Made Like A
Gun
I
Rain In Spain, Magic In Morocco, Friends in France
t was useless to try and fool
the Enfield that a trip to the
supermarket was as exciting
as a trip to a market in Am-
ritsar or Acapulco. This no-
ble machine once pushed the
boundaries of motorcycle achieve-
ment in the rugged valleys of Pakistan
and rode deftly onto narrow canoes
in Cambodia during the rainy season
when road travel became impossible.
It was unfair to inflict ignominious
journeys to the supermarket on my
two-wheeled friend which looked
increasingly forlorn at each
weekly shopping trip. It was
time for another adventure!
My dance-mad daugh-
ter invited me to join her
at the flamenco festival
in Jerez, Andalucía in
southern Spain in Feb-
ruary. It was a bitterly
cold winter and I was
living on a friend’s
36m Dutch barge in
Bristol harbour. It
was in need of ren-
ovation and had no
heating. The harbour
froze in temperatures as
low as minus 9 degrees. I saw a
tempting opportunity for a bike trip.
Within hours the ferry from Plymouth
to Santander was booked, allowing
ten days for the journey to meet her.
I bought maps for Spain and also Mo-
rocco which is just a hop on a ferry
away ... well, you never know!
I changed the oil and asked my
favourite mechanic to renew the
steering head bearing and all the ca-
bles. He replaced only the throttle
cable, considering everything else to
be OK. Later that day the Ministry of
Transport tester passed the bike but
issued an advisory note to replace the
steering head bearing! There was no
time to get the job done. An added ex-
citement to Enfield-riding is the risk
that you just might not make it to your
destination. There is always that ten-
sion to spice up the journey.
Exhausted by months of trying to
keep warm at the library and even the
Crown Court (as a spectator), I set off
from the barge at midday on Febru-
ary 13th wearing a shiny new helmet
I had struggled to get into it at first.
After losing my earrings and some
of my hair, I loaded up the bike and
rode away. I had just left the environs
of Bristol when the bike started splut-
tering and stalling every time I slowed
down.
“Don’t you want some adventure?” I
shouted exasperatedly.
At Crediton in Devonshire it would
not restart but a biker-angel rescued
me from the roadside, took me back
TRAVERSE 73
to his garage and sprayed all manner
of stuff on the carburettor and got
it started. I set off again. Now it was
dark and the freezing February chill
was creeping into my leathers. The
bike stalled and stubbornly refused to
start as I reached my friends’ house in
Okehampton where I was to break the
journey overnight.
I arranged public transport for the
next day to take me to the ferry port. I
was fed up with the bike and would go
without it. Next morning, just before
leaving, I went to say “goodbye” to the
bike. I gave it a half-hearted kick and
it fired into life as if to say “You’re not
going without me!”
With just enough time to get to the
ferry, I flung on the luggage and set
off. It was a crisp, sunny morning and
the ride was exhilarating. We made it
to the ferry and the bike was strapped
down. The two-day voyage to Spain
was so relaxing that I almost believed
I’d imagined the stalling incidents or
(because I am an incurable optimist)
that whatever had caused the prob-
lem had now miraculously cleared. I
envisaged no problems riding off the
ferry into warm, if not sweltering heat
in Santander.
Wrong on both counts!
Firstly, the bike wouldn't start. A
kind Geordie helped when he saw me
jumping repeatedly on the kick-start-