The Black Bullet 7.5 - Sille Le Guillaume

It’s my birthday today and I thought I’d have this story wrapped up by now but I’m only halfway to Le Mans - got to get on. This is what happens when you begin to sift through events and see the connections. There’s a lot more going on than at first meets the eye and you need to slow down to see it.

I’m also excited because my old friend Rob has decided to regain his motorcycle licence and ride the marque his grandfather rode, a Norton. Incredibly, he remembers the registration number of his grandfather's bike and even has the old man's diary, detailing his rides. It's a potent cocktail of history and belonging for Rob, whose path has not always been smooth. He speaks with longing of the time when he and his twin brother were young and indestructible, and kings of the Australian highway (Kawasaki GPZ 750 vs. Honda Bol D’Or 900, as I recall). He once showed me a photo of one of his favourite bends – now that is dedicated riding.

Just before Sille Le Guillaume I noticed a dreadnought of a car coming up behind me, chrome flashing in my mirror. It was like a scene from Monte Carlo or Bust when these two guys in their 1930-something Bentley Speed Six passed me by, waving excitedly. The Speed Six is a huge car, from an era before the book of standard sizes was written, it made them look like children. They'd pulled over for lunch when I caught them up and it looked more like mooring than parking. It was break time for me too and I went on a bit further looking for a slope to stop on.

As I climbed off I shut the gas tap but the bike smelled strongly of petrol. Then I noticed a steady drip coming from the carb end of the lawnmower pipe Rob and I had installed when we changed the fuel filter. It felt jellified, lengthy exposure to heat from the cylinder directly in front of it had softened it and wiggling it only made the leak worse. Fuel was now dripping at quite a rate and vapourising on the hot engine casing. The thought of fire made me step involuntarily away from the machine, “shit, shit, shit” I hissed, impotently. With both taps off the carburettor float chamber would soon run dry but this wasn’t good, I’d have to turn the petrol on again sooner or later.

Foolishly I wondered if the draw of fuel through the pipe while I was underway would reduce the actual leakage, and if I shouldn't just ride off. I also thought of only using the reserve tap but the carb union connected the two pipes, so fuel would still leak out of the left hand side. I should have bought the forty-quid two-in-one tap, blanked off one side of the tank and and ditched the two-way union, it made sense but I was too tight [TBB 5.14]. The hiss of vapourising fuel said I had to stop vacillating and do something.

I’d read on the boat that chewing gum could be used in an emergency to fill a hole in a fuel tank – I could get some, pull off the plastic pipe, block up the union and run on the reserve tap but this didn't fill me with much confidence. Then I remembered the garden wire I’d shoved in the onboard tool box on the recommendation of one of the old guys at Hitchcocks. I retrieved this and some pliers but trying to twist plastic coated wire, in a tight corner, covered in petrol, was tricky to say the least. Eventually I fashioned a crude tourniquet around the middle of the pipe and pushed it up on the barb until it offered some resistance. The drips slowed and stopped.

Phew, the bike needed to cool down and I needed a drink. I thought of the Lilliputians in the Bentley and wondered if they had any mini cable ties, to make a better job of it. I’d packed plenty, but in the back of Norm's camper. A bit of bad planning there but the wire seemed to have worked, so I walked back down the road for a Pastis.

Team Bentley were from Huddersfield and we swapped stories while I worked round to taxing them for a tie. They were very decent about it and when I returned to the bike and switched the fuel back on it all seemed fine. Wiring up the pipe when it was hot seemed to have produced a good fix so I twisted another piece on, pocketed the cable tie and promised myself not to ride without a break for too long. I considered fashioning a heat shield out of the foil my sandwich came in but the emergency had passed, I had a reserve fix in my pocket and I could even change the pipe for the thicker stuff that HItchcocks had supplied at camp, later that day.

All in all I was in a pretty good mood when I bumped her down the road again and we took off for a big green patch on the map, one with plenty of winding roads. I'd been looking forward to this from the moment I'd seen it, so much so that it didn't occur to me to check and see how much fuel I had lost.

The Black Bullet 7.4 - On to Mayenne

I had thought to stop for lunch in Fougeres but, like Winchester, it came too soon. So I had a coffee in the town square and continued on to Mayenne. It was my first interaction in French for years; “Un cafe?” the waiter corrected, after my opening gender foul up. ‘It’s not hard, really,’ his tone said, so I tried again, repeatedly, under my breath as I moved a chair into the sun. “Uhn cafe, uhn cafe..." The French might seem to ignore the 'h' sound but they don't really, they just use it more creatively. Think of a breathless girl saying 'yes' - "oui-hhh" - pure cheese but it works for me.

