By Any Means: His Brand New Adventure From Wicklow to Wollongong (4 page)

I could feel the shiver extending to my buttocks.

‘One of our assistants was in there the other day,’ Steve continued, ‘and she saw this old gentleman in tweeds, bald head and a beard, sitting on one of the bikes. I had an old cycling magazine in the office and . . .’

‘Don’t tell me.’

He nodded. ‘I found his obituary from years ago. It was the same man the assistant had just seen up in the bike room.’

‘Cool, eh, Charley?’ Russ had returned from the shower. ‘I don’t know where you’re sleeping, mate, but I’m going to camp in the bike room.’

No chance. Instead I camped alongside the motorbike I’d ridden round the world. It was exhibited next to a pristine E-type Jag convertible. My old rally suit was there, too. I still miss that suit. There was a glass case with some of the stuff Ewan and I had left in our pockets: a compass, some coins, a couple of cassette tapes. It brought back lots of great memories. Leaving Russ to the ghost of Sammy Bartley, I blew up my mattress and unrolled my sleeping bag.

I glanced at my bike, my old suit and helmet. I looked up at the ceiling. Not quite out in the cuds, but it was near enough.

3

Let There Be Bikes

The floor was hard, and my sleeping bag was a bit too hot, but I slept pretty well, all things considered. I woke up a few times but there were no ghosties; at least none that I saw. No black eye either, which was a relief.

Russ came down at six looking bleary-eyed but rested. I asked him if he’d seen any ghosts.

He shook his head. ‘I was knackered. That old man could have ridden his bike right past me and I wouldn’t have heard him.’

This morning we were back on the bikes, heading for the Ace Cafe in London. We’d ride to junction 10 of the M40 where, please God, there would be some bikers waiting for us. We’d advertised the ride on our website and I was hoping a few people would come out to support us.
Motorcycle News
had also done a piece about the expedition the previous week and we’d invited anyone who wanted to join us as far as the Ace Cafe to show up at eight-thirty at the services. Twenty would do. If there were twenty I’d be really happy. It would be a real downer if there were only one or two.

My bobber looked gorgeous this morning. Turning the petrol on I tickled the carb, kicked her over and the little beauty thundered into life with a snarling crackle. We were escorted from the museum by a Vintage Daimler limo - I followed it off the slip road but Russ and Mungo, giving it large, missed the turning completely.

Lost already and we’d not even left Coventry.

At last Russ appeared from the roundabout in front of me and not long after him Mungo showed up looking a little sheepish.

I could only manage 55 mph without being blown off: being a bobber the bike is naked; the consideration being style rather than aerodynamics. I started thinking about sailing across the Channel the next day. I was nervous: Russ and I had spent a few days in Southampton getting ‘boat and wind aware’, as the instructor called it. We’d capsized our dinghy in no wind at all and tomorrow we’d be sailing one of the busiest shipping lanes in the world. I knew I should have practised more, but instead of learning to sail properly I’d been taking flying lessons.

The exit for the services came up, and all thoughts of sailing left my mind. Leaving the motorway I climbed the hill and swung left into the services. Please God, let there be bikes . . . Bloody hell! Forget twenty - there were more like three hundred. I was gobsmacked; the whole car park was solid with chrome and leather. A sea of bikes and riders surrounded us. It was incredible, and I could feel a lump in my throat as they crowded around, patting us on the back and offering to buy tea and coffee. This was Tuesday, a work day, and here we were at eight-thirty in the morning with hundreds of bikers who had taken the time and trouble to see us off. We were all speechless.

We set off again and I’m afraid to say that with so many motorbikes we ended up blocking all three lanes of the M40. We had just never expected such a turnout. I rode at the head of the convoy, feeling euphoric and humbled by the support. Every now and then we’d manage to squeeze into two lanes to let the traffic by.

 

Riding into London we joined the North Circular, heading for Willesden and the Ace Cafe. A large, flat-roofed, white building, it is the caff of all caffs. Built in 1938, it was destroyed by the Luftwaffe in World War Two, but rebuilt in 1949. Rockers started hanging out there in the fifties, making the most of the twenty-four-hour service. Ever since then it has been a bikers’ haven, and is rightly famous around the world.

