MISSION: - To go where no biker has gone before, to cross the seven suspension bridges of England, Scotland and Wales between 18^th and 21^st August to raise money for charity.

Whilst reading this article you should realise that I would never use ostentatious verbosity to emboss my name upon this article, to an extent which may have mere mortals reaching for their OED solely to appreciate a 'BIKE MAG'. I'm not saying that 'BIKE MAGS' shouldn't be flowery and articulate but it would help if the average journo realised that 'Thesaurus' isn't a breakfast cereal.

I took part in BIKE AID '90 to cosset my selfish love of motorcycles whilst benefiting several worthy charities, thus improving the public image of bikers.

Since this was my first charity ride I was not too adventurous and sponsorship forms were passed around friends and colleagues. Sponsorship from companies made the trip possible, i.e. ROVER Group, my employer at the time, paid my fuel expenses; AVON provided a set of ST radials; SCOTTOILER supplied enough oil for four tours and FRETTONS of Coventry fully serviced my VFR. Personnel sponsorship however, varied from generous, to: - '. . I'm not supporting a group of POOFY bikers with AIDS!!! Some companies had similarly bizarre respones to a sponsorship appeal : SHELL replied to our letter with the standard….'We gave already!'; KODAK said …'Don't call us, we'll call you!^' and Saddam Hussein said…..'I'd love to help, but there's a war on you know!

With all the sponsor logos tastefully applied to my billboard white VFR, I set the bike up as I like it, HARD & FAST. Then came the luggage consisting of throw-over panniers, a double tankbag, tent roll and camera tripod. I then attached my fiancée and set off for Melksham to get the Honda some new booties. Time dictated using the M5, which was predictably busy this murky Friday and not being the patient sort I claimed the title "Chief Cats' Eye Killer" What a YAWN!

The sight of Avon's sprawling factory prompted the question "Does it always rain down here?" During the pit stop Mr. Allan Blake, Director of the motorcycle division, came down to wish us well. As we left I knew straight away that it would be yet another account of the tyres' inspiring, faultless performance that would grace Mr. Blake's desk, in the near future. You just know when something is right.

Heading south, after skirting the pert backside of Bristol, I followed signs for the airport, as per our directions, until a sharp blow to the back of my Arai told me that :-
A) Joy was still onboard 
B) that she had spotted the campsite. 
Well, she only has to stay on and navigate, Right? ( Next year I'm taking my own bike! - Joy)

In my naivety I had expected to see hundreds of bikers, with tents, partying their pants off. Instead the site looked like a BMW owners club meet. One of the dedicated campers informed me that the discerning riders were in B&B's and making the most of company expenses. A slap to the forehead was irresistible!

As more bikes arrived so friends were easily made; Keith, a sales chap with CLEANAWAY (are they professional bank robbers?) lent me his 1990 VFR750 demonstrator. Later, as we strolled to a nearby pub, we agreed that the new model was a retrograde step and that the Sportmax's were the familiar Dunslips I had come to loathe. Why do they fit Porcelain tyres as OE ?

Bleary eyed the next morning, I discovered how much rain my tankbag and panniers could hold. Loads ! Having packed the sodden tent, we left the coffee-braced breakfasters for the delights of the M5 Gordano services, which was the official starting point and where the police escort rendezvous began.
 Pounds (sic) lighter, after a hearty breakfast, we joined the lorry park filling throng. The biker's equivalent of a canine botty sniffing session revealed nothing spectacular, Japs, Krauts and a Duke or Hog thrown in for taste.

Beelzebub's outriders appeared and got everyone into formation, before leading us towards Bristol as if roundabouts and traffic lights were just not there. I've never had a police escort from the front before! The threatening clouds held off as the boys in blue hustled us to the Clifton Suspension Bridge. 

For their pains we brought the traffic to a standstill as a frantic photo session began, the bridge is only small and we were 'moved on' before the chaos got out of hand. We streamed towards the M5 as the flashing blue lights, typically, diminished in my mirrors.

In a vain attempt to avoid the same pandemonium at the Severn Bridge I pressed on, leaving the pack to take photos of each other hence I hit the toll booths first but needn't have rushed. 