The middle third of my journey pointed straight at Rome again but there was little traffic so I relaxed, slowed down and got settled to enjoy the country unfolding before me. The Black Bullet was turning out to be an affable companion, slow but inexorable, not the unreliable short range tool I’d maybe thought. The hard rear was giving me no problems although I had a chunky lock in my backpack that I could do without and a chain for a barrier, or lamp post, should I need to set off on foot to find help. I wound this round the base of the seat to spare my shoulders, at Mayenne, checking carefully for wires and whatnot, should it vibrate through them.

There were also four books in my rucksack: a small book about investment strategies (Bull Moves in a Bear Market, P.D. Schiff, 2008), a slim volume on generic motorcycle maintenance (Motorcycle Care and Maintenance, David Frost, 1961), a pocket phrase book and a somewhat larger history of the Enfield marque (Royal Enfield - The Complete Story, Mike Walker, 2003) which should have been in my spares box but arrived the morning of departure. Interleaved with all of this were spare cables, a bottle of petrol additive, water, dried fruit, puncture repair aerosol and maps, which I’d printed off the net.

I’d eschewed the traditional tank bag and panniers because I love the unobstructed lines of the bike, I also have the luxury of a bunch of friends in two campers on the same trip and, yes, all through the planning stage I was imagining what it would be like to trudge down the road with everything I owned to find help - for some reason I was always going to be doing this in the rain. In retrospect, a magnetic tank bag with a map window and straps, to convert it into a rucksack, would have been a better idea but I didn’t know, yet, that such a thing existed.

Instead, it pains me to say, I stuck a flat plastic map compass on the tank with epoxy resin which, in the presence of all that thumping heavy metal, spins drunkenly as I ride along. I can hardly bear to describe this foolishness, which amounts to a simple act of vandalism, and I urge you not, under any circumstances, to do the same thing. It's nothing short of drawing on your grandfather's face with a laundry marker while he's asleep, and not nearly as much fun.

The Black Bullet 7.3 - St Malo and beyond

The road out of St Malo is so damn straight. I blame the Romans, it makes me wish I had something a bit quicker, like the BMW I followed off the boat. That would eat all this up and make a little burp afterwards. It’s either the bike that’s wrong, or the road, and my wistful fancy for a more modern ride thankfully evaporates when I find my exit from the Route Nacional and drive off into the countryside.

The flat exhaust note, with nothing to reflect it, is replaced by the rich burble that makes riding the Black Bullet such a pleasure. She pulls enticingly out of the bends and pops on overrun into the villages. "Eat Enfield exhaust note Frenchy." I murmur with a smile, blipping the throttle.

The overnight ferry trip was such a treat. To be free of family responsibilities for a while, not running away, just taking time out, like you’d do in a long hot bath, a five-day bath. Everybody needs a bit of time to themselves and this form of transport provides the perfect opportunity. We had whisky and Simon played the piano but I was in bed by midnight, what with a big riding day ahead and all. The next thing I knew, we were becalmed in the mist by the imposing walls of this old fortress town.

An impossibly perky reveille fought through the bath towel I’d stuffed over the speaker under the table in our cabin. I saw it when I was stowing my damp boots, tongues out, and thought, "Hello...oh no you don't." All the same, I was keen to make it to breakfast and get on with the leg down to Le Mans.

The next stint was about 140 miles which at 40mph, tops, made three and a half hours of solid riding. Add in three twenty-minute breaks and maybe an hour for lunch and that came to five and a half hours in total, by my back-of-a-fag-packet reckoning. This was provided everything went like clockwork. A contingent couple of hours made it potentially a full working day.

I laid a paper napkin from breakfast in the oil patch under the bike while I buckled up and realigned the levers for start up. One of the other riders came over for a chat as several car drivers in our vicinity started their engines, prematurely, oblivious of the exhaust fumes in their air conditioned comfort.

“Come far?” he said cheerily over the noise.

“Oxford,” I said, frowning at a couple of aged fashionistas. They’d been gossiping loudly in the cabin next door and were now revving up their Range Rover 'Vogue'. They giggled infuriatingly and winked back.

