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BLACK SIDE DOWN The call of the road.

BIG SUR ON A VINCENT

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A 1950 Vincent Rapide and the Big Sur Highway offer the best of two worlds: a classic bike and a classic road.

DESTINATIONS: ARCHES NATIONAL PARK

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Best of the West: Riding in Arches National Park in Utah.

THE ROAD GOES ON FOREVER: EXPLORING THE TEXAS HILL COUNTRY Discovering the great roads of the Texas Hill Country on a 1975 Norton Commando 850 and a 1948 Vincent Rapide.

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VINTAGE TOURING, ITALIAN STYLE Exploring the heart of Italy on vintage Benellis with the keepers of the Benelli flame from Registro Storico Benelli.

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HIPPIE HIGHWAY: ISTANBUL TO KATHMANDU Writer Clement Salvadori tracks his memorable 1973 trip riding the Hippie Highway aboard a 1972 BMW R75/5.

THE CASCADE MOUNTAINS BY COMMANDO

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SCRAP HEAP CHALLENGE: DEATH VALLEY It takes a peculiar kind of faith to ride a vintage Dunstall Norton across Death Valley. Writer Phillip Tooth tells the tale.

WILD IN CORSICA There may be no better way to plunge into the wild heart of the Mediterranean island of Corsica than on a classic motorcycle.

REDNECK GYRO Five Italian classics hit the back roads of West Virginia. It may not be Italy, but the bikes and the roads are bellissimo!

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THE HONEYMOON RIDE

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RIDING ACROSS AUSTRALIA

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PARTING SHOTS: A MAN, A BOY AND A 1928 NORTON

MOTO THERAPY A $50 1964 Yamaha 125 Santa Barbara YA6 and a dream that wouldn’t quit.

CRAZY GRINGOS Life and motorcycles become one as four friends explore Central and South America aboard four mid-1980s Kawasaki 550s.

THE ANNIVERSARY RIDE One couple spends 22 days touring the United States (and a bit of Canada) on a 1974 Suzuki GT750 Water Buffalo.

A pair of newlyweds venture from Los Angeles, California, across the desert and on to Utah, Wyoming, and eventually Chicago, Illinois, aboard a pair of 1973 Hondas, a CB750 and a CB350.

Way back in 1987, writer Neale Bayly and friend Karen McIntyre loaded their gear aboard a new-to-them 1982 Yamaha XV1000 and headed out for a lap of Australia.

Most people wouldn’t think of touring on a 1928 Norton Model 18 — let alone with their 10-year-old son on board. Writer Phillip Tooth is not most people.

Writer Robert Smith tours the volcanoes of Washington state aboard his trusty 1974 Norton Commando.

DESTINATIONS: COLUMBIA RIVER GORGE Exploring Oregon’s incredible Columbia River Gorge National Scenic Area.

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ISLE OF MAN: A RECIPE FOR ADVENTURE

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HERE GOES SOMETHING

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Editor-in-chief Richard Backus and 13 intrepid Motorcycle Classics readers travel to the Isle of Man Classic TT on vintage bikes.

3,754 miles and 38 days on a 1973 Honda CB750.

CLEMENT SALVADORI

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A PERFECT PAIR Riding California’s Big Sur Coast on a Vincent Rapide

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Story and photos by Clement Salvadori

A 1950 Vincent and the Big Sur Highway offer the best of two worlds: a classic bike and a classic road.

Both the motorcycle and the road are reminiscent of a calmer, quieter, almost magical time before the advent of hyperperformance engines and broad, featureless freeways. The magic of a Vincent is undeniable, and the Big Sur has more than a bit of magic about it, especially when ridden in the cool light of early morning. The fact that this semi-wild place, El Sur Grande, The Big South, as the Spanish in Monterey called it 200 years ago, even exists in the 21st century is attributable in equal parts to Mother Nature for the original concept and to the farsightedness of a few people for its preservation.

Not all that much has changed in the Big Sur in the past 50 or so years, and the reality of those 100 thin miles of asphalt, from the Carmel River in the north to Cambria in the south, is that this is one of the most dramatic rides in the U.S. of A., as close to two-wheeled heaven as one can find here on earth. Riding it on the Vincent makes it doubly so.

The Vincent Series C The Series C Vincent is one of the most famous motorcycles ever built, and riding a properly restored one can be heavenly.

By the standards of 1950, the Vincent was an exceptional machine. The 998cc, 50-degree V-twin put out between 45 and 55 horsepower, depending on the state of tune (Rapide or Black Shadow). It was easily capable of exceeding “the ton,” as the Brits referred to the then-magical 100mph mark.

