John O'Groats to Land's End – Day 2
Getting blown off track on the way to Edinburgh
No sooner had we left Holy Island, scurrying across the causeway as the waves began to sweep in, than we began to wish for divine intervention. We’d rejoined the A1, heading north to Edinburgh, then on to Perth. The wind, which had been forecast but seemed to have retired for the night, reappeared with a vengeance, causing me to cling to the handlebars and lean into it at a crazily drunk angle as the gusts pulled and tugged at the wheels.
On this busy dual carriageway, Kevin and I were reduced to crawling along at 40 mph, as slowly as we dared to ride. Even at that snail’s pace, the crosswinds would blow me across the white lines into the outer lane in a second. We were engaged in a physical battle with the elements. The open fields on our left offered no shelter, and the trees were bent double with the force of the gale. I constantly felt like the front wheel would be swept away. My heart hammered in my chest, and my hands gripped the handlebars so tightly my knuckles were white. Adrenaline surged through me with every gust that threatened to rip the bike from my control.
My arms and legs ached with the effort of keeping the bike as straight as possible. The worst were the sudden gusts: just when I was putting in maximum lean towards the wind, it would abate and the bike would veer left, clattering its way over the gravelly edge and across the cats-eyes. I hunkered down over the fuel tank, tucked behind the small windscreen, trying to make myself less of a ‘sail’, although the big top box and panniers were already acting as spinnakers.
By Dunbar, we’d finished wrestling our way along the trunk road and pulled off onto a side lane, where we could pootle and seek shelter from trees and the odd building or two. We crunched our way to a halt in a lay-by.
‘I’m over this, mate,’ I said to Kevin. ‘There’s no chance we’re going to make it to Perth, especially not with the Forth Road Bridge to cross.’
‘You’re right,’ he replied, his Irish accent thick with concern. ‘Sure, 'twould be suicidal altogether. We’d end up in the grey waters of the Firth or mangled against one of those bridge pillars, only to be found when one of the painters comes along, God forbid!’
‘Let’s get to Edinburgh and plan it from there. Still, at least there’s no rain,’ I added, optimistically.
We needed fuel: our engines were burning more than usual with the effort of battling the wind. A few miles later, we came across just the place and stood the bikes on their side stands to fill up. I watched as Kevin’s bike, with no input from him, lifted off the side stand and hovered, near vertical, for a moment as a swirling wind smacked into it. Fuel was being sucked out of the tank as I was trying to put it in. It was chaos in the vortex of winds on the forecourt. Gingerly, we got back on board and eventually made it to the outskirts of Edinburgh. At least by now our comms had started up again, and as we waited at some traffic lights near the Commonwealth Pool, I heard Kevin say:
‘Begorra, that was a big one! I thought some bugger was trying to push me over.’ It was hard to keep the bikes upright when we stopped.
Edinburgh city centre has been a maze of roadworks for years, it seems. I used to know the city well, having worked there for ten years. We went round in circles, and every short-cut I used to know was blocked off with traffic cones or was a one-way street. I led us up the Royal Mile, hoping we might see a bit of the Castle, but just after the Signet Library, the road was up, and I lost Kevin at the temporary lights. Eventually, I found a place to stop by St. Andrew’s Square and sent him a text. At least it was sheltered here, and I settled down for a long wait while Kevin worked his way through the maze of streets.
A parking warden came along and asked me to move on. I told him I’d broken down and was waiting for the roadside rescue. The idea of sitting in a warm cab with the bike on a trailer behind was beginning to look appealing. Half an hour later, I was still waiting for Kevin, who I assumed had now been blown into a hole in the ground somewhere. The parking attendant came past again:
‘No sign of them yet?’
‘No, don’t know why. Hope it won’t be too long now,’ I replied.
‘No bother, stay there as long as you like. I’m knocking off now.’
He was sauntering away as Kevin turned up, looking frazzled.
‘I’ve seen Edinburgh. Several times, in fact. Those crazy roadworks! Let’s crack on to Perth.’
‘I think not,’ I said, showing him my phone. ‘The Bridge is closed to lorries, and it says you have to be a loony to ride a motorbike over it. I’ve just checked.’
‘So, we’re staying here tonight?’ he asked.
‘Think I’d prefer a hotel to a night on the streets, but yes.’
Neither of us wanted to risk leaving the bikes parked up on the street. Understandably, in Kevin’s case, as he’s had two nicked in London. I did some research, and we headed down to Leith, dicing with the tramlines, where the Malmaison offered us stylish lodging and safe parking, without breaking the bank.
It was a far cry from the bad old days when Leith was the haunt of drug addicts, prostitutes and tramps – the Leith I remember from my days in the brewery here. It’s still got the pubs, but they’ve gone upmarket, foodie and correspondingly expensive. The area has been gentrified, but we still managed to find a bar that did proper beer and would serve us, a pair of scruffy, bedraggled bikers.
Kevin was still keen to see the Castle, so after quaffing a couple of hipster beers, we hopped onto the tram and headed uptown to stare at Auld Reekie’s finest tourist attraction. The beers had given us the munchies by now, and only a short walk away in Shandwick Place we found Durban Indian Kitchen, a couple of fine curries being just the ticket after a tough day on the road.
On the topic of tickets, we chatted to the conductress on the tram back to Leith. She’d checked our (digital) tickets, diligently purchased before clambering aboard. Since the pandemic, there’s been a big increase in fare-dodging, and the attitude of many who do this is so aggressively threatening that she felt unable to challenge them. Kevin and I polished our halos but felt truly sorry for the poor woman.
Back in Leith, the Malt and Hops Bar enticed us in for a snifter before bedtime. Kevin chatted to John, the barman, while he waited for his Tyneside Blonde (ale, not a girl).
‘How now, lad! D'ye think we've a snowball's chance in hell o' makin' it to John o'Groats by tomorrow, what with this weather?’
‘Och, aye, so long as the brig's no' shut, ye'll be reet. Just mind the wind, aye? Canny drive too fast noo.’
‘Ah. Not drivin' at all, at all! We're on the bikes, so we are.’
‘On a motorbike?! In this stoater o' a storm?! Yer aff yer heids, the pair o' ye! Hae ye no got any sense?’
Kevin and I looked at each other. He may have a point, we thought. Perhaps our quest to reach John O’Groats to START our epic trip back to Land’s End was now doomed.
Good read Steven- sounds like a really interesting journey against the elements.
Did the Holy Island bit ourselves a few weeks ago