“My dad used to ride one of these, it was a Model G.” he continued.

“So is this.” I responded curtly, regretting that I couldn't be a bit more polite.

“Oh really, I thought this one was earlier, what year is it?”

“It's a fifty-three.”

“It’s a rigid frame, though, isn’t it? I thought they all had a swing arm by then.”

“I don’t know, I’m sorry, I really don’t know that much about it.”

“It should have a swing arm,” he insisted, “unless it’s a military one..."

I just wasn't in the mood and he thankfully retreated, "Well, good luck anyway.”

I was to have a lot of these conversations along the way and although the interactions were generally welcome and sometimes genuinely informative, I was not always receptive, particularly immediately pre and post time in the saddle - when I was nervy, or tired. That morning I just wanted to get out there, settle down to the job in hand and get some miles under my belt. I would have all the time in the world for chatting once I got to the Chateau.

The Black Bullet 7.2 – Ferry to St. Malo

Although a pint at the Still and West marked a small milestone on my journey it wasn’t quite the end of the day, I still had to meet up with the Village People and catch the boat to St Malo. I saw them standing by Tony’s camper, waving, as we rolled down the bike lane to passport control.

My own lack of confidence in the adequacy of my preparation had made me extremely cautious and I’d primed them for a negative outcome. This was to be a feature of each new leg of my trip, which must have begun to chafe on their sensibilities, but they endured my wittering on about blowing up in good humour and continued to offer their support for which I was grateful.

Among them was one of my oldest friends, Rob, who has endured far more of these amateur dramatics than anyone else.

“Hey, you made it, well done,” said Rob coming over, proverbial fag in hand.

“Thanks mate, it was a good ride in the end, apart from the rain.”

“Yeah, we thought of you when it came down, wondered if you got caught in it. How was the bike?”

“Sweet, no problems, even in the rain. Still losing oil though, need to keep an eye on it.”

Before we set off, Rob had come over to help me swill out the tank and change the fuel lines (TBB 6.14). We also intended to remove the chainguard to look for the source of this oil leak but I couldn’t figure out how to get it off, so we left it.

Fixing can easily become breaking when you’re ignorant of the principles and processes involved, you have to be cautious until you get through this stage. Of course experience doesn't grow on trees and the only way to get it is to mess up a few times, I just didn't want to do that right before my trip. So when I removed the fixings and one turned out to be an oil drain plug, which didn’t make sense at all, I stopped. No chainguard I’d ever seen had an oil compartment, what was that about? The skimpy user’s manual shed no light on the situation.

I imagined the oil leak was due to a failing engine or gearbox drive shaft seal but there was no way to check this without removing the guard. In truth, I wouldn't have had time to replace such a seal anyway so my temporary measure was to just keep an eye on the engine oil level which was dropping consistently. Gearbox oil tends to be thicker and leak more slowly so, right or wrong, my priority was the engine.

Thinking about it now, I'd drawn an obvious connection between the familiar patches under the bike and the disappearance of oil from the engine but automatically linking these two things together turned out to be a weak diagnosis. There was a clue I'd failed to give full credit to, in that the leak was directly beneath the gearbox, not the engine. I may have discounted this, reasoning that oil could have blown backwards off the engine onto the gearbox housing and dripped off the bike from there but there was no evidence of this.

I have to face the fact that I was more inclined to believe that which suited my situation at the time than to undertake any proper investigation. This had undoubtedly contributed heavily to my pre-trip nerves. The question was, what else I may have overlooked?

The Black Bullet 7.1 - Arrival at Portsmouth

Clothes still a little damp, I checked the map, determined to stay off the motorway. Old George warned me that the bike wouldn’t endure sustained high speeds and the thought of all those air conditioned, turbo charged, ABS-fitted cocoons whipping past me without a care eroded my enthusiasm for the fast lane. So, with a sequence of A Road destinations in my head, I shrugged on my rucksack, pulled my chinstrap tight and swung into the saddle. This would be my home for the next few days and I was pleased to note a comfortable fit in all the important areas. Then I rolled down the hill, dropped the clutch and were away again.

After Wickham the road descended and turned east to run parallel to the coast. The trees thinned out and we weaved with sheer pleasure on first sight of the sea. Blokes with tattoos watched us come and go while women (with tattoos) looked straight through. We passed a fish and chip shop reminiscent of a 50s American diner and the thought of stopping to eat fish and chips by the sea popped like a greasy bubble in the pleasure centre of my brain. At last I had a plan to suit my early arrival.