As we pulled in we brought the North Circular to a standstill, three hundred bikes trying to turn into the cafe. I saw my wife Olivia standing with my daughters, Doone and Kinvara, along with Russ’s parents Jill and Tony. My mum Christel was also there with my twin sister Daisy. (My mum says the first time she saw me on a motorbike was when she asked me to go to the garden and fetch some potatoes. I was with my mate Caz and we rode through the patch on his bike as fast as we could, using the back wheel to churn the spuds from the ground. Bucket after bucket we brought in, broken - or, as we saw it, ‘ready mashed’. My mother thought it was very ingenious . . .)

With my family around me it was hard to accept that it would be months before I saw them again. Olly copes but it’s not easy. Doone and Kinvara go to different schools which are in opposite directions. Normally I take one of them but for the next few months I wouldn’t be there. Olly passed her motorbike test recently and planned to buy a moped so she could drop Kinvara, then come back for Doone.

But at least they were joining me on the next short leg of my trip. I was leaving my bike at the Ace Cafe in exchange for a bright red London Routemaster, which I would drive down to Shoreham-by-Sea. I’d never driven a bus before and was dying to get going. It would be the perfect way to say goodbye. In Shoreham we’d hook up with the RNLI and take a lifeboat to Brighton.

We said goodbye to all the friends who’d come to see us off and then, climbing into the cab, I slid open the window. My instructor, a man called Peter Barrington, was hunched behind me. My first lesson would be driving the North Circular. My family were in the back along with Jill and Tony, Russ’s daughter Emily and his girlfriend Sarah. They wouldn’t be seeing him for a long time either. I started the engine and pulled out with hundreds of people waving us off. It was the most brilliant send-off, and I couldn’t have asked for a more positive start to the expedition.

Ever since I was a kid I’d wanted to drive a Routemaster. First built in 1954, it’s a design classic. I couldn’t think of a better way to leave the capital. It wasn’t hard to drive - a bit like an automatic car (only bigger, of course). Steering is the only tricky part; the wheel is huge and flat and you have to make constant adjustments to keep the thing straight.

It was wild, like something from
Summer Holiday
. Once we got to Shoreham I drove through the narrow streets to the harbour, squeezing past parked cars. Somehow, miraculously, I managed not to take one of them out along the way. I found a space, parked and jumped down.

I gave Emily a squeeze and told her I’d look after her dad, and said goodbye to the rest of Russ’s family. Then I kissed Olly and the kids. Olly patted me on the bum. ‘You’ll be fine,’ she told me. ‘And don’t worry, so will we.’

Russ, Mungo and I crossed the beach to the square brown building where the lifeboat was housed. Talk about ‘by any means’; I was going to pilot a 47-foot All Weather Lifeboat. We met up with coxswain Peter Huxtable, who explained that the boat could capsize and right itself whilst remaining watertight, which was reassuring. He was going to launch it down the slipway just as they would for a rescue and then take us on to Brighton. From there we’d pick up a Land Rover and drive to Dover.

The RNLI is funded solely by donations. The charity costs £100 million a year to run - there are 230 stations covering the UK and the Republic of Ireland - and they have to raise that money entirely themselves. As an island, Britain is particularly vulnerable to accidents at sea, and when people get into difficulty their lives depend on these brave volunteers. We were a couple of novice sailors ourselves, and it was good to know that when we crossed the Channel tomorrow the RNLI would be there if, God forbid, we needed them.

When the RNLI was founded in 1865 the boats were rowed out to rescue in all weathers. Now - thankfully - they are powered by diesel, but Peter said the RNLI was finding it harder and harder to get crews together. In my eyes, the people who volunteered were true heroes, risking their lives 24/7. If you’re going to volunteer for something and you live by the sea, I can’t think of anything more fulfilling or worthwhile.

Keen to get going as always I asked Charlie Hubbard, the second coxswain, to explain how the boat was launched. We were standing in the boathouse under the massive blue hull.

‘We lower her forwards,’ he said, ‘then take off the safety chains and she falls over on the cradle.’

I gazed the length of the concrete slipway. It had what looked like a tramline - known as a keelway - running down the middle, not much wider than the boat itself. It was V-shaped with concrete sides topped with wooden pilings. There were metal walkways above our head, and beyond the keelway I could see the harbour walls and the open sea.