The owner of the Vincent for our ride is John Laughney. John, who considers him-

self merely the current caretaker of this Vincent, firmly believes that motorcycles of all ages are to be ridden, not put up on a mantelpiece. He had lusted after a Vincent for 20 years, but always found the cost prohibitive. Finally he came to the sensible awareness that the price would never go down, and better to buy sooner rather than later. Bought in 1993, John’s 1950 Series C Rapide model had led a strenuous life, including racing in Vintage classes. But John’s relaxation comes from restoring elderly, abused bikes, and spare parts for such a well-known marque are readily available. All the job requires is a good set of Whitworth tools, mechanical competency, and many, many hours to devote to the task.

John’s garage is home to several Laverdas, a Velocette Venom, a /5 BMW (all in excellent repair) and two newish Ducatis that he and his wife ride. Trained as an old-school philosopher specializing in 19th century German phenomenology, John is a man of many skills.

He and his brother own a factory that manufactures essential, but unromantic, plastic products. He is also a connoisseur

1950 VINCENT SERIES C RAPIDE Years produced Total production Claimed power Top speed Engine type

Weight (wet)

1949-1955 2,758 45hp @ 5,300rpm 120mph (est.)

998cc overhead valve, air-cooled 50-degree V-twin 455lb (206kg)

Price then

$1,250

Price now

$40,000-$90,000

MPG

50-60

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The Vincent’s license plate pays homage to owner John Laughney’s love of wine. The bike’s “Chinese Red” paint was a Vincent option.

The Rapide’s Girdraulic front suspension is a complicated combination of link-type girder forks, soft compression springs hidden in the long skinny tubes seen aft of the girders, and a single, hydraulically damped shock absorber behind the headlight. This arrangement was claimed to be superior to the often overly flexible telescoping forks that the other British manufacturers were offering at the time, especially when it came to bolting a sidecar to the Vincent.

Philip Vincent took sidecarring quite seriously, designing the forks so the rake and trail can be adjusted to compensate for the addition of a third wheel. The rear triangulated suspension has what appears at a glance to be twin shock absorbers beneath the seat, but they are merely concealing simple, undamped springs, with a hydraulic damper in between. This was definitely a move up from Triumph’s sprung hub and BSA’s plunger frame, but has its limitations. Hit the right number of bumps at the wrong angle and the Rapide is quite capable of bouncing clean off the road: John knows.

We pass the Henry Miller Museum, which sits in the shade of large trees.

The author of Tropic of Cancer and Tropic of Capricorn lived out here from 1944 to 1962,

and one of the many books he wrote is titled Big Sur. A little beyond is the driveway to Nepenthe, a restaurant overlooking the ocean and certainly worth a stop. The place opened in 1950 and has the most magnificent views of the coast, presuming you’re there on a clear day.

Soon we are in the middle of the village of Big Sur, which has a dozen motels and campgrounds, including the lodge at Pfeiffer-Big Sur State Park. This is where, 100 years ago, all the Big Sur development actually began, with entrepreneurs building hunting and vacation lodges.

The only problem was that the road from Monterey was rough and often impassable in the winter. A request was made to the state in 1915 to improve the road for tourism, but little happened until the U.S. entered World War I. Then the savvy gents rewrote the need for a good road, saying it was for national defense. Money was allocated in 1919, but progress was slow until FDR’s program to combat the Depression came into effect.

Continuing north, we arrive at the Andrew Molera State Park, at the mouth of the Big Sur River. Highway 1 continues through an open coastal plain, and fourth gear is spinning fast as the road crosses

“ … this is one of the most dramatic rides in the U.S. of A., as close to two-wheeled heaven as one can find here on Earth.”

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over the Little Sur bridge and up towards Hurricane Point. A rider’s enthusiasm for speed is tempered only by the fact that the concrete railings on the bridge look awfully solid.

The rush up the flank of Sierra Hill is a wiggly bit, but has good, smooth pavement, topping out at Hurricane Point.

Pulling off at the Vista Point we look down to Bixby Bridge, made minorly famous as the opening scene in the television series Then Came Bronson. The Rapide would have eaten Bronson’s Sportster for a mid-morning snack. When the bridge, an innovative concrete span, opened in 1937, it was the completion of the last link between Cambria and Carmel.

After Bixby Bridge the Cabrillo Highway smoothes out a little. We are getting back into what loosely passes for civilization, here called Carmel Highlands.