They waved me through onto the 998 metre, road work covered, span of the bridge, only to exit cursing onto the M4 north bound. The 'fantastic' lane markings had done me a favour because, as I found out later, the Welsh had decided to store their 'EEC gravel mountain' on the designated route. How are your belly pans, boys and girls? Lovely bit of road, that A446, eh?

I was initially upset by the slight detour to Monmouth, until I learned about the resurfaced A446. Back on the 'Interesting Route' I was unable to restrain the VFR as the ST's were now fully scrubbed in. Consequently the race for that most precious commodity, Unleaded, was lost between Llangurig and Llanidloes when I ran out of fuel three miles from the next station. How twisty are your lanes, Boyo? Having hitched a lift I was back with fuel an hour later and after stopping shortly after to refuel properly we were off again, pursuing the few comrades that had caught us ( well Joy at least ) napping. Yes, I know it wasn't a race, but if I had travelled with these guys the VFR would return 70 MPG and old Saddam's war effort would be lacking funds! 

On reaching Port-Mad-Dog, starving, we passed some guys making a pathetic attempt to coax 5p toll from us in our huge gloves. Sorry pal I'll owe you one, and instead of slowing just began to pile on the coals.

Clive 'I had footrest rubbers before I came to Wales' Burrow, made me feel guilty for stopping, by hounding us from here to Inverness on his GN250 Suzuki. He would appear within minutes of us stopping for a photo, a leak or whatever, and go sailing by with a cheery wave and roadrunner style 'MEEP MEEP'. That's determination, I think!

Plotting a course for Anglesey, we ravaged the improving scenery, passing Clive on route, until we were rewarded by the sight of the Menai Straits Bridge.  

This lovely bridge, built by Thomas Telford in the early 19^th century, is set in breath taking scenery, and links Anglesey with the mainland. In spite of the original 30,000 tons of iron chain being replaced by contemporary cables, the character remains intact as do the original stone towers.
We were joined by the only trailer pulling entrant and inevitably Clive, so we took our cue to blasted due east for Conway. Sighting Edward 1^st's Taffy bashing ' castle we realised that the bridge was covered with scaffolding. 

Come back in '92! You must be joking! Over the top lads! Having scrambled through the wire and tripped over the 'No Entry' signs a few of us had a closer look at Telford's minor masterpiece, or what we could see of it, obviously inspired by the Menai. 
Before being asked we departed to find a fallen comrade, looking pretty sorry for himself. I guess GPX's don't like these Sportmax things as much as I thought.."I could have told you that, pal!"

The gathering clouds curtailed commiserations so we sought Mold in Clwyd, as per the notes and only found the campsite thanks to local directions and yes, Joy's navigating.

Once there we joined in with the general condemnation of the 'Route Master General'. What's that saying about urinating in a distillery? Whinging over, we set about tripling the local Newky Brown stockist's annual taking before bedtime. How wet? I've never had to put my Rukkas on just to answer nature before!

In the morning we were grateful to momma nature for demonstrating the sieve like qualities of our tent, probably due to rolling it up while still wet the day before. 

Once again we left the breakfast crews to it. Thankfully, we were not first away as the couple that were began an arm waving party at the first roundabout of the day. Spilt diesel had forced their BMW K75 into early retirement and gave us the perfect chance to stop, chat and take photos, oh goody! The 'Little Thief' robbed just about everyone blind before the drizzle and cars, yes - I've discovered their purpose, dispersed enough of the offending fluid for us to carefully continue on our way. Not wishing to be the next victim, of this damp and dreary day, we used the motorway network to circumnavigate Manchester and it's collection of diesel-strewn roads.

Having made up lost time we left the M56 ( M is for Monotonous ) and then took the A628 where I let the Avon's take the strain, while the VFR's crew of two absorbed the scenery and the man upstairs opened the heavens to cloak the Pennine view. Superb. We caught and passed both BMW teams, the 'A' team - map writers and followers and the 'B' team - route losers and rabble, before leaving the 'Peak District National Park and Race Way'. I mean, come on chaps, it's only raining not bloody snowing!!

