Day Twenty - Back in England

Sorry for the missed blog, I was staying near Edinburgh last night with Liz and Rob, and inadvertently went on an extensive tour of several whisky distilleries. Consequently, making sense of a keyboard was not a likely event, falling asleep was... Got going a bit later than usual, too.

Yesterday, I had to get a new back tyre fitted in Aberdeen, by the fastest fitter I've ever seen, and had £90 removed by a woman who was utterly charmless. So, Mrs McMiggins of Silliets Tyres, I am pleased to inform you that you have swept the board, and are now the Champion Grump of Scotland, you miserable old trout. Still, everyone else I met in Scotland, without fail, was really friendly and pleasant, so who cares, eh?

Am now in a place called Beadnell, in Northumberland, another stunning coastline and a top collection of castles to boot. I'm just down the road from Bamburgh castle, which is a beast of a thing. Life must have been well violent up here, backalong. Am on a nice campsite, run by the generous and friendly Brian and Marion. Cheers, chaps, your gesture is much appreciated. Tomorrow, Newcastle and on, on, to victory!!

Photos from days 19 and 20.

Letter from the Editor

It seems Mike hasn't managed to send a blog post or photos today - perhaps he's beyond the pale and out of network coverage for his hi-tech gear. Time will tell.

I'll check tomorrow morning to see if a belated explanatory email has arrived, until then we'll all just have to be patient.

Day Eighteen - Heartstopping Moments

Gone midnight, and I've managed to fit in a serious oversleep, a 300 mile ride in showers and sun, and a large dinner with a bunch of people who project manage dismantling the original oil platforms of the Brent oil fields. More productive than wind turbines I'll warrant - the idle beasts were taking a break this morning as I rode past. Funny how they only work in the wind, ain't it?

Hurtling down the A90 to Aberdeen I had a bad moment when the bike lost all drive - thought the chain had busted. Me, call out the AA? Well, possibly not the motoring organisation, ha ha. Turned out it had stretched so much it had jumped off, but without damage. Weird, never had that happen before. So I nailed it back together and pressed on to my lovely hosts, Alan, Jane and Vanessa, who have filled me right up with quality food and drink and entertained me royally! Thank you, and also a big TA to Eric and Murray, lovely boys and brilliant hosts. Take it easy with that big ol' beasty in the woods, you hear me? And good luck with the extreme enduros, Eric.

Time for bed, campers.

Photos from day 18.

Day Seventeen - Coastrider finds Local Hero

Talk about jammy. I was looking for a camp spot just south of John o' Groats (it was blowing a spitefully cold north easterly and I was fed up) and coming out of Tesco in Wick, I met Eric, who is a biker, and is up here doing a forestry contract - clearing 300 hectares of conifer plantation, so they can erect 19 wind turbines. Yeah, you figure it out. Barmy is the word that sprang to mind. Anyway, here I am, sat in a warm cottage with a pasta supper settling nicely... result.

Gerald headed back to Cornwall today, it was good having a buddy for a few days, but kind of nice being autonomous (selfish?) again. The north coast is fantastic, it looks like the location for Local Hero, one of the greats. I took so many photos, it became ridiculous. Does anyone know how many you can cram into an iPhone?

Catch you later.

Photos from days 16 & 17.

Day Sixteen - Why I Don't Trust the Banks

More blazing sun and a cold northerly as we bashed out Mallaig, Skye and on nearly to Ullapool. This morning we woke to ice on the tent, hmm, thought it was a bit parky in the night. Got a blazing fire going to warm up, one of the many advantages of wild camping. Having ridden till 6pm, after 200 miles of mostly single track road (A roads, bizarrely), we are below the edge of the road in a suntrap. It's got a small river on one side, except it's in a mini gorge. So, a sheer drop of about fifty feet, and Gerald pitched the tent to find it was on a seriously undercut bank, kind of camping Darwin Awards! So it came to pass, and with much swearage, that the tent packed up its tents and stole away about 20 feet, grrr.

