After the 90th reference to their holiday in Khatmandu I retired to my tent and the dyeing embers of the Glastonbury festival in the distance.
Next morning I rumbled onto the open road. The grey ceiling of cloud broke occasionally and the odd shaft of sunlight was an unconvincing reminder that this was British summer time. I took advantage and threw the Triumph round the bends that line the feet of the Mendips as buzzards hung in the breeze.
I was now travelling through middle England on fast A roads in order to make an appointment at Avon Tyres. When Turner made his journey, Avon had diverted the course of the river a few weeks earlier to extend the factory. The brickwork of the bridge still remains in the old factory buildings. I was happy to confirm that my tyres were probably OK in the wet, as they had performed brilliantly underwater until then. The factory tour brought home how much goes into tyres and I kept my usual comments about the price of them to myself. But it was a religious experience that I was to encounter, for there was the original mould of the Avon Speedmaster which I passed reverentially. That mould made the tyres for my father's Vincent 60 something years ago. The same one, same logo, still going strong. Truly I was on hallowed ground.
Loaded up once more I belted up the Fosse Way, the Cotswolds' open plateau bridges, the rugged West Country, the Midlands. The spotless Triumph had long turned filthy, as had its rider but, beard and wind burn aside, I was as happy as the proverbial pig as I wound her back on the long straight roads.
There was a disconcerting absence of campsites and grunge had given way to Pringle sweaters by the time I reached Stratford Upon Avon. I had nowhere to stay for the apparent reason that no-one wants to camp in the Midlands. However I did eventually find a site stuck in a 1950's time warp. The Geordie owner assured me that the river running by wouldn't rise as this and the endless branches in the road seemed to be the nation's main topic of conversation.
The following morning I was photographed outside the Imperial Hotel in Leamington Spa for the local rag, Turner had stayed there long before it became ... you guessed it, a Travel Lodge.
I stopped at Meriden for old times sake and made the inevitable trip down Bonneville Close, viewed by locals who've seen the spectacle a few times before. From there the staff at the National Motorcycle Museum showed me round one of the 150cc bikes on which Turner had ridden the 1953 Gaffers Gallop. One look at the seat made my eyes water. Happily I found its 900cc grandson rather more useful in getting to the Triumph factory in Hinckley in less than the available hour. Ho hum.
The reception was worthy of the Halleluiah chorus. Triumph mean business. Dragons Den? They've done nowt compared to he who created this. All too soon I was turned out into the dark damp night having failed to blag even the right to buy one of the 20 immaculate pairs of Triumph gloves hanging up in the shop.
Heading up the pages of the road map, wide skies, open roads and the pork pie capital of the Universe; Melton Mowbray. Not the kind of town to leap out of the pages of a Kerouac novel but still capable of providing an experience to match my legendary bacon butty of Bodmin. The winds were so strong across the fields that slowly everywhere seemed to be drying out. I didn't get this little drama the media were playing out until I reached South Yorkshire by heck. Watta, you've not seen owt like it. Ouse, Wharfe, Nidd, and Don all burst their banks. I'd just endured a three hour detour as the contents of the A1 choked up the winding lanes prior to meandering through Sherwood Forest. Expressions of envy from motorists followed me as I filtered passed thousands of little prisons, bumper to bumper, the incarcerated going nowhere.
The roads around the famous Squires Café were eerily quiet. The moon hung in a clear night sky and my journey resembled a trip across a water meadow, hushed and tranquil, but still very very wet. This was the one night I wasn't to spend under canvas because the folks live close at hand, which meant home cooking and a long cool pint. If you can beat that; answers on a postcard.
The following morning I rode past the very school I used to go to, noting how much better behaved they are these days. Open sky, open road, the Wolds to the east, their patch work of fields facing the sun, the Moors to the north and the Dales to the west. Better still no cars. I left all this behind for the South East; how stupid was that?
I rolled briefly into Boroughbridge, an old coaching town conveniently placed on the old 'Great North Road'. Turner came this way too in October '53 when it couldn't have been windier.
Moving into the North Country for real now and feeling the freedom unique to the area. Even on the A1 the cars are that bit fewer, older and slower, these characteristics continuing the further North I travelled. Seriously relaxed I headed up country and Scotch Corner came round quicker than expected.
Down south, a tree in the road, a flood, it's all cause for a drama. Up here they take the tree home for firewood and fish the flood. You can loosen your collar " round these parts", not difficult when the local brew is so tickety boo , but don't call it that whatever you do.
