Friday 14 May
I am just off the A1. I have passed near Leeds, Sheffield, Lincoln, Grantham, Peterborough and St Ive’s. I was on the road by 6.00 am, there was no rain but cloudy. The traffic very heavy and the wind from the northeast helping me along. It makes a lot of difference, speeds of 30-40 mph. Beginning to develop a knocking noise at 35 mph, hope it holds to complete the marathon in 10 days. Only 100 miles now from London and I have done 100 miles in 3 hours already this morning. Heavy showers coming on, so I will have to take shelter (or shall I go through it) but I roll on to London.
The A1 at places turns in the A1(M), it is really a motorway all the way from Scotland. The traffic is very heavy, predominantly large container lories and the like, speeding to get to their destinations, a race against time itself, as it were. When it rains the heavy trucks kick up such a spray and backlash so as to make such roads an insane place to be trying to wend ones way through on a bike.
However, in spite of hazards, progressing slowly at 35mph approximately towards London and home. Like the homing pigeon, am now on a straight a course as possible on the A1 directly into London. I am now reaching the realms of somewhat familiar territory (in spite of rain and juggnaughts). I fill up at Biggleswade and that will carry me to home sweet home. Coming up to a coned area of the A1 where repairs are taking place, single traffic, like on many other such occasions. I am holding up a bunch of mad eager truck drivers at my rear and I develop a sever wobble. Something has gone wrong with the bike, like a flat back wheel, I cannot slow down because of the queue of lunatics on my tail wanting to grind me into pulp.
I steer into the coned off area, I manage to keep on the saddle, I slow down and stop. Brought the bike into a layby to have a look. There were no flat tyres but I see a bolt, a large bolt, sticking about 6 inches out of the frame at the rear of the engine. This bolt holds the frame together, so that it hinges on the halfway mark to accommodate the suspension. In other words the bike was falling apart right under me as I rode it. A nut had loosened and fallen off, possibly a few miles back and the bolt was working its way right out of the frame. I hammered the bolt back in but I didn’t have a nut to secure and tighten it. Where the nut should be, I decided to use some wire and wound it round and round as tightly as I could, hoping it would suffice. Yes, I had some copper wire, easy to bend and manipulate, in my tool-kit but it was no longer there. It must have dropped and was lost when doing some other repair. But necessity is the mother of invention; I have a large safety pin – and that wire. I straighten that out and wind it around the end of the bolt as securely as possible, where the nut should be, cover it with insulation tape. I try it out – it works! Still a wobble, so I keep an eye on it and drop my speed to 25/30 mph. But there is something else happening, like a bearing has gone or a bush in the gearbox system. The gears are very rough and I can hear and feel grinding – it’s nothing to do with the loose frame or the wobble. I press on expecting things to grind to a complete seizure, a halt at any moment. The trouble gets worse as I soldier on. Will I be beaten on the last dew miles of my pilgrimage? Not if I can help it. Of course I should pack it in and not run the engine to complete stoppage, a wreck. I somehow get to the end of the A1 which I have been on almost since Edinburgh and now right into outer London Town. I reach the North Circular Road, it’s now about 3.00 pm.
I don’t want to go through the centre of London, so I head east on the North Circular and head towards the Woolwich Ferry, which passes right by where Martin (my son) lives. As luck would have it, I lose the North Circular somewhere north of Tottenham and I’m on a road leading to Dagenham. By the time I get back to the North Circular I was in East Ham and had accidentally detoured passed Martin’s abode by about three miles. Since the bike is still going, I will keep right on ‘til the end of the road, or ‘til it ceases and packs in on me.
I negotiate a busy crossing near Gants Hill, the A13 flyover and North Woolwich when a very severe wobble brings me to a complete stop right in the middle of very impatient traffic. I wheel the bike to the side of the road near the flyover by the artificial ski-slope. The bolt is till in place, the safety pin wire still holds but this time it is really a flat rear tyre – the first I’ve had on the whole trip and almost home – only a few miles to go. I cannot walk home; this bike cannot be pushed with a flat tyre. Besides I have quite a weight in the wet kit in the wet kit I am carrying. Out come the tools once more and the puncture outfit. It is not an easy task without the proper tools, to get the tube out of the tyre and in actual fact the wheel should be taken right off. With a screwdriver and a spanner I manage to get the tube out, leaving the wheel in place, it’s like repairing a pushbike puncture. I did not think I could do it, but somehow I manage. I had thought of getting in touch with Martin to bring along his VW van, but an hour later I was grinding my way towards the Woolwich Ferry – which was NOT running – so I head for the ‘rat-race’ using the Blackwall Tunnel. I now wobble along at 20 mph, likely to cease at any moment. The traffic is very busy; it’s rush-hour and everyone mad to get home, including yours truly. I limp home finally at 5.20 pm and very thankful indeed to have completed 2,107 miles marathon, mopedding to the extreme ends of Britain in 10 days