Beyond the Highlands is Point Lobos State Reserve, where entrance by car or motorcycle is strictly limited. However, you can park by the road and walk in.

We pass a last open meadow and drop down to Carmel River State Beach. Cross the Carmel River on a flat bridge, and the choice is to stay in Carmel, or gas up and head back. A Vincent can cover those 100 miles rather rapidly. MC

The hotel at Lucia, 25 miles south of Big Sur.

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ARCHES NATIONAL PARK, UTAH

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ed rock formations, landscapes that are the stuff of science fiction and an overall aura of breathtaking beauty best describe Arches National Park. Perhaps overlooked as a result of being less well-known and farther from the West Coast than the big name national parks (Zion, Bryce Canyon and the Grand Canyon), Arches is every bit as beautiful as its more popular big brothers.

Tucked away in Utah’s southeastern corner right on the Colorado River (and just minutes outside of Moab), you know you’re entering a special place as you approach this 120-squaremile patch of nature’s artistic endeavors. Stunning, visually arresting and dramatic are the appropriate adjectives. As you ride southeast on US 191, combinations of red, pink and light sandy-brown rock formations start to appear sporadically, and then become more frequent as you approach the magical mesas of Arches National Park. As you near the entrance just west of the Colorado River, you are suddenly surrounded by cliffs whose clarity is intensified by the contrast between their crimson walls and Utah’s bright blue skies. The ride in just gets better and better until there are 1,000-foot vertical red walls on either side of US 191. There’s only one way in to Arches National Park and it climbs sharply as soon as you pay the $15 motorcycle entrance fee. As of Oct. 1, 2015, the National Park Service raised the motorcycle entrance fee to $15 per bike, per person, so a rider and passenger will cost $30 to enter.

This national park is named for its arches, but there are many other formations of note. One of the most dramatic is Balanced Rock, so named because of the house-sized boulder perched precariously on a stone tower. It appears as if the Almighty

himself plucked it up and delicately balanced it on an oversized golf tee. Dr. Suess-like geologic formations abound, with shapes ranging from poured molten plastic to giant file folders to, of course, the arches. The most stunning of these is Delicate Arch.

Delicate Arch is not visible from the road and you have to make a demanding hike to see it, but it’s worth it.

Arches National Park was named a national monument in 1929, and then designated as a national park in 1971. The geology that created this jewel is even more complex than the intricacies of the U.S. government, and it took eons to create this masterpiece. Arches National Park sits on an underground salt bed thousands of feet deep, formed over 300 million years ago when an ancient sea evaporated. Sediments then swept over the area, compressing the salt bed and forcing buried rock formations to emerge. Throw in a couple hundred million years of erosion and the result is what you see today. Human habitation in this region goes back a scant 10,000 years. Pueblo Native Americans settled in the region about 700 years ago. They were followed by the Paiute and Ute tribes and then Spanish explorers in the 1700s. Mormons unsuccessfully attempted to make a home here in the mid-1800s. By that time, the word was out: The beauty of this area was unparalleled. The history is interesting, but the real story is the park’s incredible (and incredibly colorful) geology.

The only issue is where to stay. Nearby Moab, a tourist town just minutes to the south along US 191, was disappointing. If there’s a reasonably priced hotel or good restaurant in town, we didn’t find it. Your best bet is to stay in one of the hotels outside of town, but even those are pricey. — Joe Berk

THE SKINNY What: Arches National Park, Utah. It’s one of the most beautiful places on the planet.

How to Get There: Grab I-70 from either the east or the west, and then take US 191 south.

Best Kept Secret: Arches National Park itself. I’m embarrassed to admit I knew very little about it until this visit. This destination belongs on your list. It’s magnificent.

Avoid: Going into the park without water and suitable attire, especially if you plan to do any hiking (it gets mighty hot out there), walking off the designated trails (the soil’s crust consists of algae, cyanobacteria, lichens and fungi that reportedly take decades to recover after being crushed by our Buster Browns) and rolling into Moab without a hotel reservation.

More Info: nps.gov/arch/index.htm

Incredible (and incredibly colorful) formations are everywhere. www.MotorcycleClassics.com

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VINTAGE TOURING, ITALIAN STYLE The Benelli Vintage Tour

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Story and photos by Richard Backus

A typical motorcycle tour goes from A to B, and in between is the territory you cover, whizzing past you then quickly receding in your rearview mirror.

It’s a familiar recipe, but it doesn’t leave much opportunity to be a tourist, to really get familiar with an area, which is exactly why Eligio Arturi put together the Benelli Vintage Tour.

