It started, as many good things do, over a pint on a winter evening. I’d had a communication about the Shetland Classic Motor Show and thought it might be a suitably stupid thing to visit. I mentioned it to my chum Sean, over a pint of Wetherspoons finest mediocre real ale, and he, owner of an early 80s Kawasaki Z650, agreed that riding motorcycles from Somerset to Shetland was a stupid idea, so we decided to go for it. At the time I wasn’t sure I even had a suitable machine to attempt it on. Back in my teens I’d managed to pilot an MZ150 from John o’Groats to Lands End along with a trio of like-minded fools, but I thought I might try something a little larger.
I had my BSA Starfire, but the idea of taking that on a 2,000 mile round trip wasn’t something that filled my heart with joy, and while my FT500 Honda single was a possibility, I felt it might not really be up to the job of hauling self, plus gear to the other end of the country. My XS650 was in a state of flux, as despite an expensive top end rebuild it stubbornly refused to run effectively. My Ducati was definitely not a goer in any way, needing far more money throwing at it than it warranted. Still, the plan was born, and I was sure a suitable machine would either materialise, or the Yamaha would rise from its zombie state. Perhaps I could borrow something if needs be? The Ducati was sold some months later, and I was lurking around HJ Pugh’s auction site one Saturday morning, considering picking up some superannuated old Jap four for the trip, but few attracted my attention.
Big Vern, is also a character in the scatological adult comic Viz – a 1970s gangster who constantly rants about “needin’ a shootah” to visit the shops and always shoots himself in the last panel after a misunderstanding, because “no copper is gonna take me alive”.
A mid 70s Bonneville wasn’t part of the plan to go to Shetland. I’d been planning on a cheap old jap, or a new Royal Enfield Interceptor 650. Or a Guzzi V7. None of which looked like materialising, and in any case the cookie jar was empty. So the Bonneville it was.
Sean and I were, we freely admitted, not really match fit. We looked at maps. We decided that motorways were out, out of deference to Big Vern’s years. We would try to do most of the journey on A and B-roads. We were also far too old and stiff to camp or do anything silly like that. Pubs, Travelodges and B&Bs were the agenda. We worked out a route that meant we would need to cover 180 miles a day at the most, with plentiful stops. We went on 150 mile weekend proving runs. The Bonneville and the Z650 were fine – the Bonnie wasn’t rattling or banging, burning or leaking excessive amounts of oil, and the Z was whirring on nicely, if occasionally squirting out black smoke. The Bonneville was given an oil change, spare bulbs and a clutch cable were acquired, and as it wasn’t obviously broken anywhere else, I decided that I wouldn’t fix it. If it broke on the way, I’d just have to fix it or give up. The tool roll was packed with as many spanners and sockets as I could manage – probably enough to do an engine rebuild.
The Kawasaki broke its speedometer drive the week before the trip, so that was replaced and Sean, concerned about the state of his front forks, slotted on a replacement set from a Z750L4.
Tank bags were bought at a discount at Stafford, Sean picked up panniers and a tail pack from Ebay and I resorted to my old army surplus panniers. We were good to go.