I forgot to give an honourable mention to Malcom and the crew at Hog's Bottom Garden Delights, purveyors of killer chutneys and other condiments. The lovely jar that was to accompany me sadly leaked and was thus consumed before I ended up with chutney flavoured unmentionables, ooerr. Malcom is also donating a hamper of goodies to be auctioned off after I return. If I return... it's bloomin' lovely here!

Day Fifteen - A Fistful of Thankyou's

Now a fortnight since I left Plymouth, [15 days by my count - Ed.] about 2200 miles up the wiggly road with the sea on the left that is my life. That's about from Calais to Athens - did it once with Gerald in three and a half days on a Kawasaki Z1000, back when Granny was a lad and we both had the Tatoo. You know, the one on your forehead that says "I Am Immortal". Well, so far...

I'm sat on a surprisingly comfortable Parker-Knoll style pile of rocks on the shore of Loch Airol, off the road between Fort William and Mallaig. We've pitched up on a spot that would satisfy even the whiniest of campers.

ENTER PETULANT CAMPER: "I want full sun! I want a loch, no make that a very beautiful loch in front and a sodding great mountain behind. I want soft, level green grass and a beautiful tinkling brook ten yards away. AND I WANT IT NOW!!"
GENIE OF THE CAMPING STOVE: "It shall be done, O whiney One."

And so it came to pass, etc.

Saw a young stag two miles from departure this morning, he just stood there 20 yards away as I clicked feverishly. Fantastic, usually I see one down a rifle sight, so a nice change for me, and, naturally, him too.

For days I've been meaning to do some thank you stuff. So, in no particular order, here goes:
Westcom, for the kit I write this on, and the Iphone that does the pics.
TyreMarks for the brilliant tyres, which I'm shredding on the grippy Scottish tarmac, nothing to do with my riding, of course...
Tavy Signs for the stonking graphics.
Kountry Kit of Tavistock for the kip mat that helps me to sleep so well.
Doug, Pete and Fran at Tavistock Chainsaw for the bike service (what's that funny rattle, Fran?).
Givi UK for the fantastic panniers, which I'm abusing horribly.
Azcari for the superb SatMap which tells me where I am, and without which life would be a misery.

And to all the great people who have offered beds, given me money and said nice things. And the campsite owners, who have unfailingly given me free pitches, last night being Port Ban-thanks a lot.

Then there's Sara, Alice and Matt, who make this all possible. Ta and I love you all.

Photos from day 15.

Day Fourteen - Naturally Curvaceous

My other reader wondered what my daily life is like, so here goes.

Up before dawn, the lazy old trout. Got the fire going, as it was cold last night, keeping me awake and therefore able to hear, in detail, the meeting of a lady and a gentleman tawny owl in the pine tree above the tent. Go on my son, Bill Oddie's job depends on you!

It being early spring, I was washing me smalls in the Kyles of Bute, as you do, and then a pair of oyster catchers got on the case not twenty yards away. Have they no shame? Over on Bute, a mile or so away, you could clearly hear a cuckoo and a woodpecker, also the sheep farmer's quad bike, cos lambing's in full swing up here (all done in Devon, a month ahead). So then followed a blur of action as I, and sidekick Gerald, cooked up a mussel breakfast, picked last night (real whoppers), slightly charred some socks, necked a cuppa, packed up camp and took some daft pics. Up the road we rode, five miles, stopping at a pond for a watery fill-up (too manky),
and then at a reservoir (green, but the trout were lively. Quick! Pass me the grenades!).

At Clachan, we stop for petrol and a smash and grab shop for bread and some carrots to go with the hen pheasant I picked off the road. The cashier is friendly, as, unfailingly, is every person we've met in Scotland. We love you all, and your country is the tops, really! All this admin means it's now fully one and a half hours before we're ready to put on some miles. The bigger A roads round the sea lochs are pretty fast, so we ruthlessly dispatch the laggardly Sunday drivers and bikers. Lightweights, I think to myself as I whip round a bend... only to meet the local Fangio on the racing, ie my, line. Luckily he's not texting Kylie at that precise moment, so takes timely avoiding action. Good boy.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of drizzle, sun and slippery corners, about 800 of the little blighters to be not precise. So we are now mostly at the Kilberry Head campsite, opposite the Paps of Jura. I ask you, in this day and age, to name a pair of mountains after a lady's embonpoint is a bit much... I bet there is a Scottish Parliament committee agonizing over them as we speak...

