The Smell of Baking Mud by Roberto

Dickens wrote about 'A far, far better thing…..' and while he meant it about an Anglo/French tragedy, I feel the sentiment is sound when referring to riding a motorcycle off-road, as opposed to on. And if he'd ever given it a try, then I'm sure he would have agreed!

I've been riding bikes for the thick end of thirty years and apart from a solitary off-road experiment (involving a six-cylinder Honda and a large sand-pit - not a happy union) I have never tried the pleasures of gettin' down an' dirty! This all changed a scant few days ago. And it really is 'A far, far better thing.' Although it's not all sunshine and roses, as I can attest, sat here as I am, nursing my swollen elbow and bruised gluteus maximus. Arnica really is good stuff!

It all began with the chance of a beer...

Neale, intrepid rider of all things knackered, became the 700th owner of a late forties Matchbox, Steve bought it and became the 701'st and quite correctly affixed a 'Guaranteed Not Phillip's Prepared' sticker on it which is only right and proper and I think mandatory in the club.

And so to the roads, or rather the green lanes. Neale can always be relied upon to misread a map properly and so it proved. There is a route called the Wayfarers that uses about 500 yards of roadway, and the rest, totally legal green-lanes. It all looked so simple on the map…

Oh dear god. I swear that first Sunday afternoon that I was praying for that blessed guillotine to fall - I would have gladly traded places with Charles Darney if he would have ridden the bloody thing and let me walk. Two hours it took us to get to Llandrillo. I was, it's fair to say, pooped.

But what an absolute riot. I think I was more knackered 'cos I'd spent so much time rolling around on the floor gasping for breath. Neale seriously expected us to traverse a lane, no wider than a horse's hind quarters, with an average gradient of one in four, stepped in slate slabs, running with water, and mud everywhere it wasn't actually a river, did he? Yes, he certainly did.

That was the third bit of lane we attacked. The first two had just lulled us into a false sense of security. Doddle this green laning lark, I collectively thought. The first two, looking back were as difficult a trial as a posh houses' gravelled drive - except there was the occasional puddle for that authentic off-roader look.

About half way up the Eiger, I paused. The incline looked bloody near vertical, upfront there was a sissy Matchbox slithering backwards towards me with its engine roaring, and wheel spinning, a manic collection of limbs appeared to be riding it - badly. I laughed so much it hurt.

Then I couldn't re-start the bloody thing - come back little button, I miss you so. At least I wasn't alone in that.

Neale pushed and pulled the gates, and I supported the bikes while we tried to start the bloody things, shouted encouragement to each other, egging us on to greater efforts (not that I had a lot of choice - it was just as daunting to try and go back), and finally, by sheer will-power, perseverance, and perspiration, we got to the top - and collapsed.

I hated Neale at that moment, with a passion that even Dickens couldn't have portrayed.

Eventually two little old blokes staggered into the Pub. Diner had never tasted so good. Or been so needed. Dehydration can be very dangerous you know and I for one had a tiny micro-climate inside my jacket. Was it a rain forest? It certainly smelt like it.

BUT I HAD DONE IT!

I love Squirels Me - By Roving reporter Neale on his trusty Bantam!

I never dreamed slowly cruising through a residential neighborhood could be so incredibly dangerous! Studies have shown that motorcycling requires more decisions per second, and more sheer data processing than nearly any other common activity or sport. The reactions and accurate decision making abilities needed have been likened to the reactions of fighter pilots! The consequences of bad decisions or poor situational awareness are pretty much the same for both groups too.

Occasionally, as a rider I have caught myself starting to make bad or late decisions while riding. In the airforce instructors call this being 'behind the power curve'. It is a mark of experience that when this begins to happen, the rider recognizes the situation, and more importantly, does something about it. A short break, a drink, or even a petrol stop can set things right again as it gives the brain a chance to catch up.

Good, accurate, and timely decisions are essential when riding a motorcycle especially riding a Bantam - at least if you want to remain among the living. In short, the brain needs to keep up with the machine.

I had been banging around the back roads of the Tanant valley and as I headed back into Llanarmon, found myself in very heavy, farm traffic. Normally, this is not a problem, I commute in these conditions daily, but suddenly I was nearly run down by a tractor that decided it needed my lane more than I did. This is not normally a big deal either, as it happens around here often, but usually I can accurately predict which drivers are not paying attention and avoid them before we are even close. This one I missed seeing until it was nearly too late, and as I took evasive action I nearly broadsided another car that I was not even aware was there!

Two bad decisions and insufficient situational awareness. All within seconds. I was behind the power curve. Time to get off the road. I hit the next exit, and as I was in an area I knew pretty well, headed through a few big farming neighborhoods as a new route home. As I turned onto the nearly empty lanes I opened the visor on my full-face helmet to help get some air. I figured some slow riding through the quiet farm lanes would give me time to relax, think, and regain that 'edge' so frequently required when riding. Little did I suspect.