The Still and West is a landmark on Portsmouth's historic dockside, the bitter is excellent and they also do fish and chips. The food is not the best in the world, it has to be said, but the pub has a unique aspect, you can sit right over the water’s edge and watch ships pass by a spit away - Sitting on the Dock of a Bay, in every sense it was meant. I sipped a pint of ESB and necked some fish while watching my ship come in. Meanwhile, the Black Bullet drew passersby to a standstill with her pleasing proportions and graceful lines (click photo), and closed the deal on their affections with a little oily wee on the pavement.

The Black Bullet 7.0 - en route to Portsmouth

The mix of emotions that gives rise to, “What the hell do you think you're doing?” is served as an hors d’oeuvre to most journeys I’ve undertaken. Why choose to put yourself at risk, to cross the comfort line and leave the quiet containment of home? As a young man there was, metaphorically speaking, a hermit crab-like urge to swap shells for something roomier, as an older one the drivers are not so clear. It was doubly difficult to divine this on the day I left for France, when twenty minutes into the trip the sky drained into my crotch and boots.

Simultaneous with the discovery that my ‘stay dry’ trousers were actually designed to absorb the contents of rainstorms (presumably to preserve the dryness of others around me) was the crushing wave of realisation that if the Black Bullet had a weakness for water it was about to be found, not only on the cusp of my ‘great’ outset, but on the fastest, least hospitable section of my route.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid.” I muttered as a truck sloshed past, like a log in a giant flume. It may only be a short step over to France and back but as one biker at a petrol station said, when he thought I was out of earshot, “Christ, mate, look at that, that’s dedicated riding.” When I returned from the cash desk my ride looked suddenly old and fragile - one pot, one spark, one rider with a fearful heart.

But the Black Bullet didn’t stop or even splutter in the downpour and when the rain stopped and the road ceased looking like a great sheet of wavy glass I felt the first small counter-swing of confidence. I may have thought a good deal about preparation but I hadn't really done much and never been out on the bike in a rainstorm like that. Even so, the test of man and machine, if not trousers, had begun with a positive outcome.

The ferry out of Portsmouth was at eight but I'd left after lunch thinking I'd either blow up and have time to organise recovery of the bike by the time the village Le Mans posse swept by, or I'd simply dawdle along and stop on the way. After surviving the rainstorm, Winchester didn't seem like far enough to stop and once I'd circled a while in the mean and senseless grip of the town's one-way system, I'd lost interest in the place. Anyhow, I had to find somewhere that I could get my trousers and boots off to try and dry them out.

It turned into a fine evening and the sun came out so I stopped in a field near the pretty town of Wickham and hung my wet gear on the bike (click photo). I felt happy at last, I was on my way, it had been a long time since I'd been on the road like this and I hadn't really lost my appetite for it. Vulnerable is a fluid state of being, which is closer to the the way things are, whatever we might think, however we might try to apply protection or preservatives to our affairs. Another person said it was brave to attempt this trip on that bike, my pre-trip wobble aside, I could only see it as foolish not to.

The Black Bullet 6.19 - Miles Covered 403.3

My lunchtime departure approaches, bags are packed and deposited in the Village People Carrier and the route is prepared. There’s a road I like the look of through Winchester, which crosses the M3 and dips southeast to Fareham before meandering into Portsmouth. On the French side I’m going for another cross-country ride with plenty of opportunities to get lost, navigating the old way, with a map and compass. Both routes have been chosen with directness and speed, or lack of it, in mind.

I’m trembling with nervous anticipation but once I’d ordered split links for the Black Bullet’s drive chains the pre-trip tension that was destroying my sleep subsided. Unless something major like the engine or gearbox goes I reckon I can expect to make it. Oh, I mustn’t forget to stop at Halfords for a can of puncture remedy, a combination of compressed air and gunge, good enough to get me to a tyre shop.

One of the Village People has offered me a mobile (I only have a work one), so I can let them know if I’m stuck or in need any of the spares they’re carrying for me. Otherwise I’m on my own, which is what I asked for, so I can’t complain. I have to report a strange and confusing mix of fear, anticipation, pride, anxiety and sheer excitement. It’s like being a teenager again.