Bye for now.

Photos from day 14.

Day Thirteen - The Kyels are Buteful

I'm almost embarassed to admit that I'm sitting in the sun by a sea loch, the Kyles of Bute in (I think) Argyllshire. Had a wet night on the moors above West Kilbride, including some biblical downpours (what, you mean that they got into a pulpit and started ranting at us?).

Still pretty damp on departure after a frugal breakfast of half a roll and a cuppa, we thrashed up the Clyde and skipped smugly past Glasgow before it noticed us. Ha! Roads pretty wet and treacherous on knobbly tyres, and roadside barriers made of steel in a cheese grater stylee make one feel like a particularly anxious carrot... We pressed on in intermittent rain through Helensburgh, and shortly after started what may be many days of sea loch bashing. Up one side, and down the other. This is where a big trail bike comes into its own, the Yamaha just mashing up the hills and thudding through the corners like a thoroughbred/shire cross, one of which I am priveliged to ride and hunt (am I allowed to use the "H" word these days?) . Hey Nick, how's the
princess, by the way?

Loch bashing tomfoolery continued until we stopped to watch a game of what looks like hockey but with extra ultraviolence, can't remember the precise name [I couldn't identify the sport from the photo, anyone who can, please leave a comment. - Ed.]. Then we realised that there was plenty of Bank Holiday free camping going on by the shore, so have joined in, hurrah, but boo sucks to the crappy techno, bah humbug! A ride of about 150 miles left us about 25 miles north of our departure point; it's going to be a long old job getting to Cape Wrath, that's for sure.

More tomorrow, boys and girls.

BTW, hi to the Spooners (and hi to ANNA, who reads this stuff, commiserations!) Hope the Hunt Show goes well, boy am I going to be missing that old burger flipping thing, ho ho...

Photos from day 13.

Day Twelve - Ever Wonder Why Doctors Refer to Motorcyclists as 'Organ Donors'?

Hello boys and girls, here's today's missive. I'm sitting in a bit of high(ish) moor near to West Kilbride in Ayrshire, the capital of which is Ayr and I'm mostly assuming that they speak ayrish. Sorry, that was rubbish, the product of too many miles and an empty stomach. Getting towards the 2000 mile mark, not that I'm counting. Have just heard a cuckoo, a long old flight from North Africa with every hunter in the Med trying to put you in a pie. Tossers. Gerald is struggling personfully with the tent while I sip brandy and water, type furiously and bark occasional instructions. Marvellous, having staff, what!

So we've been through Stranraer, Ballantrae, Ayr, Prestwick, Troon and Irvine, if that blows up your skirt. I nearly got taken out twice in Ayr by dull-witted car drivers in the space of as many minutes. Still, it livens the journey up no end. Before I forget, a big hello and thanks to Melvin (ex Royal Scots Greys) and Lynne, wardens of the beautiful Sandyhills Bay campsite near Kircudbright. Cheers, dears! Also to the lovely couple who sold us discounted gas in the same town and made a donation. Thanks a lot. Tomorrow, Glasgow, Stalingrad of the North. Only kidding, put that razor down at once...

Had a storming lunch, having picked a load of mussels when we should have been toiling honestly along, but hey ho, the sun was shining etc. More guff tomorrer.

Photos from day 12.

Day Eleven - If You Turn 'Em Inside Out They Last Twice As Long

Travelling constantly north, it's like the same time of spring each day.
Bizarre. But changing daily is the price of fuel, steadily rising. Can't
wait until the far north, eh...

We're sitting on the Scottish side of the Solway Firth, gently frying as
I write. We left Nethertown in Cumbria this morning after a very pleasant
evening with David and Barbara, thanks again guys. David wound up the
preload on the rear suspension as the bike wallows like a drunk on the
increasingly squirelly roads, and this has transformed the handling -
good on you Dave, can I rely on you to come and change the oil in,
say, Norfolk? Ta, you're a pal...