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Tales from the Road

A native Italian, Arturi ran sailing trips in the Mediterranean and Land Rover expeditions across North Africa before BMW hired him to lead adventure motorcycle tours in the early 1990s.

The BMW linkup inspired Arturi, an avid motorcyclist, to focus on motorcycle tours, and since forming MotoTouring (Mototouring .com) in 1994 he’s led rides across South Africa, Morocco, New Zealand, South America, Japan, Singapore and more.

A vintage bike fan, Arturi decided to tailor a tour of Italy for the vintage crowd, combining classic Italian bikes with classic Italian countryside. For bikes, he turned to the Registro Storico Benelli, literally “Register Historical Benelli.” It’s the official Benelli club, located in the sole surviving workshop of the original Benelli factory in Pesaro, Italy. Club members agreed to provide machines, and in 2013 Arturi held the first Benelli Vintage Tour.

That first tour’s success prompted a second, and when former

Lotus Tours operator Burt Richmond got involved he convinced me — and by extension another 14 enthusiasts and Motorcycle Classics readers — to fly to Italy to ride vintage Benellis.

Getting acquainted An afternoon arrival found our group getting settled into our home for the next 10 days, the Alexander Museum Palace Hotel, a quirky art-themed hotel in Pesaro’s resort district on the shores of the Adriatic Sea. The evening was spent at the Benelli club meeting our guides and getting acquainted with our bikes, which ranged from a Sixties Benelli 250 Sport Special single to a pair of Seventies 6-cylinder 750 Sei’s. In between was a smorgasbord of vintage Benellis, including mid-‘70s 500cc Quattros and 250cc 2-stroke twins, a 1971 650 Tornado twin, plus an early ‘80s 354 (350cc, 4-cylinders) and 654 (same logic). Also available were a late model Ducati ST2 and a 1957 Ducati 250 single.

Most in our group were lifelong riders, like 53-year-old Portland, Washington, fire fighter Tim O’Mahony, a regular in the West Coast CB160 race scene who has ridden since he was a kid, and 60-year-old Chicago-based business man Sam Oliva, a street rider since 16. Riders were assigned bikes based on preference, which is how I ended up with a lovely 1975 500cc Quattro, mechanically an almost perfect clone of a Honda 500cc four.

With Quattros rare as the proverbial Hen’s teeth in the U.S., what better opportunity? Besides, swapping bikes during the ride was encouraged, so I was sure to get some saddle time on a big Sei. After meeting our bikes’ owners and receiving a full rundown on

our machines we headed back to the hotel, psyched for the next day out on the road.

The first thing we discover is that riding in Italy is not like riding in the U.S. For starters, Italian drivers aren’t scared of motorcycles. Motorcycles and scooters are the norm, so drivers just expect you to be there — unlike in the U.S., where drivers seem dangerously unaware of motorcycles. It’s a little terrifying at first, because you’re not sure what to trust; your instincts or the body language of the cars around you. After a bit, a basic rule comes into focus: If there is a void in traffic, it will be filled — either by you or the driver next to you, but it will be filled. That means when there’s a break in traffic and you take it, nobody’s surprised.

Nobody flips you the bird. Nobody acts like you came out of nowhere. You filled the void.

It takes a bit to learn this, however, and as our group heads out for our first full day we’re all leerily watching traffic. Our Benelli club guides leapfrog our group as we work our way through the dense traffic of Pesaro into the open countryside, jumping up front to stop traffic when we go through the ubiquitous Italian roundabout then dropping back to cover our rear. Amazingly, most drivers obey our guides when they pull into the middle of an intersection to stop traffic, their bright orange vests lending them apparent authority.

Our first stop is the ancient walled town of Urbino and the incredible Palazzo Ducale, a 15th century palace fortress and site of the Urbino Cathedral. We’ve only had to ride some 40 miles to get here, but it’s been the perfect introduction to our old Benellis www.MotorcycleClassics.com

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CHAIN OF FIRE Exploring Washington’s famous volcanoes by Norton

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Story and photos by Robert Smith

The Blue Ridge Parkway. Skyline Boulevard. Deal’s Gap. America’s best motorcycling is in its mountains, so it follows there must be some great riding in the “American Alps” — the Cascade Mountains of Washington state. I found wonderful winding roads, snowy peaks, beautiful vistas and great pavement. What’s not to like? Not much, as long as the volcanoes I’ve come to visit stay dormant for the length of my tour.