The Humber Bridge viewing site gave us the chance to stash the Rukkas and demist the Minolta as the weather improved and the rain was pushed out to sea by a stiff breeze. The same 'sidewind' made the Humber feel like the longest single span bridge in the world. 
This marvel of 21^st century engineering had a very short reign as the world's longest suspension bridge before the Japs broke with tradition a short time later, to make one bigger. Swine! Not only did they take the title but they also spoilt my favourite joke - The British make the best lovers, but the Japanese make them smaller and cheaper! Having grudgingly paid the only toll of the entire trip we crossed with my left pannier dragging on the floor due to the cross wind, and headed into Hull to see my Uncle Harold, a self employed haulage contractor extraordinaire.

His opinion on diesel spillage was straightforward, "it's a mixture of poor design and lack of maintenance. Diesel tank flanges invariably point forward where they are blasted by road grit, left unattended the seam rusts and splits releasing gallons of biker's nightmare. To my knowledge the Volvo range are the worst culprits.." Straight up! Fortified by a proper cup of tea and with his expert route guidance we set off, somewhat paranoid, avoiding damp patches en route. Thanks Uncle!

Passing through York, just for the architecture, (A Shame it was all blurred - Joy), we took the A1 north in an attempt to catch Clive and spent the duration fighting off a severe case of the nods. Boring or what!!?? Lead Eyelid Alley. The A68 was just what the doctor ordered, snaking through the woods around Bishop Auckland my thoughts turned away from unmarked police cars and dialled in fun factor 10. 

All too soon we were at Witton Castle caravan and camping site which is set in the expansive grounds of the beautifully preserved castle. There was a pub, restaurant, bingo hall, the works. 
Such a shame we couldn't stay awake long enough to empty the cold shelf. A peaceful night was spoilt by the high winds and 'Coffin Collin' in the next tent. Together they were doing a brilliant impression of a bloody jet taking off whilst suffering from an intermittent fuel supply!

Needless to say we rose early, too damn early, and set off in search of Scotland or breakfast which ever appeared first. Across the Northumberland National Park the A68 did a fabulous impression of a Big Dipper while warning signs proclaimed "Please drive carefully. 92 accidents in the last 3 years. Unmarked police cars patrolling the area." All I can say is they must have been disguised as trees because nothing bar the stiff cross winds hampered my progress. Sure, the view was nice, but inedible so we pressed on. At the border we stopped to take the inevitable photo of the lump of rock that proclaims SCOTLAND in large white letters. Shame it wasn't closer to home because  the view of the Cheviots is well worth shifting your border for. Maybe that is what Edward 1^st tried to tell the Haggis Bashers and just look at the trouble he had inviting them into the United Kingdom afterwards. Stubborn these Scots.

Clive's arrival was our cue to move on and think of breakfast. Like soon! Severe hunger pains coincided with Jedburgh and after a quick look around the Abbey ruins I consented to eat.

Having forgotten we were now in the land of the men with long thin willies, (Why do Scotsmen have long thin Willies? Because they are tight fisted) I also forgot that there is nothing like a fair exchange. £7 for bacon & eggs twice, is no fair exchange. Being English we didn't complain, we darn not ! The waitress was an incarnation of Giant Haystacks!

As we left, the cobbled streets, I subconsciously started cruising at 20 mph. I guess the survival instinct was still working back then. Once on tarmac again I unleashed the VFR and within an hour the hustle and bustle of Edinburgh reminded me that it must be Monday morning. Had I realised this earlier the city centre would have been given a miss as it had all the charms of Paris in rush hour. GIVE WAY TO THE BIGGEST! I  struggled to follow the Forth Road Bridge signs which tried to lose us as we snaked through the congested streets. I was concentrating on the bedlam all around whilst listening for her screams . Right at this one, left at the lights etc, while keeping those huge lorry wheel nuts from collecting my own! I cursed all the way through, until the sight of the unmistakable rail bridge relaxed the pressure on Joy somewhat.

The road bridge was much the same as the Humber in design so they had to build that ugly scrap pile of a rail bridge next door, just so people could distinguish between them, Why else would anyone in their right mind build such a monstrosity? 
Over we went in blustery fashion and jumped straight onto the M9O. That's all you can say about this boring high road, until we were past Perth where it changed to the A9. Good trick that, I almost missed it. It's as equally sleep inducing, with the same breakneck speeds and a similar proliferation of low profile police cars.

