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1st Brighton Mini Meet, ride report. 1st Brighton Mini Meet, ride report.
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Photo by Marc Gibaud, Clouds on Tres Cerros and Mount Fitzroy, Argentinian Patagonia

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Photo by Marc Gibaud,
Clouds on Tres Cerros and
Mount Fitzroy, Argentinian Patagonia



 
 
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Old 21 Oct 2008
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Join Date: Apr 2007
Location: England
Posts: 277
Two full tanks of fuel, a packet of rider fuel (jaffa cakes,) and two pints of milk left money jangling in my pocket from a tenner. Rejuvenated, refuelled, rehydrated and really bloody stiff from 6 hours sat crouched over a set of bars designed for the average height and size 1955 Japanese gent, we set off once more. Straight into a tunnel and back behind a lorry, we stayed locked to his rear axle until we could finally get off of the motorway, on to the last leg. In the tunnel the cub sounded somehow fruity, the previously reticent whisper transformed to a booming bark. Must have been the acoustics of the tunnel.


The road stretched on, rolling towards Brighton. Going south is always easier, as it is obviously downhill, and you don’t get much more South than Brighton without getting really wet. The road was a nice slow ‘a,’ packed with enough lorries and speed cameras to ensure the speed was Cub comfy. The hours whizzed by in a forty mile an hour blur of scenic southern lanes, dreaming dozy daydreams on automatic autopilot.

The warm late autumn sunshine became a warming late Moroccan evening, and as the overarching elms morphed into fronded palms, the Cub raised its four stroke hum into an angry two stroke snarl. Tearing around the suburbs of Ouzarzarte on my dirt bike, reality nibbled my ear. The sun wasn’t warming the dunes, and the palms weren’t shading my head, but my cub was still doing a bloody great crosser impression. I waved Tom down, and we pulled up to a halt in a layby. ‘What’s wrong? We’re nearly there,’ Tom looked like I had postponed Christmas. Without saying anything, I revved my throttle, and looked into his open faced helmet as I did so. ‘Oh, I see, sounds a bit ****ed doesn’t it.’ Respecting his place as the team engineer, I had no choice but to accept his diagnosis, it did indeed sound ****ed. ‘Get off it an we’ll have a look at it.’ After a couple of cursory revs, enjoying the new anger in the bikes’ voice, I whapped it on to the centre stand and joined him on the floor.

‘Ooh, look at that,’ Tom breathed out in his engineers voice. I looked, and ‘mmmd,’ nodding professionally with pursed lips, looking at the join of exhaust and engine where his attentions were focussed. I didn’t fool him, ‘you don’t see anything do you?’ He was correct, it just looked like it always had to me, if you don’t know what something should look like, you don’t know when all is not as it should be. ‘Well, you see the end of the exhaust? That gaping hole shouldn’t be there, it should go right up to the engine. It has fallen off.’ I could see why this would be a problem, even with my limited knowledge, I could see that things falling off would not be good.
‘We need a welder to stick it back on, otherwise we’ll just have to gaffer it up so it doesn’t drag, and put up with the noise.’ I was well up for the black and nasty quick fix and riding around pretending I was Carey Hart. This option didn’t please Tom’s engineer sensibilities. I couldn’t see the harm of a bit more gaffer tape, in the two hundred miles we had done, I had already used plenty. It now held my floppy rear indicator horizontal, and stopped my left hand mirror from spinning around at its annoying whim.

After some head scratching, and useless attempts at telling me why it was not good to run without an exhaust, Tom looked up, and hurriedly exclaimed, ‘one second, stay with the bikes and I will be back in a sec.’

Off he went, on a mission. I sat around feeling slightly useless, but smug in the knowledge that it was ok to be so, as I had Tom as a safety net. I hopped back on the now silent bike and rolled myself a quick cigarette. I had barely finished it when Tom came running back with a chuffed smile under the frame of his open faced twat hat. ‘Smoke up and bring the bike, I’ve got a welder.’

We jumped on the bikes and rolled off, freewheeling around the corner where there was a small garage. Straight into the workshop, I hadn’t even got off the seat before Tom and a wiry oil covered mechanic were on their backs umming and ahhing at the damage. They stood up and continued chatting in metallic jargon while the spanner monkey rolled a floppy fag. I nodded a little, and then he dragged a welder over and started working his magic, cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth the whole time. A minute later, and he jumped up, ‘there ya go mate, good as new, ****in awesome bikes these, used to race em meself, bombproof, don like bein over revved tho.’ Ah, so maybe sixty miles an hour on a motorway would be classed as such? Probably best not to mention that one. He refused to accept any money for it, so I left him enough for a couple of drinks and we continued. The Gods of providence were still favouring the Cubs, what were the chances of breaking down outside a garage?

The signs for Brighton started appearing, and sure enough, the outskirts of the town soon loomed on the horizon. It seemed as if everyone in the south was trying to pack into this little town on the coast, for miles out, the traffic was queued to a halt. Not that it is much bother on the Ultimate Filtering Bike. Being so physically small and light may be a hindrance in almost every other situation, but in dense traffic, the bike comes alive. What would have taken a couple of hours in a car, took twenty minutes on the Cub.

We didn’t know where we were going, we knew the meeting place was called the ‘Hanover,’ but we had no idea where it was. The only thing we vaguely knew the location of was the sea, so we made like lemmings seaward. We had been wearing scarves across our faces on the long ride down, but we now dropped them, and let the smell of the Channel fill our mouths and noses. Brighton was whizzing past in a flurry of seaside tack shops and young trendies, but we had no time to stop and stare, such was our single-mindedness


‘I can see the sea!’ Tom shouted, clearly audible over the engines and the wind rush. We were riding almost side by side, and the excitement danced in his eyes. One more balls out blast down to the promenade, and a helpfully placed ‘bikes only’ parking space provided our berth. Tom leaped off like a jockey who’s just won the national, and in the setting sun we shook hands to celebrate the successful completion of the first shakedown. It was partially premature, as we still didn’t know the meeting place, and it was gone half six, the sun was going down and a chill was falling in the sea air. We took a few pictures of our high water mark, before asking for some directions and receding back up the town.
Last edited by Birdy; 21 Oct 2008 at 11:16.
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