So today, we have been up the south, English side of the Solway Firth, up to
Carlisle, on to Gretna and partway along the north side. It's flat, but very
quiet and unspoilt, at least until we turned up... The plan is to find a
campsite soon and do a bit of clothes washing, as a sock/skiddy crisis
rapidly approaches. Sorry, too much information really.

Later, dudes.


Photos from days 10 and 11.

Day Ten - Bring a Friend

So it's cheerio Wales, it was fun while it lasted...

So we left Llandudno at eight, full of eggs donated by the farmer whose
campsite we stayed on. Then a quick whizz through Liverpool, sorry about
Birkenhead, another time maybe. These cities are real sods to get through
when you're on a mission, and Blackpool was no exception. As a British
tank commander wrote to a brother officer shortly after the WW2 Ardennes
offensive by the Germans, "my dear chap, the noise! And the people!"
No, I'm a real country mouse, and anyway empty country roads are more
conducive to giving a motorcycle a proper ragging, anyway... Suitably
egged on by my trusty sidekick, Gerald and his shiny new BMW1200, that is.

I'll try and write some more tomorrow, as frankly I'm shattered after a
twelve hour, 270 mile day. We are staying with Barbara and Dave, just north
of Windscale, Sellafield, or whatever it's now called. Also, I'll bung on
some more photos when I get some signal. Very easy taking pics in the
blazing sun - 22 degrees today, phew! Tara for now folks, keep that cash
rolling in, and forward the site to anyone you think might like my unique
brand of nonsense.

Day Nine - Sunlit Gratitude

It can't go on like this; I'm having far too good a time. Sitting here in
the sunshine again on the west side of Anglesey, I'm killing time and
chilling out as I wait for my friend Gerald to ride up from Cornwall. He's
bringing some brake pads for the bike and is going to ride with me for a few
days. It'll be nice to have the company, not that I've been feeling lonely.
Too busy most of the time. Tomorrow, we're going to get our skates on and
belt on up to Cumbria, where David has kindly offered a bed for the night.
Then soon be in Scotland, I can't wait...

A big thank you to all the kind and generous folk who have helped in so
many ways- now, sadly, too numerous to mention. Make their generosity count
and slip Combat Stress a few, or many, quids. You know you want to really...

Photos from day 9.

Day Eight - Beauty Sleep is for the Ugly

Day Eight. Miles today: 177. Miles total: 1200.

Left Aberaer at 7.30 after a night's sleep rather like the curate's egg - good in parts. No hedgehogs, but a ewe that had been clearly smoking Capstan Full Strength for many a year, and an opiniated trio of mallards that dropped in at last light and only flew off once they had established that I was fully awake. Weather still fine, and a fantastic charge up the east
coast to Barmouth.

As there are a couple of long estuaries hereabouts, enterprising souls have built private bridges to save the trip round the top, and charge accordingly. With the shocking price of fuel, they must be laughing their socks off... I stopped off in Barmouth to try to revive a reluctant phone, via the good offices of Simon Hughes of barmouthmobilebermo@gmail.com. What a nice man- even when confronted with the techno eejit of all time, he just got amongst it and got the ball rolling. It's going fine now, Simon, you're a don.

Then on to the Lleyn peninsula, home of fantastic, delicately flavoured lamb, grown on the salt marshes. Also stunning views. Finally a dash up the coast to Caernarvon and then down to Lanberis to the youth hostel, in the shadow of Snowdon.

More later.

[Due to the phone problems, the photos for the last few days arrived today jumbled up together. They can be found using the link below. - Ed.]

Photos from days 5 through 8.

Day Seven - With Apologies to Actresses (Actors nowadays), Too

I left Saundersfoot, near Tenby in good time, so got some distance in while
the rest of the world groaned and regretted that last drink, or bottle. A
few much betterer folk slipped off to chapel, probably feeling less guilty
than the rest. The weather was fine and sunny, but I kept running into belts
of sea mist, which were pretty damn cold as it goes. Then you'd pop out
into a warm zone several degrees warmer. Weird.