‘The cradle is hydraulically controlled,’ Charlie explained. ‘It comes down level with the slipway and away she goes.’ He showed me how the keel fitted into the greased keelway before the boat slid into the sea under its own weight.

A few minutes later Russ and I were kitted out in drysuits, standing on the bows as the crew prepared to launch. I couldn’t get the smile off my face. First the convoy, then a London bus and now a lifeboat for God’s sake - all in one day. We gripped the rail and moments later we were moving, sliding towards the water at a thirty-degree angle. It was low tide, and as we hit the water it erupted, spray exploding high over the bows, soaking us and foaming about our feet. It was brilliant - like a rollercoaster ride - and yet much smoother than I’d thought it would be.

Outside the harbour Peter let me take control and I piloted from the open cockpit. It was a great boat, very powerful and very manoeuvrable. I guided us the five miles to Brighton where we were met by a RIB from that station. They had one of their crew fall overboard and we performed a rescue, coming around him upwind then drifting in gently. A couple of the crew climbed over the side and hung off the rope netting to haul him on board.

I steered the ALB into harbour at five knots then handed over to Peter to take us alongside. Shaking hands, we grabbed our bags and ran up the weed-encrusted steps to the harbour wall where the Land Rover was waiting for us.

I got behind the wheel with Russ in the passenger seat and Mungo perched among the gear we’d tossed in the back.

‘It’s a double declutch,’ I said. ‘I bet I do nothing but grind the gears all the way.’

As we headed gingerly out of town, I pointed out the house where my grandmother used to live.

‘Right on the seafront,’ Mungo said. ‘Nice.’

‘She used to swim in the sea every day. Well almost every day - right up until she was eighty.’

‘Really?’ Russ looked back: the house was part of a Georgian terrace and whitewashed like those on the Isle of Man.

‘Yeah. Don’t forget - my dad’s seventy-five and he still swims in the river at Annamoe.’

We plodded up the hill. Russ sat back with his arm across the seats. ‘You know how these old Mark I’s came about, don’t you? Mr Wilks, the man who owned the Rover car company, had an old World War Two jeep. He and his brother put a Rover engine in it then realised they could build something better. They made the first one of these in 1948 as a sort of stop gap to boost sales at the car company.’

I looked round at him. ‘You getting those voices in your teeth again, Russ? Like in Long Way Down?’

‘Nope.’ Russ grinned. ‘Roger, the guy we got it from, told me.’

We held up the traffic all the way along the white cliffs to Dover. Bit of a theme for the day, that. The Land Rover broke down twice, well once actually: the first time I accidentally switched the engine off when I was trying to find the lights to flash someone. The second time we were spluttering a bit and coughing smoke and finally it conked out. An electrical lead had come off. Between us we got it going again and finally made it to the seafront hotel in Dover. Unloading my case I looked at the water, half excited and half terrified. I was only too aware that tomorrow we were leaving the country in a twelve-foot dinghy.

That night I prayed for good weather, I prayed for the right tides and I prayed that I’d know what to do after spending too much time in a small aeroplane instead of a boat. We would be sailing a Laser Bahia dinghy made of plastic: the kind we’d trained in and capsized. I didn’t sleep well.

‘It’ll be fine,’ Russ assured me on the beach the next morning, gazing across the sea towards France. It was a bright day, the Channel grey but calm. ‘Just think of the sense of achievement. And who gets to do this, Charley? How many people sail the English Channel in a twelve-foot plastic boat?’

‘How many would want to?’ I muttered miserably.

We headed for the marina where lots of small boats were berthed; it wasn’t cold but it was cloudy. I was glad that Russ was so calm and on the case - he was enjoying himself, I could see that. Mungo too seemed to be unfazed, but then he’d be filming from the support boat. However, I was still feeling very unsure about the whole thing.

‘It’s exactly the right thing to do,’ Russ was saying. ‘Twenty-two miles to France, Charley. It’s perfect.’

The support boat was called the
Gallivant
, which seemed pretty apt: the three of us gallivanting across the world without the kind of back-up we’d had on previous trips. The skipper, a guy called Lance from Margate, sounded more like a cabbie than a boat skipper. Nelson, his right-hand man, was as laid-back as they come. Glen and Rob, two sailors from Laser, would also be joining us. They would take turns in the dinghy with us if we needed them.