Motorcycles, African thunderstorms and Graham’s ghost
For those of you who are acquainted with my predilections, you’ll know that I ride motorcycles. This has been an ongoing passion since I was an undergraduate. But, if I’m totally honest, this passion was partly the result of my father who refused to give me carte blanche access to his car after I had passed my driving test, and it was, therefore, not only a much-needed mode of transport that matched my budget, but it was also a form of protest. My mother had died several years before, and I knew she would have been against it, and I knew he would know that she would have been against it! Such are the politics of family life, and my father lent/gave me the money, which I cannot quite remember. Anyway, my first motorcycle was a Honda CB200, and it took me back and forth to college, and, also, back and forth from my digs to my father’s house in Rochdale. This was the mid-nineteen seventies and I seem to remember petrol was around 70 p a gallon and this we all thought extortionate.
My Honda CB500x to replace my Honda Deauville that was too heavy for me to pick up! Image taken near Holme Moss transmitting station
Another admission about my motorcycling was that I fell off my bike during my motorcycle test. The test was done in Rochdale and was conducted by my having to ride round a block, not far from Rochdale railway station, in an anticlockwise direction, while the examiner walked round the same block in a clockwise direction observing my riding. One of the key requirements of the test was that you had to display an “L” plate visible from behind. I had one displayed beneath my rear number plate. I’m not quite sure how I became aware of the fact, probably due to a grating sound, but my “L” plate had become folded up between my rear wheel and the number plate and was no longer visible from behind. Therefore, when I knew I was out of sight of the examiner I slowed right down and tried to kick the non-visible ”L” plate out from under the number plate. Unbeknownst to the examiner, I dropped the bike and fell off! Making a hasty recovery I redeployed the “L” plate and proceeded with the examiner being non-the-wiser. I know I would have not got away with that today.
Motorcycling in the 1970’s was not for the faint of heart, especially in the winter when it was not only cold but also wet. I was reminded of this fact by my old motorcycling friend Mark with whom I shared a room at one point, and in which, centre stage, was a table supporting a half built, or was it half dismantled, Triumph Bonneville engine. Recently, Mark and I have renewed our friendship through motorcycling, and he reminded me of my dry suit. Dry suit? I hear you ask... at the time Mark and I shared a room as students, I was also a member of the underwater swimming club and, at least I think it was through them, I came to know of an ex-army drysuit that was for sale. I bought it purely for use as a suit for motorcycle riding and Mark reminded me of this forgotten fact. I remember at least one miserable trip in winter up the M1 in pouring rain back to Rochdale which was made less miserable by wearing the dry suit. Although it kept me perfectly dry, the downside was the time it took to put on and take off. It was certainly not user friendly for short trips.
Another motorcycling incident took place when I was working as a VSO (Voluntary Service Overseas) plant pathologist in Africa. Between 1979 – 1981 I worked on an Integrated Rural Development Project funded through the World Bank, at Ngabu in the Lower Shire Valley in Malawi. I was stationed there for two years doing germplasm screening trials on seeds brought into the country from ICRISAT at Hyderabad in India. As a volunteer I had been briefed in London before embarking to my post that most accidents that befell volunteers were related to motorcycles. As a seasoned motorcyclist I took all this in my stride and, on arrival in Ngabu, I was indeed issued with a Honda 90 to get me to and from work. I also bought for weekend jaunts a slightly more powerful and robust Suzuki 100 Trail bike. This was all very good, but I should explain that the rainy season, mid-November to April, sometimes sculpted the roads in unpredictable ways.
The Lower Shire Valley and the Thyolo escarpment; photo taken near Chikwawa circa 1980
One evening I rode from Ngabu to visit some Dutch medical friends who lived about 15 miles North in Nchalo, and their practice was linked to the large sugar estate SUCOMA. The ride out was dry and uneventful apart from a huge and spectacular thunderstorm that I could see several miles further up the Shire Valley to the North. Forked lightening could be seen cutting through the atmosphere together with its associated rumble of thunder and strobe-like illumination of the cumulonimbus thunder clouds. On several occasions the lightening never made it to the ground, but the bolts of lightning joined up with themselves forming rings. When I arrived at my Dutch friend’s, I recounted the thunderstorm with its circular lightning, and during the next couple of hours the thunderstorm, as it passed over us, threw its worst at us before it disappeared into the southern night sky.
By the time I left by motorcycle to return to Ngabu, the ferocity of the storm was all but forgotten. The sky was clear, the stars were shining, and the road, still wet, glistened in my headlight. The M1 road in Malawi runs the whole length of the country from Koronga in the very North to Nsanje at the Southern most tip. Several months before my arrival the southern stretch of the road from Chikwawa to Nsanje had been completely metalled and on my arrival the engineers were in the process completing the final section of the road. This final section traversed the Thyolo escarpment, approximately ~900 M top to bottom, and joined Chikwawa at the bottom of the Rift Valley with Blantyre, Malawi’s commercial centre, in the highlands at the top. I was in a buoyant mood as I rode back to Ngabu when suddenly in the beam of my headlight the road suddenly disappeared, and not just in the form of a large pothole but right the way across my path. I was not going especially fast but certainly too fast to stop in time to avoid a collapsed culvert.
