The trial of Arbuthnot
After seeing an article in ʻOld Bike Martʼ on the Arbuthnot trial and hearing about their plea for more girder forked / ridged bikes, I thought, “hey, I could do that on my old Norton”.
The fact that I had virtually no off road experience and the Norton isn't a trial bike didn't put me off the idea. I mean, the Arbuthnot is a trial run for bikes of the period between the wars, surely it would just be a civilized bimble over Salisbury Plain? I sent off my application. Well, after seeing the other entrants extracting their steeds from their vans, I was a little apprehensive. These were proper off road machines, old ones, yes, but sorted kit – knobbly tyres, stripped down frames, no lights and obviously built for the job in hand. My nervous disposition didn't improve when someone walked past my very clean Norton and asked "You’re taking that round?” Thankfully, I did spot a couple of friends from the military bike scene and they had bought their bikes, albeit somewhat stripped down too.
I lined up on the start line staring at a large clock on a beer garden table. I was second to go out of 80 odd starters and with a pat on my back I was off. All I had to do was take it easy, look after the bike and try and complete the distance. The first guy pulled over straight away to wait for his mates, so I was first on the road. I started picking up the direction markers and within a mile I was making my way up a narrow bumpy track. The organisers (the Salisbury Light Car and Motorcycle Club) had
40 The ROAD
done a sterling job of marking the route, so I was confident I was going the right way, even though there wasn't another soul to be seen. After about 20 minutes of threading my way though some varied tracks I still hadn't had anyone come past me – “maybe I'm an off-road God” I thought? A natural. Five minutes later I was stuck under the bike, my body bent awkwardly over the ridge of a rut. My left knee hurting like hell from being twisted, my top half soaking wet and covered in mud. I lay there feeling sorry for myself for a bit, then thought I'd better 'man up' and extract myself. I did get out but try as I could, I couldn't pull the bike out from it's muddy resting place. At last I heard the welcoming sound of British singles thudding up the track. With a little help I was on my way again, however my previous confidence was shot to ribbons. Even stopping to lower my tyre pressures from road settings (I know, I know..) I still fell off often. My road tyres struggled on the sometimes claggy conditions. Ground clearance was a big problem, often needing me to manhandle the bike over ruts and the more tired I got, the more mistakes I made. Still, everyone who passed me did so with a smile, or were openly laughing.
Next up was a ford. Some chap had given me the advice – stop and watch others going through to see their line, picking the shallowest way though. But no, I thought I'd be OK, it didn't look that deep. Oh dear I'm not supposed to have a bow wave! Off I jumped to start the push out, much to the amusement of the assembled crowd as I joined three of four other blokes on the other side trying to revive their
drowned bikes. Ten minutes later, after a dousing with good old WD 40 the Norton spluttered into life as the words from Jenny rang in my head, “don't break our beloved Norton”. As I watched water spraying out from behind engine casings, I felt sick. I needn't have worried about the bike, it had survived a world war after all. I soon found I was the weak link in this team. As I became more and more de- hydrated I kicked myself for not taking more fluids with me. Surely the half way stop is around the next corner? The sun was beating down by now and it had felt like I had run a marathon. I'd have gladly paid £10 for a small bottle of water. My mood didn't improve when the route fed its way through a farm and past a barbecue being set up for someone else with bottles of lager lined up on tables ARRRGGGG!
Eventually we entered a car park for a golf course, our lunch stop. Jenny revived me with ibuprofen and water and after topping up the oil and petrol on the old girl we decided to sneak in a half pint with a sandwich. Honestly, sat there in the sun I could quite easily have called it a day there and then but I knew in my heart I would have later regretted it. Back to the car park and everyone else had buggered off! I'd better get my skates on ... Only another forty odd miles to go... Blessedly, the afternoon’s riding wasn't as hardcore, with a few more tarmac miles connecting the 'sections'. I was now bringing up the rear with a few other riders. I passed a marshal at the start of a section also proudly wearing his MAG badge, we said hello and I was gone... The last few miles were the first section done in reverse,
so we knew we were getting close to our goal, a finishers’ certificate and a cold pint of lager! We'd made it, probably plum last on corrected time but a finish never the less. One of the organisers asked me "see you next year?" Maybe.... Clive Cook
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