I zipped through Milford Haven, fine if you like oil tank farms and monster tugs, then on to the city of St David's, fine cathedral if you like that kind of thing. Then
Fishguard, ferry port and gateway to the land of Guiness and craic. Stopped
for lunch and dash off an article for TBM at a beautiful inlet whose name entirely escapes me. Boy it was a suntrap though, do a road trip like this,
you gotta SUFFER, boy. Got my blokey machinery fix via a Chieftan Mk 11 and
a Leopard 2, plus a cute Chevy pickup truck, which you can see in the
gallery, if Technoslave has done his job. [I'll post the photos when I get the photos. -Ed.]

Finally ended on a high, found a sparkling campsite with really kind, generous, owners (ex bikers, naturally) near Aberarth, about halfway up the West side, or a bit less. Took all day to knock out 160 miles, total now approaching 1000. It's a mucky old job but someone's got to do it, as the actress said to the bishop. Sincere apologies to any bishops reading this, 'cos it's unfair to bash 'em...

Day Six - Someone Stole My Secret Identity

Mileage today, 90, total, about 800. Day six.

This morning was spent dishing out calling cards and blagging support from
customers of the BMW Off-Road school and right next door, Touratech, who
basically make trick accessories for motor bikes, as in things like
footrests hand whittled from solid unobtanium by Bavarian troglodytes. I
succumbed to a windscreen extension for the Yamaha just to direct the wind
and rain over my head a bit more. Cheers Craig, join the army of people to
have done me a favour, stars all.

I'm writing this sitting on a terrace with a fabulous view of Sandersfoot,
near Tenby, South Wales, having ridden down from The Place With Hardly Any Vowels via Swansea and Llanelli. Weather still good. Stopped off for petrol
and for no good reason used my business debit card. Problem. Phone calls
revealed that some scumbag has been merrily emptying my account while I've
been away, and I won't be back for at least three weeks to sort it out. So
thanks for that, lowlife.

On a more positive note, it's lovely being away from the crowded bits of the
south Wales coast and back in countryside my natural environment really, or
rilly as we would say back home. Bye for now.

[More pictures coming soon - Ed.]

Roadkill Potatoes, a Rare Blessing

A slightly frustrating day, but nobody said it was going to be simple. I had
to wait for the new SatMap to arrive, so I nipped out to fill the bike up and
got a fag lighter socket to wire into the battery so I can charge up my
menagerie of Satan's techno trickery on the move - pretty neat eh? As I
finished the wiring job, right on cue the postie rocked up with the new
SatMap, and the chargers from Sara - ta, doll...

Sooo.. called in at the post office on my way to the coast, posted off the
old Satmap and then realised it still had the Ordnance Survey chip in it.
The new one just has a road atlas thingy which ain't much use for my
purposes. Anyroad, I whizzed over the Severn bridge and into Wales, and
started to try to ride up the coast; all well and good until Cardiff. Then
it became a rolling traffic jam, crummy signage and pitifully slow to boot.
I gave up after Cardiff, pulled over and flashed up the stove for some late
lunch. Sitting on a pannier by the road, peeling a spud or two (having
parked right next to an errant bag of them lying on the verge), I became
aware of the constant scrutiny of the stream of as you likeys who
were driving past, goggle eyed. I suppose cooking is a slightly lost art
these days, but I did feel like a bit of a hi-tech tramp!

I'd been offered a bed by Terry Brooks, who I had never met; he lives in
YSTRADGYNLAIS, some ten miles up the road from Swansea. Do the Welsh
Assembly tax vowels or something? I got to the town armed with his postcode
and Mobile number... but no signal. Bum. So I got to within 50 yards of his
gaff when I was accosted by a genial man called Elvis who said "you looking
for Terry?" I was a bit taken aback to say the least. So here I am, full of
fish and chips and feeling ready for some zeds. About 600 miles covered so
far. Later.

[If anyone else living on the coastline of Britain would like to offer Mike a bed for the night it would be greatly appreciated. Please get in touch using the email address on the right-hand side of the blog. - Ed.]