At my age? What the hell do I think I'm doing?

The Black Bullet 6.18 - Miles Covered 403.3

The Original ‘No Tears’ Onion Goggles inspired a search for something similar, with a better look. Looks don’t make you cool, of course, but there are limits. Eventually I found some cycling sunnies employing the same technology on an affordable ticket, so I bought them and took them out for a test ride.

What an improvement over my site glasses. You lose a bit of peripheral vision but when you turn your head at speed you don’t become tear-blinded in the windward eye. This is critical from the standpoint that I have to turn my head regularly to check the rear view mirror, to avoid nasty surprises. Bring limited to 40-50 mph means that even trucks tend to lunge up the outside on the open road, which can be more than a little disconcerting.

It was a beautiful evening for a test ride, which fully whetted the appetite for my upcoming trip on this self-centered form of transport. A fellow courier on the Wapping squad once announced in our cramped rider's Portacabin that he’d bought a helmet intercom so that he and his girl could chat as they rode along. Half the assembled bikers started laughing while the others dropped their heads into their hands.

“What?” he said, looking hurt, “it works...”

“She told you to get it, didn't she?” snorted one, doubled up with laughter.

“It was seventy quid,” he pleaded indignantly, as if the price made it right.

I don’t need to explain what made them tease him so. Personally, I think of motorcycling as a solo activity, that’s one of the beautiful things about it. If you ride out with friends, you’re together but also alone, until you stop and share stories. It’s peaceful in that helmeted state, I wouldn’t have an intercom, no way, I’m not even sure it’s that safe. To be honest, I don’t really like taking or being a pillion passenger either. But each to his own and I digress.

It was a beautiful evening so I rode up onto the downs with great fistfuls of throttle. Alright, it looks like I’m going backwards when something modern comes past but 400 miles in and I’m really beginning to get the hang of riding this thing and it’s great on twisty country roads with a decent surface. Lack of rear suspension means it’s predictable and what power there is goes straight to ground.

The sky was low and brooding, undercut with evening sun. Long shadows wheeled right and left as we swept up to Lockinge Kiln, I could have gone all the way to Newbury but I had no phone and was expected back home. Reluctantly I turned back making a circuit through Faringdon. The run up to Faringdon church was on a battered B road bursting with wildflowers, a break in the hedge showed green wheat and poppies beyond, in sharp chromatic contrast. It was as if all of England was aching to be France, or is it just me?

Time is in short supply now and I can only pray for good mechanical fortune. The weather forecast is dry on this side of the channel, on Wednesday, with light showers expected in St Malo the next day. There’s a bit of wind to contend with which makes for tiring riding but I tell myself it’ll be good to feel tired, man and machine battling the elements, etc.

We trialed the tent this morning and I’ve packed a box of bits; spanners, plug, contacts, oil, oily rag, cables, cable ties, inner tube, foot pump and so on. I shied away from installing vibration reducing grips, something I may yet regret, I think I will take my gauntlets and hope they reduce the numbness. It’s probably just as good for the bike as the rider to take regular breaks. Must just remember to stop on a slope, though, she doesn’t kickstart well from hot but will bump easily enough.

A very nice man gave me a push start outside the bank in Wantage, after my ride up on the downs. Some people just know what the deal is and don’t need to make a fuss about it. As he loomed to my right I thought, uh-oh, here comes a chat, instead he leaned in and quietly said, “Would you like a push?”

“Er, sure, that would be great. She doesn’t start so well from hot.”

“We can go into the town square, or up that way if you’d rather, if you think it might not...”

Several people in the queue for the cashpoint were now looking over. “No, I’m confident, thanks, it’ll work.”

And so it did, I swung round wildly to give him a wave as the bike jerked away, it was a nice scene, a good lesson in manners to the cashpoint people and a good omen overall.

Now that the trip is imminent, though, I begin to nag myself with doubts. Should I have de-coked the head with Old Pete, bought new drive chains, installed the new cables while I have a workshop facility? This is normal, however, and I mustn't let it spoil the fun.

It's been a journey getting to this point as it is. I've managed to get road legal, sorted the carb, the wobbly clutch lever, the slow puncture and the recent fuel leak. I've made myriad decisions on both a technical and strategic level and these are about to bear fruit, one way or another. In a funny sort of way I'm about to find out if I think straight, or talk shit. Heck, no wonder I'm a bit nervous.