Dragon Rally 2010

With the Dragon coming up fast I was convinced I would probably have to end up giving it a miss for a second year. I had recently stripped and rebuilt my engine, but on completion the weather had come in and the roads had turned to shite, making the prospect of running it in almost unbearable. It just sat in the shed. However, with less than a fortnight to go there was a pleasant Sunday afternoon and I managed to drag my self off of my arse and take it about thirty miles or so. With my usual fastidious attention to detail I treated the engine carefully for a good three or four miles before I ragged the tits off it. It didn’t blow up or piss oil on the floor, so that was good enough for me. The Dragon it was then!

The ride was dull, and other than meeting Newt on the A5, was uneventful, even if the cold was slowly starting to creep in. Arriving in Betws-y-Coed, we parked in a shop car park and tried to work out where my bunkhouse was. As it turned out it was fifty yards away, up the hill that ran alongside the car park. Having located my digs, Newt came with me to say hello to the rest of the mob before disappearing off to his own accommodation a few miles back up the road. However, I was first, the others not having turned up yet. Off went Newt .

Eventually everyone else turned up (in the dark in the case of Saltysnax and Black Country Pete - always fun with cub lighting), and with all settled in (and my stomach full of sausage and chips), we hit the bar in the bunkhouse. First surprise, Salty’s remarkable vegetable-themed jumper. Just look at its magnificence. It drew several incredulous remarks as the weekend went on…

Magnificent vegetable-themed jumper

Four or five pints apiece later and we thought it would be a good idea to walk into town. Several more pints later and Salty felt it was a good time to start drinking single malt. On the way home, just outside the bunkhouse he also apparently decided it would be a good idea to fall over in the road and put some of himself in a hedge, but that’s another story.

Pete and Stig wanted some food, but nothing was open. After convincing Stig that lighting a Trangia stove in the room was definitely NOT a good idea, him and Pete went downstairs and used the kitchen (which is there for all to use). Whilst cooking, Pete noticed a sign that said ‘For fire and safety reasons, do not use this cooker after 22:00’. As it was almost one in the morning, technically it was BEFORE 22:00, so that’s alright. After some encouragement by Pete, Russ tried some of his chilli sauce in his pasta. It seemed to work… I'd imagine Johnny Cash was singing in the morning.

Later, after general giggling and mucking about like a bunch of boys on a school outing, we finally got to sleep.

Come the morning and I had a blinding headache - no idea why that was, but it eventually righted itself. After availing ourselves of a cooked breakfast, we dragged all of our gear back down the stairs and loaded it back on the bikes. Everyone else left except us, as there was some confusion as to whether Bogger and JJ were meeting us at the bunkhouse or the rally site. I rang Newt, but there was no answer, so we had no idea where he was either. In the end we decided to go to the control point, which was only ten or fifteen miles up the road. A couple of minutes later and Newt appeared too, so that was another problem sorted!

Off to the site. We had been told we could either make camp in the woods (we were told it was the best place, but I’m not sure any of us were convinced) or up the hill there were a couple of grassy fields. We opted for the latter, and despite the goopy mud at the entrances to the fields, none of us embarrassed ourselves by faceplanting into the gunge. The fields were filling up fast, and we had just about chosen a spot without too much cowshit when Bogger and JJ appeared and shepherded us to the place where they had already set up camp. Fortunately it was a lot better than the spot we had chosen and was only on a slight incline- latecomers were less fortunate and I suspect plenty of them ended up in a heap at the lower end of their tent as they slid about in their sleeping bags.

Base camp

Tents up, and on with the drinking. And the talking. And giggling. Salty produced a bottle of port and a great big lump of Stilton (can’t have one without the other, it’s uncivilized).

Myself and Salty decided to wander down to the marquee to collect our goody bags. The walk was fairly long, and the hill down was steep, but gravity always helps in these situations. Bags collected (Sticker, a couple of choccy bars, a slate coaster, a miniature of Bell’s whisky, and of course that all important badge) we grabbed our soup (and I grabbed a burger because I’m a greedy so and so) and it was back off up the hill. Bloody hell. I decided there and then that I wasn’t making the journey backwards and forwards any more times than I had to. I live not far from the edge of the fens and a molehill is considered a hill here, so I really felt the walk up. Gravity is in fact, a bitch. More drinking.

Then of course came Swim’s ‘My sausages are burning, I’d best add more oil – ah this bright red fuel bottle clearly marked ‘Trangia’ looks just the ticket, that’ll do’ moment. It’s amazing what alcohol can do to a man. The meths soaked sausages didn’t taste too great apparently, and he soon cooked another lot, this time using cooking oil. The incident was over a lot faster than the piss taking.

Swim espouses the benefits of Meths-based cuisine to Newt...

It’s worth noting that we seemed to get a lot of attention, as did the Cubs. I suspect it was like the guided tours to see the loonies in the mental hospitals in Victorian times- folk love a good freakshow. Our sanity was called into question more than once…

The weather gods were being exceptionally kind and the sun was shining on the righteous (and us as well). I even managed to get a slight sunburn. More drink flowed, and as the sun dropped behind the trees and mountains, so did the temperature. I was freezing my bits off, I don’t mind admitting. My toes were like blocks of ice, and I realised that I’d forgotten to pack my foot warmers- they’d have done the trick nicely.

As it got dark you could really get a feel of what the Dragon is all about. The entertainment is there (there was a band down in the marquee), but just as many folks chose to sit around the tents in groups passing the time and meeting new folk as wandered down to see the band.