Like Any Good Bath, This Post Has a Shameless Plug at the Bottom

We love to curse like navvies when our carefully crafted World of Techno
unravels horribly, like right now when this piece was half written and then
just disappeared like some bloody electronic White Rabbit down some hole or
other...

Today, setting off from Exford on north Exmoor, the gremlins struck
again. I realised that I had failed, dismally, to correctly charge up the
SatMap. This ACME of modern navigation simply shows me, on a
square of OS map, exactly where I am, and enables me to hunt out all the
obscure little roads next to the sea. Without the dead ends, naturally.

Anyway, I ploughed on my merry way to Weston-super-Mare via Watchet, where I
enjoyed a cuppa with my nephew James, who is the Obergruppenkapitan of the
harbour, or some such title. Check out the picture of the Vosper MGB.
In its day, powered by no less than three
Rolls-Royce Merlin engines, say 2000 horsepower, these little puppies would
do nearly 45 knots. Quick, pass me another clip for the Bofors gun, there's
a good fellow...

I had to see the beast - the nuke at Hinkley Point - or at least get close
enough to smell its breath. But you can't get that close, and even
provocatively taking photos elicited a short one way interview with a
man carrying a machine gun and a nasty little Andy McNab habit.
Spoilsports...

The next dead end sported a fine view of the mud flats and a
chance meeting with The Mud Horse Man. Now a mud horse is a sledge that you
push along over the mud, on your way down to the low water mark, to check
out the nets that you set last tide. This man and his son are the last
people doing this arcane method of fishing in the whole of the UK. So I
bought a bag of yummy brown shrimps, these guys catch all sorts including
cod and bass, much better than drum and bass, I always think.

So here I am, sat in the warm at my niece Emily's gaff in sunny Weston,
plotting my next assault on the unsuspecting coastline of dear old Blighty.
But not until a Satmap charger comes winging in from Surrey. Cheers, Craig,
you're a gent. Try Azcari for all your navigation, adventure and biking
gear, they really are the business. More later.


Photos from Day 4

Hip Hip Hip Hooray. Kind of.

Tried to get ahead of the curve today and not be kneeling on the wet grass
in the dark whilst cudgelling my brains for the usual wit and repartee.

The sun is trying to put on a very small hat here in Coombe Martin, on the North
Devon coast; it's about four and time for a coffee. Have had some great
riding including some quite technical green lanes with steep climbs, hairpin
bends and MUD, even. All quite challenging on a bike weighing about quarter
of a ton fully fuelled and loaded. And in the rain to boot. The real problem
is keeping the electrical appliances alive; I had no idea that they could
suck up so much leccy. I can see that I need to cobble up some kind of
charging system running off the bike (well obviously I need a bit of a
project to fill in the endless empty hours of my sad existence).

Last night, I was thinking about binning about half the gear I'm carrying, as it seems
like a ridiculous amount for one person. Well, camping for the night, I used
all of it to have a meal, a wash and a sleep. So for now, I'll stick with
the programme. Many thanks for all the kind messages and donations, it's
what drives me on as I carve a ruthless swathe through another panicky
gaggle of holiday drivers...

Photos from Day 3

Could David Fisher please stand up.

We got a very kind offer of a bed for the night from one David Fisher. David, if you are reading, we can't figure out any way to contact you from the JustGiving website but Mike is very keen for any help he can get. Please contact us at coastrideruk@gmail.com if the offer is still open.

-Alice

The Sobriety of this Post is not Guaranteed

I'll tell what comprises a damned good dinner...

First, ride about 180 miles under fairly trying circumstances, more ofwhich later. Then, as seven pm looms as large as the hole in your stomach, purchase the following:

one small bottle of brandy
a pork chop(thick)
a tin of mushy peas
one cadburys wispa

Get the chop sizzling merrily in the messtin as you pour yourself a stiffish brandy and water. As you finish your sharpener, throw in the peas, making a bizzarrely delicious gravy with your steaming hot veg and chop. Devour at warp speed and wash down with a cup of tea laced with more brandy, which also nicely takes the edge off the wispa. Declare repeatedly that you are your best mate ever, before retiring to the luxury hovelette.

