Diary and Photos

I had been half expecting a big send off- the local papers might be coming, or at least that might be in the pipeline, I had been led to believe. I hadn’t really wanted a send off at all- I’m not that sort of person. I would have been happy enough just saying goodbye to my family and then sloping off without ceremony, but even I could see that there were people who wanted to see me on my way, and if the papers did come, then surely that could only help- both my fundraising and awareness of the charity. In truth, I was more nervous about a big send off and being in the limelight than I was about the trip.

In the end, I needn’t have worried. Budgie’s family had come along to wish me well, and a few of my mates who didn’t have too vicious a hangover from their Friday night’s drinking had also showed up. More what I wanted, and better for my nerves.

A few pictures were taken, my chaotic luggage arrangements were discussed a few times, as was the wisdom of the whole affair, then eventually it was time for me to bite the bullet and hit the road.

My brother followed me for the first fifteen miles or so, just to ensure that everything was as it should be- luggage fixed securely, bike running okay (the luggage arrangements had only been sorted the previous night and weren’t road tested, the bike still hadn’t been ridden by me for more than twenty-odd miles at a time, and here I was, setting out on a three and a half thousand, 14-day trip…) and the like.

The first part of the journey was fairly routine- after my brother had turned round and headed for home, I was still in familiar territory- Huntingdon and Chatteris passed by quickly enough, then I was heading onto roads I had traveled only once or twice on trips to the coast. Beyond that, it was completely new. The little coloured lines in the road atlas and on my computer screen that had become so familiar were now real roads, and I begun to realize just what I had undertaken.

Aside from an occasional disconcerting front end wobble (caused largely by most of the weight being towards the back of the bike) the bike performed well- the Honda Cub could never be described as fast, but the top speed seemed to be unaffected by the combined weight of both myself (not light) and luggage (not that light either).

The first tank of petrol was gone in around sixty miles- I was quite shocked as I’d hoped to get much more from a fill. My petrol can was full, however, and was pressed into service- after filling the tank I still had half a can. The combination of throttle to the stop riding for mile after mile (this was out in The Fens- flat as a flat thing that’s been flattened by an even flatter thing…) and the tank being a couple of litres smaller than I thought explained a lot. The next tank, after I changed my style to riding slightly less flat out, lasted almost eighty miles, more like the figure I was hoping for. By the end of the day, I had used around two and a half tanks full, so there was nothing to worry me too much.

Once I passed King’s Lynn (my official coastal starting point) and started riding round the coast of East Anglia, the sea mists started coming and going, and stayed with me until North Walsham, where they cleared for good and let the sunshine through.

Other than that, the riding was fairly routine- occasionally the sat nav would send me somewhere bizarre, but that was my own fault- I’d chosen and pre-loaded the routes into it, and on a few occasions I turned too early or too late, and once even the wrong way entirely! My only real trouble was changing gear- down changing to be more accurate. I decided to wear my trusty army boots on the journey, but I hadn’t bargained on the fact that I didn’t have much ankle movement in them. The Cub has a heel/toe arrangement for changing gear- you press down with your toes to go up the gears, down with your heel to come back down. Only problem- I couldn’t move my heel even enough to touch the pedal, let alone press it down, so I had to resort to putting my toes back and doing it that way instead. As the clutch is part of the lever mechanism, this was at times somewhat clunky and inelegant. But it worked!

Stops were few and far between at first. I just wanted to get as many miles on the clock as possible. Then the pain set in. The saddle was not comfortable in the long term. After a few hours sitting down, something happens to the muscles in your arse- they start to cramp up. Any attempt to move to a new position merely causes fresh pain as you release the tension, then a brief respite, then the pain returns as bad as before. To make matters worse, being fairly tall I sit well back in the saddle- this puts much of my arse on the metal rack that has replaced the pillion seat. Owwwww! As the pain intensified and I realized that the reality of the journey was going to be much harder than I had ever imagined, I found myself once again questioning the wisdom of the whole affair. Just what had I let myself in for, I wondered…

I finally arrived at my campsite near Maldon in Essex at around 5.30pm. I was pleased with my progress- my daily mileage schedule seemed achievable if this first day was anything to go by, and I was looking forward to getting something to eat and a shower. I put the bike on it’s stand, and phoned home, letting everyone know I had arrived safely. Whilst on the phone, the bike fell over. A lesson learnt- never put an overloaded C90 on its sidestand on grass…

Sadly, I never did get that shower. The shower block was locked, and as it was early on a Saturday evening, I couldn’t find anyone to get the keys off. I gave up, cooked myself some food and had a cuppa, then turned in early. Tomorrow was going to be another long day, and I thought it wise to get as much sleep as I could before my early start. I also resolved to take more pictures the next day- so obsessed was I with getting the miles under my wheels, I hadn’t really taken the time to stop and enjoy the sights...

Next: Day 2...more arse numbing adventures around Britain!