As I passed an oncoming car, a brown furry missile shot out from under it and tumbled to a stop immediately in front of me. It was a squirrel, and must have been trying to run across the road when it encountered the car. I really was not going very fast, but there was no time to brake or avoid it-it was that close.

I hate to run over animals and I really hate it on a motorcycle, but a squirrel should pose no danger to me. I barely had time to brace for the impact.

Animal lovers, never fear. Squirrels can take care of themselves!

Inches before impact, the squirrel flipped to his feet. He was standing on his hind legs and facing the oncoming 'Beastly Bantam' with steadfast resolve in his little beady eyes. His mouth opened, and at the last possible second, he screamed and leapt! I am pretty sure the scream was squirrel for, 'Banzai!' or maybe, 'Die you Bantam riding, heathen scum!' as the leap was spectacular and he flew over the handlebars and impacted me squarely in the chest.

Instantly he set upon me. If I did not know better I would have sworn he brought twenty of his little buddies along for the attack. Snarling, hissing, and tearing at my clothes, he was a frenzy of activity. As I was dressed only in a light t-shirt, summer riding gloves, and jeans this was a bit of a cause for concern. This furry little tornado was doing some damage!

Picture a large man on a weedy, smoking, oildrippin BSA Bantam from the workshops of the dammed (No, NOT Philips prepared!), dressed in jeans, a t-shirt, and leather gloves puttering maybe 25mph down a quite country lane and in the fight of his life with a squirrel. And losing.

I grabbed for him with my left hand and managed to snag his tail. With all my strength I flung the evil rodent off the left of the bike, almost running into the right curb as I recoiled from the throw.

That should have done it. The matter should have ended right there. It really should have. The squirrel could have sailed into one of the pristinely kept gardens and gone on about his business, and I could have headed home. No one would have been the wiser. But this was no ordinary squirrel. This was not even an ordinary pissed-off squirrel. This was an evil attack squirrel of death!

Somehow he caught my gloved finger with one of his little hands, and with the force of the throw swung around and with a resounding thump and an amazing impact he landed square on my back and resumed his rather anti-social and extremely distracting activities. He also managed to take my left glove with him!

The situation was not improved. Not improved at all. His attacks were continuing, and now I could not reach him. I was startled to say the least. The combination of the force of the throw, only having one hand (the throttle hand) on the handlebars, and my jerking back unfortunately put a healthy twist through my right hand and into the throttle. A healthy twist on the throttle of a Buggered Bantam can only have one result. Wheezing and a massive backfire. This is what the Buggered Bantam is made for, and she is very, very good at it. The engine gasped and popped as the front wheel left the pavement. The squirrel screamed in anger. The Buggered Bantam screamed in ecstasy. I screamed in - well.I just plain screamed.

Now picture a large man on a weedy, smoking, oildrippin BSA Bantam from the workshops of the dammed (No, NOT Philips prepared!), dressed in jeans, a slightly squirrel torn t-shirt, and only one leather glove roaring at maybe 20mph and rapidly accelerating down a quite country lane on one wheel and with a demonic squirrel on his back. The man and the squirrel are both screaming bloody murder.

With the sudden acceleration I was forced to put my other hand back on the handlebars and try to get control of the bike. This was leaving the mutant squirrel to his own devices, but I really did not want to crash into somebody's tree, house, or parked car. Also, I had not yet figured out how to release the throttle - my brain was just simply overloaded. I did manage to mash the back brake, but it had little affect with a Bantams massive, awesome and totally useless rear brake.

About this time the squirrel decided that I was not paying sufficient attention to this very serious battle (maybe he is a Llansilin trained attack squirrel of death and he came around my neck and got IN my full-face helmet with me. As the faceplate closed partway and he began hissing in my face I am quite sure my screaming changed tone and intensity. It seemed to have little affect on the squirrel however. The rpm's on The Beastly Bantam maxed out (1500 RPM and I was not concerned about changing gear at the moment) and her front end started to drop.

Now picture the large man on the weedy, smoking, oildrippin BSA Bantam from the workshops of the dammed (No, NOT Philips prepared!), dressed in jeans, a very ragged torn t-shirt, and wearing one leather glove, roaring at probably 25mph, still on one wheel, with a large puffy squirrel's tail sticking out his mostly closed full-face helmet. By now the screams are probably getting a little hoarse.

Finally I got the upper hand. I managed to grab his tail again, pulled him out of my helmet, and slung him to the left as hard as I could. This time it worked. sort-of. Spectacularly sort-of, so to speak.

