I seem to approach rallies with some trepidation, bordering
on total depression waiting for something to go wrong and screw up our weekend
away. Fortunately this time it was only a minor mechanical failure the night
before the rally. The bike had been running perfectly until I removed the
sidecar. I think the two had formed some kind of emotional attachment. I rode
the bike solo for the first time in three years and remembered why we fitted the
sidecar in the first place. Imagine manhandling an 8ft long wheel barrow that
has aspirations in the shopping-trolley I.Q. department and weighing the same as
a very large drunk pig.
Flapped to work Thursday morning fine, but coming out after
work…solid kick start *#*@*! I got home in the works van in time to bugger up a
BBQ with my father, spending all evening miserably stripping out the gearbox.
Find the offending locking ring (unlocked), locked it, and eventually finished
at 1am.
Friday: ride home from work and all seems fine. It was
Kate’s turn to wait for the baby sitter on Saturday morning so she missed out on
Friday night. We were hoping to ride down together but it wasn’t to be.
I loaded up and set off feeling slightly guilty but was
told to go and enjoy myself… so I did. It was a glorious ride west along the A
272 on a warm July evening but still with the feeling that something was going
to go wrong. Strangely it didn’t. I followed a hot air balloon for ages into
the setting sun running through some gorgeous real estate until I got to the A3.
Back to reality. It tends to concentrate the mind when you find everyone else is
doing three times your speed on their Friday night dash home and you are riding
a bike the width of a unicycle! Off the M3 and back into countryside. I found
the site with relative ease, leaving the Horndean residents wondering why they’d
seen the same old clunker go passed three times on two separate occasions.
Pulled into a likely field, and unless Chris Palmer’s neighbours also owned
Walls of Death, I figured this must be the right place. Found the chaps sitting
in the shade of the trees at the top of the field.
Stopping to catch my breath after this Cannonball Baker
style epic (Record breaking trans-Sussex run) I stopped for a most welcome beer.
More were drunk each being as good as the first. The evening ended with a most
spectacular display of lightning blowing our way ….. Considered the
implications…..hmm.
We woke up to a damp morning, relieved by coffee from Nobby
(thanks!) The old adage ‘Rain at 7 fine by 11’ didn’t seem to apply in this
instance, more like dry at 7 Frankenstein type thunderstorms by 11! So the ride
out was much anticipated. ‘Sponged’ breakfast from Ray and Carol (not
literally) and waited for the weather to pass. You can tell boredom had set in
when a bag of polishing cloths, a pair of Fred’s sunglasses and a roll of stripy
tape becomes an acceptable form of entertainment. I did think Keith’s 741 looked
mighty pretty though with its lovely bunting. We passed Kate on the way out of
the field for the run, a quick wave and off into the wide grey yonder.
Fred led the way via some interesting narrow lanes trying
to outrun our pet thunderstorm.
Our first brief stop was what looked to me to be an
authentic Sussex farmyard. Fred told me later this was where George Orwell wrote
his book ‘Animal Farm’. Absolutely fascinating!
Do a quick U turn and onward to more ‘nadgery’ lanes, I’d
forgotten there actually was a road sign for ‘Danger Gravel in Road’.
Fortunately the bike did not fall over at any time, for which I was most
grateful. Then followed some more pleasant dry and swoopy roads towards
Chichester. The town appeared to be closed to road traffic with ‘No Entry’ signs
everywhere. So a ride around the outside of town, and off to Selsey Bill.
I’m not going to say it’s the most majestic of coastlines,
but once seen never forgotten. We met an interesting retired couple. She had
been the manager of the S/H spares department in a London motorcycle dealers
after the war, and had been responsible for breaking up thousands of pre-war
motorcycles, (Indians included), for spares. I’m still wondering if this was a
good thing or not. Selsey is a world renowned centre of excellence in the fresh
crab industry and certainly the crabsticks here were first class. We had time
enough for a quick fag and a gander at the sea swans which Stuart informed us
are “very rare” and dangerous if approached. So we didn’t approach them. Ray
needed to check his fuel but his filler cap was stuck so there followed by a
quick game of ‘Let’s see who can break Ray’s petrol tank’ which I won.
Back down the A27 and up the A3 to Hornedean, nice to
return to a field full of dry people and the Wall of Death well underway. The
spit roast pig was cooking and smelled delicious. I meet up with Kate and she
tells me she’s ‘blagged’ a ride on the wall. I knew she’d wanted to do this
since we first saw it performed by Mr. Ford 20 yrs ago. Climbing up the wooden
stairs you forget how tall the building is, and that the bikes and people are in
the void in the middle.
It was a brilliant show by Chris and his team doing
outrageous things on Indians and Hondas, culminating with the girl on the handle
bars routine. I admit to the faintest pang of doubt as to whether my wife and
mother of my child should be doing this sort of thing at her age and everythin’
(note: must check life insurance). (How dare you! ~ Kate types) I
tried hard not to communicate this to Kate as she merrily waved from the front
of Chris’s stripped down, slashed pipe and very loud Scout. It’s surprisingly
emotional seeing a loved one flying around inside an enormous wooden drum on the
front of someone else’s elderly motorcycle at what I think is referred to as
break neck speed. Still, I overcame my concerns with another beer and later met
a very happy Kate emerging from the ‘Wall’. The girlie done good. Chris and his
team continued to ‘thrill the throng’ into the evening until they stopped for
well earned beers and the mega slap-up BBQ.
What an excellent evening, dancing, eating, more drinking,
and even the rain held off. A silly time ensued with Rachel organising the ‘box’
game. Nice to see the gymnastics of Tim’s daughter, Russell (a.k.a. Mr Bendy)
Sue and Lynda while Stewart took photographs. I’m always cheered by the sight of
Keith setting light to his balls in the dark and flinging them in the air,
apparently he has others that glow!
It was good to chat to Dave and his young family. He’s got
his own W.O.D and had come for a bit of tuition from the Masters Lee and Ford,
nice to know the old walls are still being loved. He’s running a Scout in it at
his field in Cornwall. Thanks for the new cocktail recipe Dave! Later still the
tone of the evening sunk to new depths (you can say that again!~K) with
recitals from the ‘Penguin book of school boy jokes’. I am told this is
traditional: ha ha, ha ha. Stewart was burning the candle at both ends
(literally) which kept us and the fire going till very late.
Woke up very early on Sunday morning and remembered
thankfully that my bike had gone home in Ray’s van, so we jumped in the car and
made a sneaky and early exit before the hangover had a chance to kick in. We
returned to discover Charlie has been very active with several pots of glitter. (So an excellent weekend finished with real sparkle!~ K )
Our many thanks go to Chris Palmer for throwing such an
exciting and thrilling party and our commiserations go to Sybil and Mike for
their break down (tale of woe award), but glad they got there in the end. And,
of course, thanks to all the Indian Riders Club members for making it all such
fun. Can we do it again?
Ian Hatton