Photos from day 2

Something Cornish this way Comes

It started off dull and damp, ended up bright and breezy. But not a metaphor
for my send-off at Plymouth Hoe. More friends and rellies than you could
shake a camera lens at, including a very pleasant photographer from the
Western Morning News. So off I jolly well set with my old chum Miki (yes,
he really is old) riding shotgun as far as the Torpoint ferry, which should
have been the first of three, but turned out to be two.

Dived in for a cheeky cuppa at Mount Edgcumbe with another old mucker,
Ian Berry. Cheers matey! Then on on past Napoleonic forts, an abbey, a
proper Rapunzel style castle, sundry ancient churches and another ferry. I
cheekily informed the ferryman that the Torpoint ferry was cheaper
(subsidised), and still blagged some money off him. Top man, but typical of
the generosity of all and sundry so far.

Tonight, a lamb tajine with Nige and Sarah down in Budock Water, near
Falmouth. Spoilt or what? Have done 110 miles today, a slow old job on the
little Cornish lanes. Today's best place names? A toss up between Trelispen
(which happens after too much St Austell ale) and Boswinger, where they
can't decide to complain or just enjoy it. Think about it...

[Several photos of the first day are up in the image gallery. -Ed.]

The big day has arrived!

Today Mike will be sent off on his epic journey at 10am on The Hoe, Plymouth. Be there or be square!

-Alice

Your Inventory is Full

Got up at 5.45 am to ride to the point to point course and light the fire pit for the hog roast. Fantastic, riding on deserted roads at dawn, with the promise of a beautiful day. Took me back to when I was a teenager, riding my first decent bike to my work cutting grass, leaving most days at 5. Everyone had a glorious day at the races, even those (like me) chained to a burger grill for hours. Finally got home at 8.30 pm, just in time for the traditional last minute packing panic. Actually, you have to focus on the essentials- have you got a bike, a wallet with some cash in it, a helmet and a phone? If the answer is yes, every other thing can be ignored, purchased or blagged. Guys riding round the world for years (read Mondo Enduro - inspiring) end up with one set of clothes, a bivvy sheet, a passport and a few tools. Simple. If our climate wasn't so unpredictable, and I had a bit more connection with the hair shirt philosophy of travelling, I guess I'd do likewise. But it all hurts a little bit too much in the morning when you're heading for The Golden Twilight Home for Old Bikers, ha ha.

With Apologies to Tim Berners-Lee & co.

Have spent today doing a last minute panic over missing/disfunctional/useless bits of gear. I'd like to have five minutes on my own in a soundproofed room with that clever chap that invented the T'internet, so I could conduct an interview without coffee or chair. It used to be that uncooperative pieces of equipment could be thrashed into acquiescence with the deft application of a sixteen ounce club hammer, but now all you can do is rail at the injustice and downright cruelty of the silicon chip...

On a far more positive note, we had a great little gathering last night at our local, the Walkhampton Inn, so thanks to Ali and Mike, the landlords. I was given some really generous donations too. This morning, some of my neighbours from over the road came and gave me another slab of cash, I am always so touched by people's generosity. Not that it ever gets in the news, "if it bleeds, it leads" is the mantra of our wonderful media these days. Well, we know better, eh?

Tomorrow I will be relaxing, ready for the off on Monday, by spending twelve hours manning a hog roast at our local point to point (Spooner's and West Dartmoor hunt, near Tavistock). So I'll be suitably greasy and yawning on Monday morning. Don't, whatever you do, hold that thought, boys and girls. Later...

Putting the T in Coast Rider (Glad there is one or that title would have fallen flat)

I've spent the last two days trying to cram all my gear into the panniers and top box. Can't be done, unless I just sleep under a bivvy sheet in all my clothes and no sleeping bag. So I've had to put on another bag at the back of the seat, which contains the vital brew kit and tools, amongst other things I completely forgot. Like a pair of shoes, doh!