Picture the scene. You are a village bobby used to the occasional 'word' with the kids and warning about a bold tyre. You and your partner have pulled off on a quite country lane and parked with your windows down to do some paperwork (sleep off the pies cadged from the 'Hand').

Suddenly a large man on a weedy, smoking, oildrippin BSA Bantam from the workshops of the dammed (No, NOT Philips prepared!), dressed in jeans, a torn t-shirt flapping in the breeze, and wearing one leather glove, moving at probably 30mph on one wheel, and screaming bloody murder roars by and with all his strength throws a live squirrel grenade directly into your police car.

I heard screams. They weren't mine...

I managed to get the Bantam under directional control and dropped the front wheel to the ground. I then used maximum braking (shoe leather) and skidded to a stop in a cloud of burning two stroke oil smoke at the stop sign at a busy cross street.

I would have returned to confess (and to get my glove back). I really would have. Really. But for two things. First, the bobbies did not seem interested or the slightest bit concerned about me at the moment. One of them was on his back in the front garden of the house they had been parked in front of and was rapidly crabbing backwards away from the police car. The other was standing on the pavement and was making the sign of the cross towards the police car.

So the bobbies were not interested in me. They often insist to 'let the professionals handle it' anyway. That was one thing. The other? Well, I swear I could see the squirrel, standing in the back window of the police car among shredded and flying pieces of foam and upholstery, and shaking his little fist at me. I think he was sticking up his middle finger. That is one dangerous squirrel.

And now he has a police car.

I took a deep breath, kicked the kick start a zillion times in a second, made a right turn, and sedately left the neighborhood. As for my easy and slow drive home? Bollocks. Faced with a choice of 30mph tractors and cars and inattentive drivers, or the evil, demonic, attack squirrel of death...I'll take my chances with the main road. Every time. And I'll buy myself a new pair of gloves.

PS Using the Sunbeam for the next few weeks in case I get recognized!

Phantom Bantam lunatic spotted in Glyn Valley

Four members of the club whilst riding from the Hand, Llanarmon last weekend witnessed a somewhat disturbing display of lunacy on the road between Llanarmon and Dolywern.

Three of the riders happened to be mounted on relatively modern trail bikes and one on an elderly Triumph Daytona from the late 60’s.

The group encountered ‘the Phantom’ between Llanarmon and Tregeiriog. The rider was dressed in shorts and tee-shirt complemented by a ‘jet’ helmet and Lennon style mirror shades. Reports that a cape or cloak was worn have yet to be confirmed. The machine appeared to be a late fifties 150 Bantam in a condition consistent with being found under a hedge (witness’ describe the rider as possibly coming from beneath the same hedge).

Following a glance over his (its?) shoulder the Phantom opened up to full throttle and the riders following claim speeds of between 49 and 51 mph were maintained en-route to Tregieriog.

Discretion being the better part of valour two of our hero’s, recognising the Phantoms resolve held back, while the remaining duo gave chase!

These stout fellows caught the Phantom on the Cemetery bank and passed it confident in the knowledge that their machines, superior in every respect to a 150 Bantam would not be troubled again on their journey to the Golden Pheasant.

Alas! This was not to be.

Just outside Glyn Ceiriog our hapless heroes encountered one of the biggest curses of Welsh country roads – The Sunday driver!!!! This particular menace fully occupied both sides of the road and reduced their speed to about 20 mph. This allowed the Phantom to gain ground and catch up with its prey about 50 yards from the Glyn Roundabout.

The first our two heroes knew of this, was a Bee-like buzz drifting beneath their helmets followed by the hideous image of a dirty, rusty, smelly, rider and Bantam passing both them and the Sunday driver before going straight over the roundabout and disappearing in the direction of Dolywern.

Once more our heroes took chase and thankfully managed to redeem some of their battered pride by passing the Phantom on the Dolywern straight, reaching the Pheasant just ahead of it.
Honour was regained – but at a cost!

The psychological damage suffered by these riders cannot be underestimated, one (who does not wish to be named) still has the shakes if he hears a Bee and the other has been unable to buy a Beer in the Pheasant since (although some claim this condition existed prior to the trauma).

The final word must go to our nameless hero who is quoted as saying with typical eloquence: -

‘’He’s a f*****g idiot. I’ve never seen anything f*****g like it!
The t**t was bouncing round the bends without slowing down. I’ve never been so f*****g frightened following another bike let alone a b*****d bantam!!!!’’


Footnote.
No further sightings of the Phantom have been reported but rumours are that a certain club member has been seen buying two-stroke oil from Griffiths Tool Hire wearing a cape!

Footnote Footnote.
I have been promised a pic of a suspicious looking Bantam taken outside a local Hostelry – will post on site if or when it comes to me.