The appearance of these contemptuous contraptions prompted a detour via the lochs and as we turned onto the A86 west the roads glistened, not with rain - not yet, but with quartz bearing 'Shellgrip'. A discovery that ranks with the invention of The Pill in my book. This road, shown as a straight line on the map, should bear a mental health warning: It's so grippy, so twisty and so empty you would be crazy to miss it. Only the irresistible view of a rainbow over Loch Laggan (yes it was raining again) could get me to pull over. I went rooting about through the catch fences along the bank, in search of that elusive view, while a very dizzy Joy found the only call box for miles so that her sister could confirm that she was now officially 'Auntie Joy'. The celebrations consisted of the emergency Mars bar and Coca Caffeine stash but was sadly cut short by a further deluge and had to wait until we hit Spean Bridge where we eventually outran the weather. The Avon shod Honda never asked to slow, let alone stop, despite the intermittent downpours and the limits of the ST's remained uncharted. Amen.

The war memorial to the Commandos was a perfect vantage point for Big Ben and friends begging a turn in front of the lens. So until the heavens opened once more, the bike had to be patient. Splashing our way further north, eager to experience the 'NESSY' legend, the miles scenery and trees (I'm sure that one was holding a radar gun) flashed by until we found ourselves doing battle with the Caravan Club's finest. Then we knew we'd arrived.

Exploiting my obvious advantage over these articulated road blocks, I had to resort to some Kamikaze tactics in the name of progress. Avoiding them wing mirrors isn't easy! Thankfully the Shellgrip outlasted the trail of 'Camper, Motorhome and Moron' subscribers, pretty much all the way to Inverness.

Christ, are we here already? The search began for, and I quote, 'the strongest and most beautiful bridge that you will see'. 

After being convinced by locals that the pathetic tube structure we had parked adjacent to was in fact "The Kessock, Aye" only a final photo session stood between us and the campsite, so then it rained just to add some atmosphere. 

We got the tent up for the last time just before the main downpour, thankful that we had the procedure off pat by now. During the deluge we witnessed Clive on his trusty GN250  just pip the 'A' team to the finish banner. Good show old boy.

Unable to sit still, I obliged Jeff - canny like like - in a 'Speedo calibration run', no one believed the speeds he was portraying for his Loch road exploits on his ageing GSXllOO and whilst out splashing about we came upon the 'B' team in typical pose, maps out in a lay-by, all pointing in different directions. I led them back to camp, YAWN, while Jeff shot off well pleased with himself for "holding me off on the return run". Sorry Jeff I wasn't trying!

Tales of bravado were swapped in the vain search for an obliging local, a pub that is. We got all the updates on 'missing in action' types, including the Duke with a broken chain, the BMW firebug who lost a bike in the process of rewiring his indicator bleeper, and the chap on a GSX6OO, a friend of the Sportmax shod GPX, who tried the Diesel trick for himself and lost,  just like the BMW before him. 
The most remarkable finish must go to Ian Wallace on his A65 Beezer, still looks like a Tiger to me, who did more miles than anyone by turning back half way to take in a BSA owners club rally. He even beat the 'A' team. Boy, them guys sure know how to show a BMW a good time.

The sense of achievement was reserved for completing the return to Coventry without any Volvo Vaulting practice or collecting any 'Piggy Points'. Nothing could have kept us from that glorious double divan as even the finite void between us and home closed to nothing, thanks to the irrepressible V4 when in Space Folding mode.

The upshot of all this was £400 towards BIKE AID for
Children in Need, Guide dogs, Downs Syndrome and an equal amount to the Royal Air Force Benevolent fund donated by British Aerospace through the 'Professor Smith Challenge'. Not bad for a weekend away, living the life I love. Rain and all.

I hope everyone enjoyed the event, as much as we did and got home safely. I look forward to hearing the amount raised as with 150 riders involved I expect the final result will far exceed the previous years total.

Thanks to all my sponsors, see you next year! ! ! ! !