Scotland on a BMW R60/6 2020

Penrith by night fall

The destination was not actually Penrith, but the Cumbrian village of Alston, high in the hills to the East. This was to be the meeting point for a 4 day tour of Scotland with some other biking friends.
The distance was not huge, just 270 miles of easy motorway riding, but by far the longest journey undertaken on this bike. The bike was a BMW R60/6. A 40 year old piece of German iron; sturdy, durable and dependable. Being an R60, it was one of the smaller flat twin bikes but it had a willing engine and always handled reassuringly.

The journey start was leisurely, departing Bristol mid-morning with a full tank and two panniers loaded with tools, clothes and some lunch. A journey time of about 5 hours would be about right, with some fuel stops, a lunch break and a relaxed 60mph pace.
Joining the M5 the bike settled into a comfortable cruise, the engine spinning happily just under 5000rpm. Traffic was light and the new fly screen kept the worse of the wind off. The sun’s warmth on my back helped make the ride relaxing and I allowed myself to think this would be an easy, enjoyable day.

A service stop before Birmingham for a coffee and it was time to go again. As I walked back to the bike the rear tyre looked slightly flat, or was it? I couldn’t tell and as I was prone to worry about such things, I just pressed the starter button and re-joined the traffic.

The M5 became the M6 and I began to feel the bike was not as happy as it was. It felt unsteady, or did it? A bit wobbly, was something loose or was it just the wind? A few miles later it was worse, I was fighting the bike to keep it in line. I slowed the speed and things got worse again; the refuse lane beckoned and as I rolled to a stop the back of the bike waddled sadly on a flat back tyre.

With the bike secured at the roadside I retreated behind the barrier, down some steps, and away from the passing trucks to call for help. I had the tools to fix the tyre, but didn’t fancy the job on the motorway; so with lunch in hand I sheltered from the sun under a small tree and the minutes ticked by. As time passed I marveled at the variety of wildlife so close to the main road, the only one of which I recognised was a ladybird.

A traffic officer arrived and we’d hardly spoken before the breakdown truck was with us. We were soon loaded and leaving the motorway to find a repair shop.

The first motorcycle place we saw was a large glossy showroom, probably no help but worth asking; but as we circled the block to park the truck, a small motorcycle independent was spotted.
Helpfully, they cleared the workshop to get the BMW booked in and a short while (and a pack of Mars bars) later, the bike was back together.
Curiously the removed tube seemed to hold air and the mechanic suggested I keep it as a spare. I thanked him and threw it in the bin when he wasn’t looking.

A short while later I was rolling North again.

The next stretch of motorway was unmemorable, but as I dismounted at the next fuel stop and my heel clipped the pannier; it wobbled ominously. Was it loose? No, broken. The top mounting bracket had fatigued on one side. Cable ties helped re-attach the frame and the luggage was re-arranged to relieve the broken pannier of some weight.

Back on the road traffic was heavy and getting worse, and the matrix signs warned of congestion ahead. I stayed with the motorway but regretted it as the traffic pulled to a complete standstill. Up ahead the motorway was closed and with my best focus I filtered 11 miles to where the traffic was guided off to the side roads. Towards the front of the queue people were out of their cars, picnicking on the side and there was an impromptu game of football. People did their best to let me through and I asked several what was happening, no-one knew.
Amid the filtering the bike was running badly, it wouldn’t idle and had developed a squeak from deep within. I glanced at the oil temperate and judged it to be high, so as we left the motorway I took the first exit, away from the queuing traffic to help the bike cool down.

A few miles later we were queuing again, the bike misfired and as it spluttered to a halt I coasted to the only bit of pavement available; it was on the right hand side, outside a small house set back from the main road. The bike restarted, but wouldn’t idle and I looked down to try and work out where the worrying squeaking noise was coming from.
A voice shouted, “You can’t park here mate!” a woman approached me and restated this fact.
“I’ve broken down” I replied.
“You can’t park it here” she said,
“but I’ve broken down”, I said again in case she misheard.
“This is private property”,she stood with hands on hips.
I looked towards the house where a beefy man was hurriedly pulling on his shoes to join us. I scanned further ahead and saw a lay-by on the same side of the road. With no oncoming traffic, the bike spluttered into life, so I selected a gear and made off as the man reached the front gate wanting to speak with me, his hand raised.

Hot, bothered and with a dying bike I sat in the lay-by and weighed up my options. It was a low point on the trip. With no idea where I was, hellish traffic, unfriendly neighbours and a dead bike; it started to rain. I sat and thought about turning back.

After a short spell of day-dreaming and self-pity, I checked the bike over. Fuel level was good, filters clear, and the misfire made me think of electrics. With the traffic on the road still going nowhere, the front engine cover was removed to check the points. Difficult to see in the grime of the lay-by a random amount was added to the gap and everything put back in the increasing rain. The bike started and felt much better, so I kitted up, re-joined the queuing traffic and with a mix of filtering and navigation found some empty roads North.

Back on the motorway the bike only remained good for a few miles; then power dropped, misfires returned, and we struggled up a slip road, coasting into a sleepy industrial estate to rest. It was teatime and we were still a long way off the destination.
The engine squeak had returned as well, but then slowly it started to make sense. The points were dry. They were wearing quickly closing the gap, and the squeaking was the plastic slide running dry on the cam. The points were re-gapped again and this time the dipstick was used to add some oil to the dry felt pad on the cam.
The bike restarted immediately. Feeling a bit drained, I decided this would be the last attempt to push North. Any more drama and I would be taking a recovery truck home.
No signposts and a new housing estate made re-joining the motorway a guessing game, but eventually we were back on track.

Back on the highway the BMW was running well, really well, in fact better than ever. Through Lancashire and Cumbria the traffic got lighter and the sky got darker as we pressed on North. The weather was worsening but my mood was lifting, it felt like we might actually make it. The bike was buzzing and as the road climbed, so did our speed, the engine settling into a busy rhythm. The road was wet and as we passed the slow trucks climbing the incline at Shap, we sought safety in the empty right-hand lane away from the spray; the 600 twin pulled reassuringly as the daylight faded to the West.

At Penrith we left the motorway behind for the last leg up to Alston. Alone on the country roads, the journey finished with an enjoyable climb through switchbacks and hairpins. With the dazzling H4 headlight leading the way, we rode up into the clouds to the sleeping village of Alston and the warmth of the Angel Inn.

The barmaid greeted me as I stood dripping on the door mat.
"Your friends are waiting for you", she said with a smile.
I scanned the room briefly to acknowledge two friendly faces waving from the far corner.
"Are you the lone biker?" she asked.
"Yes", I said, feeling rather proud of my heroic title.
"I'll show you your room".

With a cold beer ordered, the wet luggage was dumped in a bedroom and I glanced out the window at the bike standing in the rain, still clicking as it cooled down. The journey had taken 11 hours and I was tired but the bike gleamed in the rain and looked ready to carry on.
Thankfully the Angel Inn provided a much needed hearty supper and a good night's rest.

Tomorrow would be the start of the most enjoyable trip on a motorcycle; through the Scottish borders and into the highlands and Islands of the West coast, and I would be glad I persisted to get this far.

Unbeknown to me, my traveling buddies had had a bike fire on the M1, so it was an eventful trip all round. By the end of the 1500 mile trip we had also had several breakdowns, low fuel problems, and a bike spill, a bike retirement, and plenty of rain too.

Scotland 2020

Penrith by night fall