The Glyn Cieriog Carnaval

To be Uploaded soon!

Getting Dirty on Easter Monday!

Getting Dirty on Easter Monday!

For the last few years several WBVC members plus associated idiots have dragged a motley selection of mainly British trials(ish) irons out and loosely followed the Lomax Trial from Llansilin to Glyn Ceiriog with the odd track detour and Pub stop.

This year proved no exception with eight of us turning up at Brian Jones’ in Dolywern for tea and biscuits at about 10.00am.

This year’s crew consisted of: -

Brian Jones                       BSA C15
Johnny Phillips                  BSA B40
Richard Jones                   Triumph Cub
Hu Williams                      Something modern (!)
Brian Williams                  BSA C15
Bernard Morris                Greeves B40
Rob Morris                      BSA B40
Neale Pryce-Hughes        Matchless G3C

The Day started cold, dismal and damp and finished the same way!

From Dolywern we rode through Llwynmawr towards Cae mor and up a stony track to the Selattyn Road and then to Llechrydau. From here we rode over the moors (un-made bi-way) to Rhydycroesau. This proved wet, muddy and very slippy.

From here we rode the back lanes to Rhydleos and watched a couple of sections of the Lomax.
Having been suitably humbled by the skill with which the ‘Pro’s’ tackled these sections we hung our heads and rattled off through Rhiwlas and onto another bi-way heading into the Berwyn’s. Now things got seriously wet and muddy!

We came across a couple of four wheel drivers near a gateway, one was up to his axles and stuck while the other was attempting to winch him out! We laughed at their plight and nimbly picked our ways around them through a ‘shallow’ puddle just to the side of the gateway. Well, at least most of us did!

Supremely confident in the superiority of my Matchbox over these four-wheeled monstrosities I deigned to follow the gang through the puddle and took my own route through some dry’ish looking mud. The Matchless suddenly ceased all forward progress as the rear wheel dropped through what proved to be a thin crust of crap into bog! Settled on its bash plate with the mud covering the rear sprocket, the Matchbox was going nowhere.

I scrambled off it, mud over my boots, and the Matchbox just stood there – upright - a memorial to stupidity!
Could I pull it out, I could not! I couldn’t even stand up by the bloody thing.

Meanwhile my ever-helpful colleagues had pulled up on a grassy bank to enjoy the view of my plight – B------s! Brian Jones had gone a little further than the rest and was by now heading back to photograph/film my little problem, with no thought of assistance in mind – Even bigger B-----d!

Fortunately a Good Samaritan in the form of Brian Williams came over and lent a hand and we managed to extricate it whilst the less helpful Brian struggled to get his gloves off and camera into action.

Moving once again, we left the four-wheel drive lads to their mud-pies and left the track on the road between Maengwynedd and Llanarmon DC, stopping here for a group photo.

By now it was midday and time for a beer!

We called at the ‘Hand Llanarmon’ for chip butties, a pint and a warm – all of which were needed and welcome. Big thanks to Richard and Bernard for buying the grub.

Warm and refreshed (?) we re-mounted our muddy machines and rode back towards Rhiwlas. We left the road above Tregeiriog and got onto another track heading towards Llechrydau. This particular bi-way boasted some impressively deep ruts that proved difficult to leave. Those that become railroaded into them soon developed a technique of winding the throttle open and just ‘going with the rut’. This method soon proved troublesome for Richard Jones, whose Cub got into a fairly severe speed (?) wobble and cast him sideways into a ditch. Rider less the Cub, slowed up, stopped and remained upright in the rut. Fortunately Richard survived pretty well unscathed.

A little further on and Bernard’s rather nice Greeves B40 ground to a halt, but this proved to be nothing worse than a loose wire so all made it back onto tarmac at Llechrydau Farm.
At Which point! Brian Jones’ C15 and Rob Morris’ B40 simultaneously ran out of fuel! Both had been fitted with Sammy Miller alloy tanks, which look great but don’t hold a lot. A root around in the farms wheelie-bin produced a pop bottle, which enabled fuel to be robbed from my Matchbox and Richards Cub!

We then rode to just above Pandy and dropped down a steep stony track to watch the Lomax Hill climb. At which point Brian’s C15 ran out of fuel again! – Good job my bike had a large tank (or was it?). Further use of the pop bottle got him moving again but he reported the C15 to be ‘running like a bag o S—t!’
Later we found that the throttle needle had come adrift and was stuck topside of the jet – hence the high fuel consumption etc.

Following a strut around several more of the Lomax section’s at Pandy we made our way to the Glyn Valley Hotel for a few refreshments to round off a fun, though cold wet and muddy day.

Neale Pryce-Hughes.