Baker The northernmost U.S. volcano in the “chain of fire” that runs from Mount Lassen in California to Mount Garibaldi in British Columbia, Baker is a relative “shorty” at just over 10,700 feet. But ris-

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pin bends, many of which turn close to 270 degrees as they wind in and Seattle 203 out of the canyons. It’s a technical Snoqualmie Snoqualmie ride: Though the surface is generally 169 good, some corners are coated with WA S H I N G TO N Enumclaw Enumclaw treacherous gravel dust, and rivulets Mount cross the road around blind bends.

Rainier Discretion demands I take a leisurely 14,411ft 123 706 Mount Aix ride, letting the Commando’s low12 Morton down torque pull me through the Morton 12 bends.

25 I’m soon at the snow line, and Mount Mount Adams St. Helens though there’s no snow on the pave8,363ft 90 ment, the white stuff is piled high 503 Woodland Woodland along the roadside, even though it’s late July. Last winter presented a bonus snow pack, and a cool spring ing from close to sea level, it presents an has delayed the melt. I stop to gaze down imposing bulk on the skyline. at the twisting tarmac below doubling Washington’s state Route 542 meanback along the mountainside. It is chilly ders through the forest alongside the at the crest, and a roadside lake still has churning Nooksack River, swollen with ice at its edges, but the air is tingly fresh snow melt, before starting a twisting and the sky indigo blue. ascent. The road switchbacks along the Rolling back down the hill proves mountain face in a hectic series of hair… interesting. I’m used to allowing

Tales from the Road

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I swing my trusty 1974 Norton Commando into the parking lot of a gas station-cum-country store in Maple Falls, Wash., looking for my first caffeine fix of the day. I’ve just crossed the border from Abbotsford, British Columbia, Canada, and as ever, I’m bemused by how rural northwest Washington is compared with the industrial suburbs I’ve left behind. Behind me lies metro Vancouver, a sprawling city of two million people; to the east, less than 50 miles away, is Mount Baker, an 11,000-foot snow clad “dormant” volcano.

A tired and crusty minivan pulls alongside, trailing blue smoke and tottering on its mix of three regular tires and one worn out undersize spare. A trio of mongrels in the back bark cheekily at me, feeling secure behind the glass. Morning sun is streaking through the dense evergreens as I sip my coffee. Baker is the first of three mountains the Commando and I will scale this weekend, and I have at least 800 miles to cover. Time to get moving!

the Commando’s considerable Continuing south, Route engine-braking to slow me down, 9 weaves and bucks its way The frolic continues as I push the but the thin air near the crest around lakes and creeks brimCommando further into the turns, reduces this effect noticeably ming with the Cascades’ snow and I’m forced to use the brakes melt. It’s a rollicking ride, and using its big, lazy torque and more. No problem, though, as I’ll confess to a few illegalNorton fitted the excellent passing maneuvers in the heat considerable engine drag to control Lockheed front disc to all postof the fun. The Commando my speed. Brakes are for wusses!

1971 Commandos: It’s effective really settles in at this fastand fade free. er pace: The Isolastic system Back at forest level, the road smooths out engine vibration swings lazily along, and I’m able to give cycle store I know called Scooter Stuff. above 2,800rpm, and the slick-shifting the Commando her head. I’ve completeThe shop seems to survive by selling four-speed tranny (one up, three down ly refurbished the swingarm bushings coffee and “loud pipes save lives” type — on the right!) makes great use of the and Isolastic mounts (both sources of decals, but they also carry Amsoil 20-50 torque.

Commando steering problems), and with synthetic, which is my Norton’s lifeblood.

South of Arlington, Route 9 becomes the relatively lazy steering geometry this Back on Route 9, I’m rolling south just another commuter road in the makes for rock-steady handling. toward Sedro-Woolley, an old fashioned “Pugetropolis,” as locals call Seattle I turn south on state Route 9, runWashington lumber town, its broad and its satellites. I’m looking for a road ning parallel to Interstate 5 south toward streets of rustic houses gathered around that will take me through the Cascade Seattle. Rambling through farmland, the mill. With the decline of the lumber foothills, avoiding the urban grind, and winding and twisting as I go, it is the industry, the town is reinventing itself as a these are at a premium. Jordan Road antithesis of interstate riding. I need to provisioning stop at the start of the North spins south to Granite Falls, joining the buy some oil, so I turn east on Lake Cascades Highway, one of five major pass resort communities along the Snohomish Whatcom Road to a little country motorroads through the Washington Cascades.