Newt performed a magic act and made a lot of Glenfiddich disappear very quickly, with predictable results. When someone started letting off fireworks, he shouted to them in no uncertain terms that they had missed, using some interesting words that good boys like me don’t understand. His recent trip to the Elefantentreffen also seems to have helped him brace his inner Teuton as he also started shouting things like ‘Ja ja! Das is Gud! Wunderbar! Achtung!’ etc. at them quite loudly. It was not long after this that he decided he had unfinished business with his bike and decided to give it a few kicks and swear at it for a bit. When Swim politely explained that he was kicking in the WRONG bike, he had a slight flush of embarrassment, to say the least…

Newt, despite his advanced state of inebriation was determined to get a burger. However, his legs decided otherwise and failed to work in a factory authorised manner. ‘I’m a bit pissed’ he said. ‘I’m going to have to go on my knees for a bit'. And he did, and stayed there for some time, seemingly none the worse for it. Then he got up, and went off on a quest to find the much wanted burger.

Newt HQ

A little later Salty, XTWill (was it Will, or was it Kev? I don't remember...) and myself all decided to make a visit to the marquee - I was more interested in finding more food than the band to be honest, but figured I’d have a look whilst I was down there. We found Bogger, Stig, Swim, Alan and JJ whist there, awaiting the band and of course doing more drinking. I enquired if they’d seen Newt. Bogger said he had last seen him holding up a tree. He was apparently quite good at it.

Another nutritionally unsound burger later, mindful of the fact that Pete was up at the tents II went back up the hill to keep him company. I swore to myself that I wouldn’t be coming back down until the next morning, too much like hard work. I met Pete at the top. Newt had successfully completed his quest and crawled into his tent. I stuck with my decision to stay at the top of the hill, Pete decided against going down. Instead we sat around the tents drinking whisky and Pete’s new hot toddy, which is best described as alcoholic Lemsip. Heat up bitter lemon on a stove, pour vodka in it, drink. It’s surprisingly good, and certainly helps keep you warm.

We were joined by various folks- Alan the chap who had ridden a cub over from Northern Ireland, XTwill and another Welsh lad called Ash (who me and Salty would run into later, as will be revealed). The frost was starting to cover the bikes and tents as we drank even more and sat about talking about subjects that seemed of great importance at the time, but with sober reflection were almost certainly largely bollocks.

Salty appeared out of the darkness and informed us that a) he had lost his tobacco and b) that he was ‘in need of further intoxication’ (his own words). He went off to his tent to find another pouch of baccy that he had brought with him and for the next ten minutes all we saw of him was the soles of his boots sticking out from under his tent flap as he rooted through his luggage on all fours.

The rest of the guys appeared and Stig produced a bottle of rum from his tent, and on seeing how much of it he had already drunk, realised why he was quite as drunk as he was. By this time, the cold had really started to get into my bones so I decided that it was time to crawl into my sleeping bag. I’d decided to take my smaller tent as it was only for one night. I really wished I hadn’t. The smaller tent has barely enough room to sit upright in, and I found it difficult to fit myself and my stuff in- I need a porch! Lesson learned.

As I lay in my bag I heard a rousing chorus of ‘Swing low, sweet chariot’ coming from across the campsite somewhere as England had just beaten Wales in the Rugby. It went on for some time, I hope it didn’t annoy our Welsh hosts as much as it annoyed me as I tried to get to sleep…

I woke up about half five, all cramped up, and decided that getting up was the best option. My temperature gauge inside the tent was reading about 4.5 degrees, but according to the thermometer on Newt’s bike it was closer to -5 outside. Everyone else appeared eventually, except for Salty who remained absent.

Frosty early morning

Bogger asked me if I wanted a bacon sandwich, which being a fat bugger naturally I did. I expected a rasher or two, but I got about ten and the sandwich was about two inches thick. Cheers for that Bogger!

Salty finally surfaced at about half eleven, nursing a monster hangover. He was quite surprised to find that so many folks had already upped sticks and left. Myself and Salty had booked into the bunkhouse for another night so were in no rush to leave, and we were the last of our happy few to make one last trip down the hill and leave the site. Newt decided he’d make a run for home (he texted me later to say he’d got home around half nine, though I didn’t get the message until the next day as I’d turned my phone off).

Sunday Morning

We made a very steady run back to the bunkhouse to see Ash (who I mentioned earlier) waiting for us. His Velocette had broken down and he was waiting for his mate to come up from Pembroke with a trailer to pick him up (now there’s a good mate!). When he turned up we helped them load the bike then it was time for a much-needed shower, food and beer. By eight o’clock we were still both nursing only our second beer each of the evening, and we finally called it a night. Yes you read correctly. Eight.

Monday was looking gloomy- the weather forecast predicted sleet and snow in exactly the direction we were travelling. I put on almost all the clothes I had- two sets of thermals, two t shirts, two fleeces (one of which I had bought in Betws-y-Coed the afternoon before), then my textile jacket and trousers and finally my waterproofs over the top of the lot. Once on the road there were a few flakes of snow and it was cold, but not too bad. Shortly after Salty and myself split up onto our separate routes I stopped for a leg stretch and put on my inner gloves and my balaclava too. By the time I had covered 90 miles the snow had really started to come down and it continued to do so for the remainder of the trip, though it wasn’t settling.

When I reached home I stepped off the bike and I had a half-inch layer of compacted ice and snow over my chest. I met a mate of mine out walking his dog at the end of my street and stopped to say hello. He shook his head, laughed and said "You're f***ing mental mate!" He's probably right. I was glad to be home, a cracking weekend with a great bunch of folks!

Was it a good idea? Probably not.

Will I do it again? More than likely!