I had no option but to try and ride over the collapsed culvert. I cannot really remember much apart from the bike and I summersaulting and hearing a crack as I hit the ground. I had clearly broken something, but what I had no idea, although any movement in my left arm was excruciating. I lay on the ground my bike and I having parted company and tried to gather my thoughts. For how long I was in this position I have no clue, but at some point, it dawned on me that no one was going to come along that road late at night and find me. What to do? I suddenly became aware that I was food for mosquitoes as I could hear them buzzing around me, and, the thought of spending a night lying on the road waiting for dawn and for someone to come along became increasingly unappealing. What to do?
Eventually, I decided I had better make a move. I say, eventually? In actual fact I have no idea whether this was one minute or fifty minutes, but I did eventually stand up, locate my bike and somehow, I know it was painful, get it back on the metalled road facing North to ride back to my Dutch friends. They were medics after all and would know exactly what to do! I therefore very gingerly got back on the bike, got it into neutral and started it. The next problem was to get it into gear! My left hand was okay, but any movement of my left arm was painful. The Honda 90 was clutch-less, but I was on the Suzuki! I therefore I had to somehow get it into gear. At least first! As I remember, using my right hand I lifted my left had and placed it on the handlebar in reach of the clutch, and found I could just about operate the clutch without too much pain. I then, with great care, put the bike in first, slowly released the clutch and opened the accelerator with my right hand. I was moving, but, as anyone who has ridden a bike well knows, you invariably start with a wobble for which you compensate by small adjustments of the handlebars in quick succession. It was this adjustment of the handlebars that was unbearably painful, but somehow, I kept going, and on gaining walking pace I was able to let go altogether of the lefthand handlebar and nurse my left arm across my stomach.
The SUCOMA sugar factory at Nchalo from the air; circa 1980
I was making progress, but the engine was screaming. Somehow, I needed to change gear! I eventually managed to shut off the accelerator and, not without some grating of gears, managed to get it into second and slowly work my way up through the gears. Interestingly, I had previously thought the newly metalled was nice and smooth, however, my left arm now told me otherwise. Every small jolt sent a screaming pain along my arm. This was not going to be my most enjoyable motorcycle ride! Now, some forty years later, I can remember very little of that journey apart from it being painful. But I did get back to my Dutch medical friends at SUCOMA, who informed me several days later that when I arrived, the details of which I have really no recollection of, was that I was as white as a sheet. There is, however, one funny detail that I do remember. On arrival I was examined and told that I had broken my collar bone, apparently quite a common injury for people falling from motorcycles, pushbikes and horses. However, apparently, I needed further proof and was insistent that I needed an x-ray. Rob a doctor said I didn’t need an x-ray as the broken collar bone was clearly visible. The now healed break is still clearly visible to this day.
So why my focus on motorcycle memories? Well, I have just bought myself a new motorcycle. Not a new, new motorcycle, but one just new to me. It’s three years old and done 5000 plus miles. Those of you who have read my Kilimanjaro blog will know that my climbing Kilimanjaro back in 2018 was done in memory of my son Graham, who died of an undiagnosed heart condition in April 2007. He was out for a run to get fit to climb Kilimanjaro. He had grown up with stories of my travels in Africa and my attempt to climb it in 1981, and we would attempt it together. He had also seen pictures of his older sister’s travels in the Atlas Mountains in Morocco, and we wanted to climb it to see the glaciers on the summit before they disappeared due to climate change. Graham understood I rode motorcycles and the last conversation with him, around his sixteenth birthday, was about getting his motorcycle licence buying a new motorcycle took me back to my acquisition of my own motorcycle licence that I recount at the opening of this blog.
Snowdonia from the summit of Tryfan
Another point of reference is that Graham and I used to go hill walking in Snowdonia, and three years after his death I decided I would combine a motorcycle trip to Snowdonia with ascending the North Ridge of Tryfan. At the time I did not have a motorcycle, so I decided to hire one all kitted out for touring. I wanted to hire a Honda Deauville and I was all set up to get one, but, when I turned up at the dealership, the one I wanted was off the road for repair and they offered me the only other one available with panniers and fit for touring. It was large bike, well large to me, it was a BMW KS1200 and at the time I had never ridden anything with an engine bigger than 500 cc. I felt totally intimidated and wondered whether I should go ahead. But there was only going to be one answer as I heard Graham’s ghost shouting in my ear, “You’ve got to take it Dad! You’ve got to take it!!” And so, of course, I did. Over the next 10 days I added some 1500 miles to the clock and had a wonderful time. But before finishing I should also add an aside. Before embarking on my trip, my good friend and colleague at work, Rolo, had predicted that when I retured it would only be a matter of time before I would get a bike of my own! And, indeed, by the time summer had turned into Autumn, I had my own Honda Deauville, and I was back motorcycling again. More recently, Graham has been shouting in my ear again. When, last month, I visited my local motorcycle dealer to enquire about my getting an MOT he said, “I have a motorcycle that would suit you perfectly”, and proceeded to show me the bike. It was a BMW F750 GS and I could sit on it, and plant two feet flatly on the floor. I again heard Graham voice shouting in my ear, “You’ve got to take it Dad! You’ve got to take it!!”