River. It’s another high-spirited romp, the www.MotorcycleClassics.com

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The famed Creg-ny-Baa pub on the back side of Mount Snaefell (left), and our group getting ready for the return ferry.

A sea of bikes at the Festival of Jurby. The parking lot was a show in itself.

coffee. It’s been overcast since morning, and the mood suits the location, the castle ruins set against a gray sky, an empty, craggy coastline stretching to the south.

Leaving Peel, we head south through bucolic farmland and the villages of Glenmaye and Dalby before turning east, the road now taking us through a heather moorland — a peat bog — before rising to the top of Dalby Mountain, the barren, almost purplish landscape oddly contrasted by a plantation of green conifers. Surreally beautiful, it’s almost disappointing when the road starts dropping back toward the lowlands and the coastal village of Port Erin, where we stop for lunch.

Leaving Port Erin, the 1970 MV Agusta 350 I’ve been riding stalls and refuses to start. A few of the group stick with me as Eligio and the rest head out, and by the time I get the MV moving the rest of the group is … gone. But we know he’s heading for Castletown, the Manx capital until 1869, when that title was assumed by Douglas, and eventually we find the road to Castletown and a few miles later the rest of our group, who

stopped, wondering where we were.

The day is starting to wear on all of us, so after a break for coffee in the shadow of the magnificent medieval Castle Rushen, we saddle up for the last leg of our ride back to Douglas.

Too short Wednesday, our last day on the Isle, comes too quickly. A few get up in time to make a final run of the course before the Junior Manx GP, but I decide to just relax, meeting up with tech editor Keith Fellenstein and his wife, Elaine, for breakfast. The pair made the trek separately, but as luck would have it we ended up — with absolutely no planning — in the same hotel. On the same floor. Across the hall.

Keith and Elaine were here for the 2014 Classic TT on a rented BMW, but this time they’re travelling by foot and local bus or tram, experiencing the Isle from a different perspective. And with no bike, there’s more opportunity to savor the fine beers and local cuisine. Brilliant.

A few of us make our way to Quarter Bridge for the Junior a few more minor issues, but eventually find our way to our Manx GP, riding there via Peel Road to the backside of the interhotel in Windsor, most of us now a little road weary after a section, where we simply park our bikes in the lot next to the full week on two wheels and almost happy to get off our bikes.

Quarter Bridge Pub, walk in, grab a pint, After a quick rest and change of clothes, and then back outside to watch the action. we gather for a final dinner and farewell.

Unbelievable.

Reliving the past week, we’re all revelling Aites and I make one last run to in the experience. It’s been the realizaCreg-ny-Baa, then head to the harbor to tion of a dream for every one of us, and join the others for the ferry back. There, we’re basking in the fresh memories of we learn that one of our group just had a the incredible adventure we’ve had. “The slow-speed get-off, resulting in a punctured Isle of Man TT races have been a bucket lung and a forced extended stay on the Isle. list item for 50 years,” Dick Nash says.

It’s sobering, because while we all know “I’ve had a mental image of the Isle since motorcycling carries risks, we can convince I was a kid, and I’ve long imagined what ourselves it won’t happen to us. it would be like to ride the Mountain It’s pitch black when we land in Heysham.

Course. I got to fulfill one of my fondest The MV has given up its electrics and I’m fantasies.” riding one of the backup bikes, a 2004 Reflecting on our tour and the chalHonda VFR800. With real lights. Which lenges of making it on old bikes, Parks turns out to be a good thing, because says what we’ve all been thinking: Our they’re not working on the Tornado or the trip has had its share of trials and tribulaMoto Morini K2. Aites, now riding the K2, tions, yet those very things were part of duct tapes a flashlight to the Morini and the what made it such an incredible advenWhere’s the best Yorkshire pudding? rest of us play wingman to provide cover. ture. “Broken clutch cables, leaking and Our last day is a blur. We’re tired, and On the Isle of Man, of course. flooded carburetors, dodgy electrics that trying to make time on the M40 to London threatened to — and did — plunge us is just a drag. Twenty-four hours ago we were riding some of the into darkness made for what, on paper, looked like a pestimost glorious, most fabled roads in the world. Now, we’re sparlence, not a pleasure. But it wasn’t. It was magical,” Parks says. ring with trucks and Volvo wagons on the super slab. We have When do we go back? MC

Our group on the quay at Peel. Would we do it again? Without hesitation!

It was the trip of a lifetime.

Alan Millyard’s 5,000cc aero-engined Flying Millyard (left). Jan Coning exiting Governor’s Bridge during the Senior TT.

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