The group was outfitted with proper bikes, the gear stowed, and we were off. Two roundabouts into it and I knew it was a skookum lot. Three riding two-up and four singles, we headed north out of Bournemouth. The A roads had enough twists and turns to keep our attention. Plus land being at a premium here, there were no shoulders so the margin for error was small.
Riding on the left didn’t intimidate them and soon they flowed past the lorrie-cut hedges as if they’d been doing it all their lives. The sun shone high and the temps were above average.
First stop, Stonehenge. We had a look at those massive rocks and wondered who moved them those two hundred miles and why. What magic did that particular field hold to the ancients?
When we returned to the bikes we were surrounded by a group of riders on Vincents. The oldest rider in the group was 84 and his sidecar passenger was 76. It was obvious to all of us that riding promoted longevity.
Our stop over was at a vintage inn that has been providing food and shelter to weary travelers since the thirteenth century. It had crooked floors, creaky doors, and kick-ass showers, a perfect dichotomy of old and new found all across Britain when one knew where to look.
The ride from Marlborough to Southwell had lots of turns, great scenery, and plenty of roundabouts to keep the group on its toes. The gang gelled as it stepped up to the mission of keeping everyone together.
We did our best to skirt the edges of the cities and the traffic, but it was a challenge. Part of the charm of this place is that all roads lead to the center of the towns. There aren’t any five-lane bypasses where one can pull in for a value meal from MickyD’s on the way home from work. That keeps the cities vibrant but can make route finding hectic.
The ride to Long Preston took us away from one population center smack dab into another, this one full of sheep. Week-old lambs frolicked to and fro while day old lambs wobbled on new legs as we watched them from our saddles while winding between the stonewalls that kept them out of our path.
We made our way further north to Hadrian’s Wall, named for the emperor that was its architect. It was the first barrier of its kind in the world. Its purpose was to definitively mark the northern boundary of Roman territory as a means of keeping track of its citizens’ movements with what we would now call passports. Evidence of it can still be seen from New Castle to Carlisle.
A stop at the Scottish/English border for pictures was rewarded with a flash rainstorm, complete with hail that had us soaked by the time we had struggled into our raingear. The rain stopped just as quickly as it had begun, leaving the roads extra slick because the water brought up the oil but wasn’t enough to wash it to the sides. Just thinking about hitting the throttle made the rear tire try to pass the front end.
We took a break for lunch and as soon as we got inside the sky opened up. We lingered over hot drinks long after the meal was finished and let the rain clean the oil from the tarmac. The rain stopped and though the roads were wet they were sticky enough to corner with confidence.
The end of the day brought us to a bed and breakfast in Loch Lomond run by a former Royal Navy Submariner with a penchant for teddy bears.
We had a rest day that split the group into ride-around-the-lakers and whisky (no “e” here in Scotland) distillery tourers.
Now we’re back in Long Preston after a stunning ride through the Lake District poised to catch the ferry tomorrow to the home of the oldest motorcycle race on the planet.
