Go to the
Archive indexRegular readers will remember that my account of the 1996 Rando Cyclos event ended with a mention of the drunken wash-up at which some bright spark, whose name conveniently escapes me, suggested that it might be a spiffing wheeze to do the 1997 run on BSA Ariel 3s.
Earlier this year, I was given a new engine for my Ariel and, with the usual procrastination, I delayed fitting it until the beginning of the week before the run. This coincided with half term, a spell of night duty and the mother of all sore throats: a recipe for disaster if ever there was one.
Removal of the old engine revealed a clutch friction plate in two parts, rather than the traditional one, and a rip in the primary drive belt. A call to John Phelan (on a Bank Holiday, too - thanks for your tolerance, John) procured a new belt by first class post. I then had to transfer the cooling fan from the top belt pulley on the old engine to the new one, a two-minute job for my local back-street MIG welder wielder, 'Stuttery' Geoff. The new engine went in with only minor loss of blood and, having been pronounced fit for the journey on Thursday night, was heaved into the van for delivery to the rendezvous with Dave Beare the following morning.
I had just finished packing my gear into the van when Geoff came by and told me that he thought that I ought to make the fan more secure as his welds might come apart. I was less than pleased with his prognosis but, on the grounds that:
I decided to chance it.
And so it came to pass that Friday morning saw Dave and I juggling the BSA and his VéloSoleX 6000 onto his camper. The P&O crossing was smooth and we were on French soil by 11:45 local time. We stopped for lunch on a farm track signposted to what I imagined to be a charming hamlet called "Chemin Privée" but which is in fact French for "You Can't Park Here"! Despite my navigating, for which I am infamous, we arrived at the Felleries campsite by early evening, passing the stalwarts who had chosen to ride all the way from Calais on the way. Two more Ariel 3s. Old friendships were renewed and a very welcome bed tumbled into.
Up bright and early the next day for a scratch run to Val Joly, a reservoir-cum-waterpark close to the Belgian border. This was the first test for the new engine. The first unscheduled stop was to clear a blocked jet in the carburettor and then the clutch decided to take its time settling in, causing a total absence of forward motion at inconvenient moments such as going uphill.
On the return leg to the camp site, a noise like a cooling fan parting company with a pulley alerted me to the fact that the cooling fan had parted company with the pulley. In doing so, it had twisted a blade and sliced into my new drive belt. For me, the war was over. Or so I thought; I had reckoned without the resourcefulness and comradeship of the NACC. "No problems" said Darrell, instructing me to prepare the machine for surgery. He peened the errant fan onto the pulley with a hammer and punch while Dave Freeman produced a decent belt from the spares department. Many thanks to both of them. I was now in with a chance of completing the main event on the Sunday. This was more than could be said for the Raynal Autocycle, which had broken several spokes on the way down and had been declared a non-runner.
Saturday night was barbecue night. All you could eat and drink for 70 francs; I didn't know that I could drink so much and still stand up. The highlight of the night was Hub, a Dutch Solex rider, dressed as a monk whilst singing what we presumed to be an obscene song which involved hoisting his cassock and banging a frying pan with a strategically placed ladle. Please don't ask any more. The humour was rather lost on us non Dutch-speaking Brits, I'm afraid.
We gathered in the square of Sars Poteries on Sunday morning for an orgy of mutual admiration and a poke around the small autojumble. My apologies to those of a sensitive disposition for that last sentence. Dave loaded his 6000's panniers with spares for the folks back home and put the overspill, which weighed approximately half a ton, into my top box. Two hundred of us then sat down for lunch in the Town Hall. The mayor tore himself away from electioneering and asked us not to bring any more people next year as we were in danger of outgrowing the venue: a potential victim of its own success. A contingent of Swiss Solexistes led the community table banging and shouting, presumably excited at getting out of Switzerland for a weekend. I wonder what they paid for their passes? Probably not as much as I will for mine!
The draw for the moped, this year an early sixties Mobylette in allegedly running condition, was won by our own, our very own, Chairman, Andy Roddham. Now we had a major problem with getting this and the stricken Raynal home.
It had already been suggested that Dave Berry should ride back on my BSA while we took the Raynal home in the camper. The introduction of the Mobylette into the equation made this arrangement more or less mandatory. I just had to get round the 50-mile course without incident.
So off we went, 178 cyclemotorists of half a dozen nationalities representing just about every variation on the theme of motorised cycling. The route led us through quiet lanes for the most part with good directions in the form of arrows painted on the ground (would we get away with that over here?) The larger motorcycles, including a Moto Guzzi and sidecar the size of a small house, leapfrogged the pack to appear at every junction to point the way.
The half-way refreshment and buttock-massage stop was at Hestrud on the old Franco-Belgian border, where the Customs post is now a museum. It was in the car park here that the only casualty occurred when an exhibitionist Honda rider came to grief, describing a very artistic arc in the grit as he separated from his machine in mid show-off.
From Hestrud, it was back to Sars Poteries by either a long or a short route according to your stamina or remaining fuel level. Much LPA was called for as this part of the journey was into a fierce head wind. The 6000 steamed ahead, defying conventional wisdom, which holds that the contraption was sluggish and unreliable. Everyone made it back to base for a drink, a slice of tart (quiet in the cheap seats!) and the prize giving.
Apart from our Star Prizewinner, Andrew Pattle won a cup for finishing - a first for him; Mrs Brown and Robbie took home some silverware for their valiant two-up efforts on a Mobylette; the pan-banging cleric lifted a cup, presumably for not repeating the previous evening's performance and the Swiss won an award in recognition of their contribution to International noise-making.
So, the usual question, dear reader. What about next year? What about you? The theme of autocycles was suggested by way of a change, but Andrew is now morally obliged to do 1998's run on his 1997 prize. I might well slap a coat of Hammerite on my AV44 Mobylette in sympathy. Whatever happens, let's upset the Mayor and fill the hall to overflowing with Brits, shout louder than the Swiss and sing muckier songs than the Dutch - all in the cause of cyclemotoring. Fancy dress, anyone? See you on June 7th 1998.
First published - August 1997