Come Scotch Corner and it's decision time. Take the A66 over the Dales to Penrith as did Turner on his tiny 150cc Terrier or keep to the A1. Or better still jump on the train and tell a porky when you get to John O Groats, but Turner would never have been so feeble as to cop out and so with the reputation of modern biking resting heavily on my shoulders I prepared to battle with the elements. However come Scotch Corner, road blocks, Hi Viz jackets and locals brandishing chain saws, I was in no doubt that I should head north and look forward to the Fog On The Tyne.
The miles came, the miles went. Half the population glanced East to put some meaning on the Angel Of The North, but for me the local villages on the other side of the motorway offered England's very own eastern promise, Slaggford, Dirt Pot and Riding Mill; the mind boggles.
The A696 off the Newcastle ring road is one of the great biking roads of the planet. Set in pristine farmland, it has long fast bends and noo traffic, noo traffic at all (but don't tell anyone). Whipping back the throttle I realised this was it, a moment you work all year for and spend another 12 months reliving in your mind's eye.
Climbing ever higher, breaking out of Kielder forest and into the vast skies of the Northumberland National Park. The temperature drops and the wind picks up before another deluge to match Bodmin. And it was over as quick as it started. Still holding that throttle back and with nothing more than the smell of damp heather for company as the road reaches it's peak in thin air. That was it. Carter Bar and I'm in Scotland, the bubbling clouds having a distinctly leaden tinge. I stop for the obligatory photo session and am joined by a genial piper whose managed to break free from a Lexus full of investors straight from Tokyo. The pipes are kept revved up for long enough for no more than a few bars of Amazing Grace and Speed Bonny Boat. The photo opportunity over he deflates as the Lexus disappears into Scotland. Even if they're looking for another distillery to add to their investment portfolio, jokes about sporrans and the air being filled with half finished national renditions is a pretty poor way of treating an ancient culture. But the Scots are a pragmatic lot and the piper confides that he was looking forward to global warming to extend his six months on the border to eight months. And then he looks to the heavens, " aye but aah didnae reckon on this bloody weather ".
You won't be surprised to hear that it was raining. It had been for days but I didn't care. I had just come from the world of gauntlets and goggles and was riding with a visor for the first time ever. I was dry and warm and it was my feet that were most comfortable thanks to the Army surplus boots that cost me a tenner ( I told you I've spent a lot of time in Yorkshire ). I wouldn't trade them in for any label under the sun and this may be behind my endearment to the Scots. Jokes about their generosity evaporated just over the border when an Enfield rider made a donation to the Gaffers Gallop charity ( see www.gaffersgallop.com ). It wasn't the last.
Out of the borders and into affluent Edinburgh, Forth Bridge and a fast stretch of motorway to Perth. In Turner's day the Glasgow Edinburgh collar represented the end of civilisation. Thereafter it was no good calling breakdown, man and machine had only each other to rely upon. Now the fast road climbs ever higher with wild views on either side, but it could otherwise have been the M25.
From Perth I took the A9 to Pitlochry and completely overshot, a combination of fast road and fast bike conspiring against me. The Duke Of Athol is not the kind of guy to upset as he is the only person in the country allowed to have his own private army. However I wish I'd stayed at his campsite as the one I chose was truly naff.
The great advantage of the A9 is that it gets you to the heart of the Highlands with ease. The great disadvantage is that it does the same for everyone else. Running eerily alongside was the old A9 bordered only by barbed wire fences and the occasional gate. Single track and without this huge band of alloy crash barrier. I glanced occasionally half expecting to see an old boy making his way on a Triumph Terrier.
Inverness, the Dornoch Firth, distilleries and the coast road. The petrol stations thinning out now, always a concern on a bike with a small tank and a big engine. Still no reason not to take advantage of a winding open road under.......wait for it, sunshine ! More sunshine than Surrey !
I ease up to ask three road workers where the nearest petrol station is. It turns out that they've read about me in the local rag. In pursuit of the elusive petrol station I ease off the throttle as the road goes on and on. Finally I fill her up and in the forecourt are the roadworkers waiting to make a generous donation ( thanks guys ).
Finally I get to John O Groats where the wind is up and the sky grey. The sea is choppy due to the currents between the mainland and the Island Of Storma. I've got an old photograph of Edward Turner outside the John O Groats hotel which I've looked at many times over the last 12 months. Now I park my bike in exactly the same spot and have my photograph taken. I wondered if at this point I might see the reflection of an approving Turner briefly peering out of the window. Nothing supernatural or indicative of the meaning of life ever happens to me. I feel deprived. Anyway, the windows were whitewashed.
Don't take any notice of the weather reports, this was some ride. And the meaning of life ? For the time being, riding a British motorbike the length of Britain will do me.
Nigel C Winter
www.gaffersgallop.com AG/FEMA info
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