Best discovery of the week? Squeezy tubes of condensed milk, thought you couldn't get it any more. I have fond memories of getting it in old style military compo rations, happy days, and extremely happy days for a long succession of dentists, too. Damn, that stuff is sweet! But it makes a cracking cup of tea. Can't function without tea, after all...

That's Enough Food for 2 Months, Right?

More images are up in the image gallery.

Continental Drift

I seemed to be in perpetual motion today. After a business meeting, I hustled down to Tyremarks to have the new tyres fitted - by the boss, Mark himself. I felt a bit guilty, as he'd been on a stag weekend, including getting epically filled in by his mates, whilst paintballing. He was limping like a good'un as he wrestled with a pair of chunky Continentals, ooerr. That's tyres, so calm down dears. Pausing only to correct a massive slide as I pulled out onto the main road, whoops, forgot that brand new tyres need a bit of scrubbing in before they grip properly, I dropped in on Amanda, who with her impeccable connections and formidable powers of persuasion, has seriously got this show on the road with - wait for it - over three grand raised so far. Go girl!

Then I dashed into Plymouth to the lovely people at Westcom, purveyors of all things techy, to collect an i-Phone and a Samsung Tablet with a groovy keyboard that you plug in, kind of thing. Sorry, not my strong suit. Now I have about two spare days to acquire the skills of a twelve year old, shouldn't be hard as I normally act my shoe size anyway...

Taking a few publicity shots down on the Barbican, Bob the MD did a comedy "glamour" pose. As he draped himself over the bike, an interesting sight, it nearly fell of its side stand, and for a moment it looked as if bike and Bob were going into Sutton Harbour, glug glug glug. How we laughed! Well, after a collective gasp of horror, anyway. More soon.

Upstaged but not Downtrodden

Parking up in a busy market town square (Tavistock, Devon) on a Saturday with a flashily stickered up motorbike in tow, and you'd think that you would have to beat back the adoring, donating, masses with a pointy stick. But it is my sad duty to inform you, dear reader, that this is not the case. Not far from me was a contingent from the Royal Marines Association, who have a far more urgent need than I, as they help bereaved families needing immediate financial support. Last tour of Afghanistan for 42 Commando equals 14 families. This may not sound like a lot, but is actually very poor odds. We're not told this, naturally, mustn't frighten the public, eh? I felt like a bit of a fraud next to the guys with medals and berets, but ploughed on as I was there and I knew some of them anyway.

Seven hours of handing out cards and plugging the cause brought a local press interview (good on you, Tavistock Times), sixty Blog cards dished out and about fifty quid in donations. The harder I work, the luckier I get, as Sinatra once said...

A Picture Paints a Thousand Words

Market Exhibitionism

Hooray, the boys did the graphics on the bike today, and it looks great. Many thanks to Dan and Ben at Tavy Signs. Have spent most of the evening preparing an info board for my appearance in front of the great Tavistock public tomorrow morning, which is possibly the first time that a motorbike has been in a Tavistock Market stall... I'm looking forward to the departure date of Monday week as I'll be spared the exhausting process of trying to earn a living AND get a million things ready all at once. Actually, I think I'll just ride down the road a bit on the day, and curl up in the bottom of a hedge for a jolly good sleep!

A Magic Picture Box

Have started to grapple with the joys of Satmap. For those who share my limited grasp of the world of electrickery, this is a small box containing all the Ordnance Survey maps of Britain, folded extremely tightly of course. Wherever you go, a little blob of blue in a blue circle follows you, like a clever but unimaginative collie . What is even cleverer is that the box of maps remembers exactly where you went (like your missus) and then you can save the route, or use it in reverse, or any manner of cunning tricks. The big idea is that I can follow a route around all the back roads near the coast, but can avoid the myriad of time consuming dead ends and the consequent torrent of vile language that will inevitably ensue. Although the technology is unimpeachably modern and of the moment, what slightly takes the shine off the deal are the failings of The Eyeball, Mark One. Either ride along peering through my famously reviled Ann Robinson specials, or run a screen scale so huge that you can only see about 100 yards of map in any direction, thus being unable to see whether the turning on the left past Mrs Miggins' cottage is a dead end or not. I bet it's easier in a Typhoon...